Woodmansterne Saturday, Bus Stop on Sunday...

It's Sunday morning, 0643hrs and Andy and I have decided to wait until 0700hrs before we decide on whether a ride is on the cards or night. All night the wind has been blowing hard and I awoke early and listened to it gusting around outside as I lay there, right hand on forehead contemplating an abort text.

Library shot of the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Today's weather similar to this.

Now I'm up, sitting in front the laptop with two pieces of toast long eaten and a cup of Earl Grey decaff (without milk) wondering what the light will bring. If it's anything like yesterday I probably will go cycling. I remember sitting here in exactly the same position having resigned myself to not going out when Bon texted to ask if I was going. I called him and said it was a bit blowy out there, but somehow decided it was okay and agreed to meet him around a quarter past eight on Woodmansterne Green.

I left the house around 0750 and headed down the road, turning left on to West Hill and then riding through Purley, along Foxley Lane, now decimated by the development of flats, and on towards the turn-off for Woodmansterne. It was a very pleasant day with the occasional gust, but generally fine.

When I reached the green there was no sign of Bon. Normally he gets there early and comes down the road to meet me, but there was no sign of him. I parked up by Jean Merrington's circular bench and waited and suddenly there he was, in his car! Now, normally I would have been pissed off with this, but clearly something had occurred. The problem was that my phone had run out of power so I didn't know what, until he told me: he'd reached the garage and found a puncture, texted me to abort but of course I didn't get it so he drove to the green instead. It was fine, we drank tea and chatted and then, around 0908hrs headed back to our respective homes.

Library shot of Woodmansterne Green...

And now I sit here, a full day later, wondering whether Andy and I will meet at the usual time on Warlingham Green, it's looking highly likely. In fact I'd better get a move-on, clean up the cups from yesterday and sort things out.

Yesterday's weather was far better than today's. Yesterday the occasional gust of wind, today a mild drizzle, wet roads and gusty winds, but on both days it's been warm. So warm that I instinctively didn't wear the balaclava this weekend. There are daffodils all over the place and some of the trees have started to blossom so there are signs of better weather to come, but we're not out of the woods yet.

Warlingham Green on Sunday morning

We decided to ride the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and it was a good ride. We kept pace with one another, chatted about various things en route and when we reached the bus stop and found the bench to be wet (and our respective arses) we stood up and continued the conversation as we looked out on the drizzly greyness of the scene before us. There were a few Lycra monkeys around, but not many.

Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and vowed to be back in the saddle next weekend (weather permitting). I rode along the 269 and now I'm home and changed and back on the lap top writing the last few words of this blogpost. There are no images this weekend, or rather no fresh images were taken as my phone ran out of power and Andy didn't take any. The shots that you see above are what the BBC would call a 'library pictures', meaning they weren't taken on today's ride but are from the archive.

St Leonard's and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Sometimes I have trouble with cycling on a Saturday morning, especially during the winter months. I think it's got a lot to do with having worked all week and wanting a lie in; although, just a later start would sort things out. Still, I got up, looked out of the window (hoping it might be raining so I could crawl back in to bed) and then got dressed for the ride. I checked my phone (perhaps Andy had aborted) and then, all that was between me and the cold air was a puncture, but both tyres were as hard as rock.

I was running late. I couldn't find the balaclava. This could have been a big issue as I've been wearing it on every ride and couldn't face the cold without it. In fact, it was likely to be an 'abort' issue. After rummaging around in the cupboard, getting, it has to be said, a little annoyed, I found it and basically, bar that potential for a puncture, had to ride the bike. But the faffing around had cost me dear and I wasn't going to reach the green until 0745hrs. When I got there I was still weary and dreading a long ride. Andy was tired too so my suggestion of St Leonard's Church was welcomed and we headed off on the two-mile ride (it can't be much further). I reckon, in total, it was a 12-mile ride, but 'that'll do pig' I thought to myself.

The weather was fine. It had been raining heavily overnight and there were some massive puddles, in some places spanning the road. I rode slowly through the first one and, indeed, the second, and on the return ride there were two cars coming in the opposite direction. I slowed to avoid a soaking. Andy had already gone through. The second car slowed and I waited. Then I rode through the water, the bike slowing as I reached the middle. There were waves, caused by the car, which made the whole thing childishly exciting. Normally, when I see a large puddle, I wish I had a small clockwork motorboat, but, as always, I leave it at home.

There's a robin in there somewhere!

When we reached our destination we chatted about our early rides and our inability to grasp the fact that having a puncture repair kit in our rucksack would have been a good idea now and then. We reminisced on our long walks from Westerham to Oxted pushing our bikes along the street listening to the squelchy sound of a flat tyre. In those days we only rode to Westerham, 22 miles in total and we used to stand outside the Co-op eating a Danish pastry, but we didn't have any tea as we hadn't worked out that we could bring a flask with us and sit somewhere, like the small bench next to the Co-op, chilling out.

The churchyard at St Leonard's is pretty sparse and damp. There was a recently made grave that still needed its headstone and all we could hear was the sound of paper rustling, the paper the contained the flowers. Graveyards always bring it home to me, my mortality, and thinking back just 13 years made me realise how long Andy and I had been doing this, getting up at 0600hrs every Saturday and Sunday morning, rain or shine most of the time.

"When I look at some of the photos my hair was blacker," I said. "I suppose I could always dye it."

We joked about it, although it was never something I'd considered. What's best, I often wonder, being bald or being grey? I suppose it has to be the latter because I could always resort to dyeing my grey hair, but if I was bald I'd have to get a wig.

As we stood around sipping tea, a robin arrived and flitted nervously from branch to branch of the bushes behind our chosen bench. It was too wet to sit down so I set about trying to take a photograph of the robin with my iphone. Andy tried with his camera, but the bird kept its distance and eventually hopped off.

"It's strange the way it all happened. A curry in Whyteleafe, a suggestion that we go for a ride at the weekend and we haven't stopped since, it's been 13 years," I said.

It had been six years since Phil started riding with us and for the past two or three years we've not seen nor heard from him. I often wonder if he's still riding. "For Phil it was therapy," I said as we started to pack things away and consider the shortish ride home. It was nice not being far, far away and it was nice not to be contemplating the dangers of the 269.

Andy rode all the way to the green where we parted company, vowing to meet on Sunday, weather permitting.

As it turned out the weather was fine and as it was Sunday and the sun was shining we headed for the bus stop. The thought of Beddlestead Lane dragged me down as always, but not for long. Overnight there had been heavy rain and those puddles from yesterday were even bigger than before. The big puddle on Church Lane was deep and as I rode through it my left foot was completely submerged and remained wet throughout the rest of the ride.

Riding side-by-side along Beddlestead Lane Andy asked an interesting question. "I wonder what the media will find to talk about now that the election is over."

I couldn't think of anything and instead suggested that there would probably be a natural disaster, like a tsunami or something to focus their minds. "What about that volcano in New Zealand?" I said.

The conversation edged round to adrenaline junkies. "I've never been interested in anything like that," I said as we passed the totem pole, riding side-by-side, and made our way towards the mobile phone mast and the final straight towards Clarks Lane. And that's when Andy said he'd jumped out of a plane and had bungee-jumped half a dozen times. The parachute jump was a two-day affair over at Headcorn in Kent. Day one in training learning how to land and then the jump from around 2,000 feet. The bungee jumping was with a pal who bottled out at the last minute, but not Andy.

At the bus stop we engaged in less dangerous activities, like flicking teabags off the end of a teaspoon and watching the Lycra monkeys with their luminous overshoes as they passed by heading east on Clarks Lane or west towards Botley Hill.

On the return ride I joined Andy on the route through Woldingham. Sometimes I can't face the 269 and even the hill on Slines Oak Road seemed like a better bet. I reached home just before 1000hrs.

Slow way to bus stop and thick fog...

Yesterday (Saturday) I should have gone out on the bike. Yes, there was rain forecasted and it had been raining (the ground was wet and there were puddles) but it wasn't actually raining, or if it was it was only the odd raindrop, nothing that would have caused any problems. I didn't go out. Andy had aborted.

On the off-road path coming home in the fog

Instead, I went on one of those Saturday afternoon shopping trips having spent most of the morning doing nothing but listening to music, mainly bluesy music, country music and a bit of Bob Dylan who kind of crosses the bluesy, country, folk divide. I love Subterranean Homesick Blues, but also Hank Williams and Johnny Cash. I finished off with This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both of Us, by Sparks, which has nothing to do with any of the aforementioned genres.

After a lunch in the M&S cafe in Bromley I ventured off alone to Waterstone's where I looked at books in the travel literature, history and music sections. I would have bought Eric Hobsbawn's An Age of Extremes (it might have been The Age of Extremes) but they didn't have it. I considered a number of travel books, but eventually settled with Coal Black Mornings by the leader singer of Suede, Brett Anderson.

You can't beat Waterstone's. There's nothing better than a decent bookshop, I don't know what it is, but they're cosy places especially at this time of the year when the darkness of winter encroaches on the late afternoon and Christmas trees appear here and there. The only problem with the Bromley Waterstone's, which is in the Glades shopping mall, is the lack of chairs on which to sit and read.

Watching the fog from the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Sunday 24 November 2019

Later on. Much later on, I was coming back from Oxted in the dark and decided (as I had to kill a few minutes) to measure the mileage of my round-the-block rides. For some time now I've been riding around the block first thing in the morning during the week. It's a good circuit with enough ups and downs to make it worthwhile on a fitness level, but I had no idea how far I was riding. It turns out to be six miles on the nose, which is good as I try to ride the new route three times a week, meaning an additional 18 miles to my cycling. The ride takes around 40 minutes.

And now it is Sunday morning. Everyone in the house is asleep except for me. I'm sitting downstairs in front of the laptop, writing this and listening to classical music on Radio 3 before I head out to the green to meet Andy. When I woke up it wasn't raining and there have been no abort texts. The only possible stumbling block could be if I had a puncture.

Over-the-top florist on Warlingham Green

Well, I didn't have a puncture, but I was running late, although when I reached the green there was no sign of Andy. While I waited I noticed that a Christmas tree had appeared, but no decorations, not yet at any rate. In fact, later on I drove past after dark and there were lights. We rode the slow way to bus stop and as we approached the junction with Clarks Lane, we noticed the fog. It had swept in quickly and there were virtually white-out conditions. Cars disappeared within seconds of them passing and it was good to reach the bus stop where we did what we always do: drink tea and flick our teabags off the end of a teaspoon, seeing who could throw - or flick - their teabag the greatest distance. Today it was fairly level pegging, but Andy's better at it than I am. I reckon he practices in his back garden.

I considered going back via The Ridge with Andy, but in the end opted for the off-road track. Here's hoping I haven't got a puncture. I'll find out in the morning. I reached home around 1010hrs and sat around watching guilty dogs on Youtube, but there are things to be done and I need to get moving, although, to be honest, it's wet and grey out there, not exactly gardening weather.

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Long way to the bus stop - a great work-out!

Saturday is sometimes a struggle for me and this weekend (or rather than one just behind us) proved difficult at first; in a nutshell I was feeling a little weary, but it wasn't raining and it wasn't cold so I soon got myself together and headed for the green to meet Andy. We decided that the slow way to the bus stop would be the best bet as I had some driving to do later and couldn't go to Westerham, as originally planned, to celebrate this blog's 10th anniversary (it was 10 years old on 27 September).

Beddlestead Lane is a slog, but thanks to some mid-week cycling it was a little easier and the ride proved to be a great work-out. It was good to reach the bus stop, put it that way, and when we got there we did our usual (drink tea and munch biscuits) although, as avid readers will know, I haven't had a biscuit on the ride for many weeks now as I'm trying my best to cut them out where possible.

Heading for Botley Hill on the return ride

The ride home was also 'the usual'. Andy branched off at The Ridge and I carried on along the 269. We kind of said 'see you tomorrow' but it wasn't looking good and when I woke up in the morning there was rain hammering down. It continued for some time so the ride, which I'd aborted around 0600hrs, was a non-starter, although I think Andy did get out. I was considering getting out and doing my hill run around the block, but I didn't. I slobbed about for most of the day, fretting about this and that.

Now it's Monday morning and I missed my round-the-block ride. Last week I went out three times so I'll try to make it four this week (Tuesday to Friday) but let's see how the weather performs.

Guess where we went?

It's not hard. How about the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way? You're right, but it could have been so different. It could have been an abort text. In fact, it was an abort text. I woke up at 0600hrs and when I peered out of the window at the small puddle that always forms on next door's flat-roofed extension, I noticed it was being disturbed by rain. "Abort". I wasted no time in sending it off, but immediately regretted it. Perhaps I should leave it until later, things might calm down, so I sent another text along the lines of seeing how things develop. And when Andy texted back saying he was going for it, I said okay, meet at the usual place, usual time.

How boring is this image? My view sitting on the bench at the bus stop

When I got outside, it wasn't cold, but the skies were grey and there were spits of rain here and there. Sure, it could get worse, but I rode up Church Way, slightly sluggishly it has to be said, and got used to the fact that there was no sunshine and only cloud and the odd spit of rain. In short it was fine and I was so glad that I didn't act on my initial rather impulsive abort text.

Andy later said that when he left the house he could hear the rain hitting his conservatory roof but decided to go for it anyway.

We decided to ride the slow way to the bus stop during which time we touched upon politics again, but not as vociferously as last week. Andy had caught an interview with Lib-Dem leadership hopeful Jo Swinson and wasn't impressed. He said she spouted a kind of student politics and I knew exactly what he meant and could we really have somebody like that as our next PM? It's all starting to look a little desperate. Nobody wants the Conservatives, but the alternatives are so poor that it looks as if we'll get them or, perhaps, the Brexit Party, an awful one-trick pony political party headed by the equally awful Nigel Farage who would probably sell the NHS to Donald Trump given half the chance.

...and this ain't much better

Talking of Trump, he was in town last week visiting the Queen on a State Visit. London Mayor Khan and leader of the opposition Corbyn made arses of themselves by protesting too much, Khan being lambasted by a presidential tweet sent from Airforce One. There were a few protests, but not as many as were expected (whatever happened to the days of Class War and paint thrown on Royal vehicles - these days it's just milkshakes).

Markle made herself scarce, emerging only yesterday (I'm writing this text on Sunday morning) to be a part of some kind of birthday parade for the Queen.

Both Andy and I had uneventful weeks and when we reached the bus stop, having witnessed a watery sun trying to break through fast-moving grey cloud, we sat there in front of the long grass drinking tea and watching the world go by. I wondered when the council would get round to cutting the long grass in front of us, while hoping that they might simply leave it grow so that our bus stop was obscured from view. But, as Andy pointed out, the grasses had grown to about two feet in height and had already seeded so it was unlikely. Teabags flicked from teaspoons, we headed home, Andy taking The Ridge and me risking the 269. I reached home around 0930hrs and then drove to Petworth in West Sussex for beef and horseradish sandwiches and a slice of coffee and walnut cake, which happened to be the deli's Cake of the Day.

Boxing Day – fast way to Tatsfield Bus Stop (and the slow way back)...

Drinking tea at the bus stop. Pic: Andy.

Another late start. I leave the house at 0730hrs and head up Church Way. A squirrel scuttles across the road from right to left, runs along the top of a low fence and disappears into the undergrowth. Houses display their festive decorations and soon I find myself riding through the churchyard, past Sanderstead pond and on to the Limpsfield Road. I'm heading for the green where I meet Andy. The weather is fine, no rain, and there's little in the way of traffic so we decide to risk the 269 rather than ride the slow way. "But let's ride the slow way back," I suggest and we agree, even if it does mean Hesiers Hill. At Botley we notice a mist, it's fairly thick so my lights go back on. Soon we reach the bus stop where we chill out, drink tea and I turn down the biscuits for a second day – the problem with Christmas is eating all the wrong food: minced pies, Panettone, Christmas cake, cheeses, crackers, pickled onions (yes, I own a jar of Garner's); it's all going on and besides, I need to stop eating shit. We ride back the slow way, down Beddlestead Lane, and then it's time for Hesiers Hill. Unlike the last time, I change right down and manage to sail along without any issues, getting a few 'well done' comments from passing Lycra monkeys coming down the hill. Andy and I weave our way towards Sainsbury's and then head for the green where we part company. All the way home along the Limpsfield Road I recite the Sans Day Carol, aka the St. Day Carol, but because I haven't sung it for years and years, I get the lyrics wrong. Actually, not badly wrong: "And Mary bore Jesus Christ, our saviour for to be," I sing (fairly quietly), but it's "And Mary she bore Jesus our Saviour for to be." I reach Sanderstead and soon I'm on Church Way again, riding downhill towards Morley, hanging a right on Elmfield, a left into Ellenbridge and a right on to Barnfield. Soon I'm home and soon I find myself on a five-mile walk, which I enjoy. Tomorrow I'm planning an 8-mile walk.

Taking the slow way...

Saturday 22nd December, Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic by Andy Smith

Saturday 22nd December: It's the day after the shortest day and darkness is on the menu. I leave the house at 0700hrs with my lights on and don't switch them off until I reach the bus stop. We opt for the slow way and it's far warmer than last week when black ice took Andy off his bike. He tells me that it was, after all, pretty painful, blood was drawn, he discovered on returning home and all week there was pain, but he's better now. We take it easy, riding down Hesiers Hill with our hands covering the brakes, slowing us down, it's not safe, but it's not icy either and I'm feeling energised all the way along Beddlestead. Little in the way of Lycra monkeys as we climb the hill, emerging on to Clarks Lane and hanging a left. We freewheel to the bus stop, park up and I serve tea. Andy hands out the BelVita biscuits, but I'm not that hungry, I've already eaten a hearty breakfast. I make do with just one. A bunch of monkeys ride past en route to Westerham as we continue to sip our tea and watch the cars travelling east and west. With Christmas just up the road, it's busier than normal, more cars on the road, plenty of bustle and it gets worse as the day progresses. Well, at least it's not raining. We ride back the slow way, very scenic, amazing how the landscape looks totally different when we turn the road inside out, ride backwards almost, rewind the tape so to speak. I wonder whether it's possible to free wheel all the way to Hesiers Hill, but then I forget to try and start pedalling. The hill is hard, harder because I get muddled with the gears, change up instead of down, lose momentum, end up stopping and find it difficult to get going. I'm on the move again, I don't stop until I reach the top and then we wind our way around the lanes, past St Leonard's church, then another hill, I mess up again, in the wrong gear, a constant problem, but I'll remember next time, perhaps tomorrow, except there is no tomorrow, it's rained off. I'm awake early, around 0430hrs, I lie there, right hand fretfully on forehead, thinking bad thoughts about the day ahead, it's going to be hectic one way or another and all I want to do is nothing, but that's not on the agenda, not today. I hear the rain falling and it doesn't stop. I finally get out of bed at 0600hrs, it's still coming down, I look at the puddle on next door's conservatory roof, stair rods, well, not quite, but it's relentless. "Looks like 'abort' as it's pissing down here," I write and send to Andy. "Yes, fingers crossed for tomorrow," he replies. Later on it is still raining and I am downstairs listening to Green by REM, the ride is off and I try to keep a tally on what day it is, soon I will lose it completely, that's the way it is with Christmas, I lose track of time. "What day is it?" A frequently asked question, but time to start reading Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland, a book that's been hard to find. I like Coupland. I read Generation X, it has a special quality, reminds me of the America I love. Right now I feel slobby. I haven't been on the ride, but today would have been cut short as there's stuff to do, people to give lifts to, jobs to be done, visits to be made and I've got a new coat that I'm excited about wearing, makes me feel like Kurt Russell in The Thing. I've always been a big baby and still am, I can't really grow up, that's my problem. Paddy Ashdown has died, aged 77, after a short illness and I am reminded of the time I met him, on a train, somewhere near Salisbury, a six-pack of Wadworth's 4X, time travel, he had a view, a good man for engaging in a crazy conversation, he didn't ignore us, he got involved, clearly a proper politician, a dying breed, literally in his case.