Heading for home...

There was a time when getting up early, being 'up with the lark' and so forth, was not impossible, but not pleasant. I distinctly remember feeling like a fish out of water, standing in the kitchen unable to do anything, and everything around me looking as if it was something I simply shouldn't be witnessing or watching or whatever at such an ungodly hour. I remember using the snooze button on alarm clocks with regularity as a kind of step-down towards waking myself up; so I'd be rudely awakened by the alarm, but would reach over and press 'snooze' and then relax and try and enjoy being in bed until the 10 minutes were up and I'd end up pushing snooze again and again until I felt awake enough to deal with what the world had to throw at me. Not any more for some reason. Nowadays I'm invariably raring to go at around 0530hrs (my alarm is normally set for 0600hrs) and I have to stop myself from just getting up, trotting downstairs and making breakfast ahead of time.

Stockholm airport, about to board...

Yesterday was a long day and was rounded off with a pleasant dinner with a colleague, not somebody from my workplace, but somebody I knew, an American from upstate New York who was in the advertising business. We parted quite late, around 2300hrs, and I then I made my way back to my hotel on foot, it took about 10 minutes and towards the end of the walk I passed Dolce Vita (see previous post) long closed and the tables and chairs left outside because nobody in Stockholm was going to steal them; it would be a different case in the UK, I thought, as I passed the darkened restaurant and headed up the street towards my hotel, the Clarion Amarantem.

I messed around on the lap top and probably hit the sack around midnight, waking around 0530 and then heading down for breakfast a little later having decided not to shave until I'd eaten. Breakfast was a cacophony of chit-chat and clattering plates, very busy, lots of people and I wasn't impressed or prepared for it. Porridge, sliced pineapple and melon, a green tea with ginger and that was about it. I sat and read Climbers for a short while and now I'm back in the room, about to shower and get ready to check out and then fly home around lunch time (1310hrs to be precise). Generally speaking, time just disappears and if I don't get up from this desk now and set things in motion it'll be a huge rush.

Leaving Stockholm...

The shower here is rubbish. It leaks water all over the floor. I watched as the small towel I had placed on the tiles quickly soaked up the water that was falling on to it. And then, because there was water all over the floor, I had to shave whilst standing in the bathtub at an awkward angle. The tap in the sink was rubbish too as it worked on a kind of overly sensitive gear stick mechanism that turned hot and cold pretty quickly at the slightest touch. Function before form, I remembered a hotel designer once telling me, function before form. Clearly the Clarion didn't read the memo. Look, the hotel was alright, but because a lot of things simply pissed me off – the room was too big, the shower sprayed all over the floor, the breakfast was loud and clattering and not that good, there was no restaurant, just a bar offering – I won't be going back even if it was just a short walk to the central station.

I trundled my way down to the Arlanda Express, bought a ticket and boarded the train, then I fell asleep and miraculously woke up as the train reached the stop for Terminal 5. I checked in, secured myself a window seat and then swanned around. I had a cheese and ham sandwich at Caffé Ritazza and a cappuccino and then I went through passport control and now I'm in a Lavazza outlet with another cappuccino (I wanted a mint tea but there was no water) so I bought a bottle of still mineral water from which I am now sipping. I can't waste too much time sitting here writing this, mainly because there's not much to write about. I'm on the 1310hrs flight to London Gatwick and then I'll be home after a short train journey. I could get a cab from Gatwick but we'll see. The train's easier, to a degree, but the taxi just means sitting there and getting home. I'll probably train it. Anyway, that's about it, better stop writing, drink my coffee, sip my mineral water and then board the plane.

At Gatwick in the sun...

The flight was full but I managed to bag a window seat (22A) and, like the outbound flight on Tuesday, it was as smooth as you like. I ordered nothing and when I jumped off the other end and into the furnace-like heat of the UK's September scorcher, I felt as if I'd just landed in Greece, it was that hot. Taking a taxi would have meant waiting around for around an hour at the airport, possibly longer - and I was fed up with coffee shops - so I jumped on the train, called Natalie, who picked me up at South Croydon station and now here I am, back home, sipping a decaff PG Tips and feeling hot and increasingly sweaty in the heat. I might nip outside and continue with Climbers, but I figure the heat outside might be a little unbearable. Either way, I'm glad to be home.

Sweden is a great place and the weather over there was warm and sunny but not as sweltering as it is here. There was a warm breeze which made all the difference. Here, it's a dry heat and no breeze, but nobody dare complain as we've had a pretty crap summer, apart from June.

To Tatsfield Bus Stop for tea and fruit cake...

"When the spirits are low. When the day appears dark. When work becomes monotonous. When hope hardly seems worth having. Just mount a bicycle and go out for spin down the road, without thought on anything but the ride you are taking." Arthur Conan Doyle.

16-17 April 2017: It's the Easter holidays, time for chocolate eggs and roast dinners, except that, so far, I've had a roast dinner but no chocolate eggs. I'm happy with that because it means I'm not going over the top, which is good. My mum came over on Saturday for some pan-fried Loch Fyne salmon, new potatoes, carrots and kale; a bottle of wine was involved, but so was driving the car so I refrained from overdoing it.

Today, more Easter festivities, it being Easter Sunday, and I've just returned from a ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the slow way – and, thanks to mum's visit yesterday, I was armed with fruit cake, a big chunk for Andy and a couple of slices for both of us to eat with our tea,  a welcome change from the BelVita biscuits. It was heaven: the sun was out, the sky was blue and we were sitting at the bus stop with steaming hot mugs of tea and a large slice each of fruit cake, it's difficult to imagine anything better.

There's a story behind the cake, which I may have told before. It was supposed to be a wedding cake for one of my nieces, but mum dropped it – not on the floor, but on the countertop, and it developed a crack that rendered it unworthy for the planned nuptial nosh-up. Another cake has since been made for the celebrations. But the old cake was perfectly edible and was more than intact enough to be eaten by whoever else turns up at mum's place in search of comfort. Yesterday I drove over to mum's to pick her up and bring her here, to my house, and before we left she gave me a large chunk of the cake so I cut it in half this morning and gave one bit to Andy when we reached the Tatsfield Bus Stop.

Tatsfield bus stop – alright, I know, I know...

The weather this bank holiday weekend has been interesting: dry and sunny, but there's always been a cold breeze to make wearing summery clothing, like shorts, a little premature, although that didn't stop Andy from donning his and then grinning and bearing it, although it wasn't that bad. I stuck with my winter attire minus the scarf and balaclava.

We rode the long way to the bus stop on Easter Sunday and chatted as we made our way along Beddlestead Lane. The time flew by and soon we were gliding along Clarks Lane towards the bus stop where the cake was unwrapped. It was, I hasten to add, top quality: a rich fruit cake, very dark, but moist. As we ate cake and sipped tea we looked back along Clarks Lane at groups of Lycra monkeys making their way towards us wearing those awful luminous shoes and the skin-tight, faux sponsored, Lycra, not a good look. Andy and I constantly question the Lycra monkey 'look' and wonder why, or rather what these people are thinking as they pull on their cycling clothes. Surely they don't peek in the mirror and think, "Whoa, steady, ladies, form an orderly queue." I've said it before and I'll say it again, my only question for Lycra monkeys would be simply, "Why?"

We rode back the fast way along the 269 and nothing was awry. At Warlingham green we agreed to meet again tomorrow – Bank Holiday Monday – although the weather forecast wasn't looking good and rain was on the cards. I awoke early on Monday and it was dark and gloomy outside. It had clearly rained overnight, but was drying fast, there being just a small puddle on next door's conservatory (or extension) roof when I peered out of my bedroom window just after 0600hrs. I checked the mobile for any potential abort texts from Andy, found none and then had breakfast (Weetabix with grapes, blueberries, banana and chunks of an orange, not forgetting tea).

By the time I left the house around 0710hrs the bank holiday Monday weather had brightened a little as I rode towards the green. Before we set off I bought a box of PG Tips teabags and a small bag of sugar and then we cycled towards Botley Hill with every intention of riding to Westerham, but changed our minds and stopped at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. The Lycra monkeys were out in force again wearing their silly outfits and clippy cloppy shoes. There was no cake today, just BelVitas and tea, but we weren't complaining.

Rockhopper at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Andy had risked the shorts again while I stayed safe with my usual scruffy attire: trousers with a lot of pockets, a paint-stained hoody and, of course, my rust-coloured jacket, which has seen better days, but there's plenty of life in the old dog yet. although I need to address the way I look as it's neither big nor clever to look like an unshaven vagabond of the western world.

The Tatsfield Bus Stop is a very relaxing place and we're both glad it's back. The only problem is getting too settled and not wanting to ride back home. It is, as Andy pointed out, the spiritual home of NoVisibleLycra. I suggested a plaque was needed.

As for the Arthur Conan Doyle quote above, there are many reasons for it; for a start it's the God's honest truth: if you're feeling down, pissed off with life, upset by the futility of things and letting people (and 'stuff') get on top of you, just jump on your bike, get out in the fresh air and put all negative and depressing thoughts behind you.

Another reason for the quote is Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike – every chapter carries a quote, like this one. It's a book I continue to rave about and one I have often taken off the shelf just to relive the 'ride' taken by Mike around the coastline of the UK. A week or two ago I was in Waterstone's in Redhill, looking at books in the travel writing section. I had a book in my hand, I can't remember the author or the title, but an elderly man approached me and told me it was brilliant and that I must read it. If I go back there, and I will, believe me, I'll remember it's title and author and I might well buy it and read it. After the man had dispensed his advice, I felt I couldn't leave it there; I reached for Carter's book and told the man that it was the best book I'd ever read (I wasn't exaggerating). He took it from me and went to the back of the shop, where there is a sofa, just like I had done when I first discovered Carter's masterpiece. I can only assume that he bought it and enjoyed it as much as I did.

Blending the Conan Doyle quote and Carter's book, I can honestly say that if I'm feeling down or depressed, I often reach for One Man and His Bike and enjoy a randomly chosen section of the book to enjoy for a few minutes.