Hardy's Return of the Native...oh how I wish I hadn't bothered!

Over the past couple days I've been riding along country lanes taking in the wonderful smells and aromas of the summertime, the scent of the hedgerows and, of course, that lovely warm breeze you get on days like today and yesterday. As I rode around the lanes that led to St. Leonard's church in Chelsham I thought about a lottery ticket I had bought during the week, it was one that, should I win, I would get £10,000 per month for the next 30 years. Can you imagine that for one moment, £120,000 per annum, tax-free, for the next 30 years. That's a lot of money and a lot of time. And as I rode the lanes I imagined having won such a prize and how amazing it would be to be cycling through the summer knowing that I didn't have to work anymore, I could spend my days riding the bike, going to the beach, strolling around, wild swimming in the sea and so forth. Hell, I might even buy myself a place close to the coast so that I could enjoy the freshness of the sea and the sea air whenever the fancy took me.

Chilling at Costa in Westerham, Kent today...

But of course I haven't won such an amazing prize and why the hell should I? There are millions of people more deserving than I am. Perhaps I'll have to write that definitive 21st Century novel and then I'll be able to take life a little easier, buy myself one of those Henley garden offices and spend the rest of my days chilling and riding and writing and skimming stones into the sea. I haven't been to the south coast in a while and I really should be getting down there now that the weather's good. I'm still a little taken by Andy's 'dawn to dusk' idea and wouldn't mind trying it myself, although, as I probably said in a recent post, possibly the last one, I doubt I'd be able to ride the 250 miles to Cornwall before the sun went down, but who knows? Perhaps I'd surprise myself. Andy said that there would be downhill stretches that would speed things up somewhat and, of course, he's right. While I tend to average around 10 miles/hour there are times, when I reach a downward stretch, that the bike picks up incredible speed. But I reckon I'd be able to ride around 150 miles before the sun set in the west, possibly 200 if I was really lucky, but I'd settle for 150. I think I'd head for the coast and then, on reaching the front, head west towards Dorset, I might manage to reach Wareham before I sought out a campsite or, if I was really organised, the B&B I'd booked for myself prior to departure, having worked out exactly where I'd stop (or where I would likely end up) as the sun disappeared on the horizon and it was time for me to get some kip.

My sleeping rough 'fantasy' or 'dream' or whatever it is, still hangs over me occasionally. The other day I was on Amazon looking up bivvy bags, which are kind of elaborate sleeping bags. I found one that was basically a small tent, the sort of thing you could set up in minutes and then cover with camouflage so that nobody can spot you from a distance (I'm thinking angry farmers who wouldn't entertain the idea of me sleeping in one of their fields. That said, sleeping in random fields could be dangerous. What if a herd of horned bulls mosey on over during the night while I sleep, although I don't think I'll be getting much sleep, not on my first few nights under canvas. That whole 'dawn to dusk' business could easily involve the bivvy tent as it would be easy to carry, simple to erect and ideal for one person trying to keep a low profile. One day I might have a crack at cycling to the beach, I haven't done it for a long time and I'd love to do it; riding to Felpham is about 60 miles, which, these days, bearing in mind my increased fitness levels, I wouldn't have a problem with. I reckon I could easily do such mileage and would enjoy every minute, just as long as the weather was on my side, which it could be, you just never know with the British weather.

Summer in full swing on Beddlestead Lane today...

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I made a big mistake recently when I purchased a copy of Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native, I book I read ages ago and I rather enjoyed it; there's something about Diggory Venn, the reddleman, and Egdon Heath, which appealed to me, or so I thought when I bought it. But now I'm struggling and I wish there was such a thing as an amnesty on unread novels, like there is for knives. We could all trampse on down to our local police stations and hand in the books that failed to keep our attention, and I'd certainly be taking Hardy's tragic novel with me, although, in all honesty I don't really find it that 'tragic'. The character of Clym Yeobright, to me, is basically pathetic, he's come back from Paris where he seemed to be 'doing alright' and found himself getting married to one Eustacia Vye, Egdon Heath's femme fatale I suppose. But she fell in love with Clym because of what he was, not because of what he intends to become, and it all starts to go wrong. As I read it (I'm still struggling) Clym has damaged his eyes because he's been studying hard in bad light and as a result has taken a job as a furze cutter on the heath, much to the dismay of his wife who thinks he's capable of much better things. She wants to head to Paris with him, but he's fed up with the French capital and never intends to return and now she's going off of him. In my mind Clym is basically an idiot; he had a good job, he should have stayed in Paris or, failing that he should have returned to Paris with Eustacia, but no, he doesn't do that. I always feel as if I should shout at him to pull himself together and not throw his life away on the heath, but he wouldn't listen. His mother, Mrs Yeobright, is despairing with him too. Not only does she not like his new wife, but can't believe that he would throw away the opportunities presented to him by Paris and whatever it was he was doing there (I'm sure this is explained, but I can't remember). As I said earlier, I've read the book before and for some reason thought that the haunting quality of the heath and the strangeness of the reddleman would make the book appealing, but in all honesty I want to finish it and then crack on with something a little more exciting, like a cycling adventure book, of which there are many online at present; but because there is no amnesty on unread novels I'll have to wait until I've finished Return of the Native as I hate buying a book and then not finishing it; then it's all down to what \i read next. I could make a rod for my own back and read Saul Bellow's More Die of Heartbreak, which might be a decent book, I don't know, but it could be another Return of the Native scenario. What I need is to be sitting in a coffee shop somewhere, possibly the Costa down in Westerham. I could ride there, order tea and cake and then try and get through a couple of chapters of Hardy's classic novel. I'm not doing too badly. I'm on Chapter Three of 'Book Fourth', The Closed Door so I'm not a million miles from ordering something else online, like Nelson Algren's A Walk on the Wild Side, yes, the book that inspired Lou Reed's classic song of the same name. I'm tempted to read The Plague by Albert Camus or even something by Jean Paul Sartre, but I'm not sure, perhaps something lighter. like the aforementioned cycling adventure, would be better. But right now my only problem is finishing Return of the Native. It's Friday evening, it's very warm outside and the sun is still shining as the time approaches 1830hrs, so it's likely that I might fight my way through another chapter, taking me closer to the finish line.

The Lunchtime Weeble...

It's been a good week on the cycling front. It started last Sunday with a ride to Westerham to meet Andy and then, having riden for five consecutive days, I decided to take Monday and Tuesday off. On Wednesday a Washpond Weeble and then, on Thursday and Friday, two Lunchtime Weebles, which was by far the way to go. I used to dread the moment I finished work knowing I had to pluck up the enthusiasm to jump on the bike and ride out into the sticks. It's the last thing I want to do after a day of working. Lunchtime rides are far easier. I'm more awake for a start, there's less traffic (normally I have to cope with rush hour drivers) and I feel energised on my return to complete my week at work. In total this week I rode over 84 miles, an improvement on last week and I'm feeling good about it.

It's Saturday afternoon, 1317hrs to be precise, and the sun has just come out. Earlier, around 0900hrs, I rode to Westerham and it was cloudy with a mild breeze. I had the feeling it would rain at any minute and it did when I was sitting outside of Costa Coffee drinking tea and enjoying another cinnamon brioche bun, yes, another one. The rain lasted all of a few seconds and then stopped and held off all the way home until I reached the Sanderstead area. I had riden the slow way (along Beddlestead Lane) and then turned left and headed down Clarks Lane, following the road down the hill and round the bend, bearing right, not even turning left as I usually do and riding along Pilgrims Lane. I sat outside with my tea and bun and just took in my surroundings, people watching. A man tried to get a bright red armchair into the back of his estate car and he managed it before heading off to his home in nearby Chiddingstone, which, he said, was 15 minutes' drive away. There was a man with a nasty-looking dog, a few old people floating around and a handful of people on the green. The sun made brief appearances. I rode back along the road towards the Velo Barn and then hung a left into Pilgrims Lane where I found a Lycra monkey struggling to get out of the wrong gear. I should have quipped that being in the wrong gear was the story of my life, but I simply couldn't be bothered. I continued along Pilgrims Lane, emerging at the foot of the hill and started the climb that wouldn't end until I reached the Botley Hill roundabout. I turned left on to The Ridge and rode into Woldingham, down Slines Oak Road and then up the steep bit at the end. When I reached the 269 it was raining, but it wasn't cold so I pushed on regardless, passing Flavours, my new favourite caff in Warlingham, and then along the Limpsfield Road towards Sanderstead. I sailed down Church Way in the rain and put in a good 24.55 miles, giving me that magical 84-mile weekly total, well, just over 84 miles.

Thoughts on sleeping rough...

I seem to be obsessed with the notion of sleeping rough. Perhaps not obsessed, more intrigued. Or, if not intrigued, satisfied with the thought that if ever I found myself in the position so many find themselves in these days – especially in London where extortionate rent is turning back the clock to Dickensian times – I'd have a solution.

The solution in my mind is a tent. A two-man tent from Millets and, of course, a sleeping bag. I'd search around the green belt until I found a place that seemed safe and secluded and out of harm's way and set up camp there; I might even ask a friendly farmer whether he'd mind if I camped on his land or check out some of the all-year-round camp sites that exist in the United Kingdom. Either way, you wouldn't find me in a shop doorway or slumming it on one of the capital's night buses.

The bikes on the outskirts of Tatsfield. Pic: Andy Smith.

Andy says that the Circle Line is no longer a circle, meaning that you can't just sit there all night snoozing, not that I'd want to do that anyway. Sleeping under canvas in the woods seems far preferable to me.

The whole conversation came about because of the Old Ship at Tatsfield, which I noticed last week had been boarded up and is no longer inhabited, not by the former tenant, a Mrs Gandolf, at any rate. Last week I referred to her as Mrs Gandalf, my mistake, but the letter 'o' doesn't in any way lessen the excellence of her surname.

We, that is Andy and I, sat opposite the Old Ship after a pleasant ride via Beddlestead Lane and now, munching on Belvitas, we wondered again what would happen to the place. It would make a decent small hotel with half a dozen rooms and a restaurant downstairs.

I thought of a programme I had watched on 'catch up' last week about the homeless in Barking & Dagenham and I sat there looking at the empty pub and thinking about all those people sitting on night buses or sleeping in shop doorways; they would be crying out for a place like the Old Ship in Tatsfield, I thought. And that's when I started talking about how, if I was homeless, I'd buy a tent with my dole money and head for the woods.

Andy suggested that during the day – if he was homeless – he would spend the day in the library. I suggested Sutton Library, it's huge, on many floors, has power points, easy chairs, an entire floor devoted to music and a café downstairs. The fantasy had re-asserted itself. What about food? I suggested a stove. What about washing? Local authority leisure centres. Transportation? A bike, of course. I had it sussed.

As we cycled home I kept a weather eye out for places to camp should the need arise, not that it would, and there were plenty worthy of consideration. The key, I explained to Andy, was keeping hidden from view and not drawing attention to oneself. I'm guessing that if you're homeless you trust nobody.

The ride continued. We headed towards the green where we parted company and rode our separate ways.

Sunday 28th December – taking the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop

The cold weather is beginning to set in. As I write this on Monday 29th December 2014 it's around minus three degrees outside (or rather it was minus three degrees). Right now (at just gone 1000hrs) the sun is shining, there is still a frost on the lawn, but I'm guessing it's a few degrees above freezing.

Saturday's ride was aborted because of heavy winds but we were out on Sunday and once again I was wearing my ridiculous-looking flappy hat and balaclava combo – very warm, but I'd be the first to admit that I looked pretty odd.

I met Andy at the usual place and we decided to ride the long way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. While it's quite a work-out when compared with the faster way (along the 269) it's safer (no traffic) and far more sociable (it's easier to talk and ride two abreast due to the lack of cars).

Andy's racer, Chipstead Lake, Christmas morning 2014.

Beddlestead Lane is not easy. It's a slow climb and it can be tiresome. There are various markers along the way that enable us to chart our progress and soon enough we found ourselves on Clarks Lane. Beddlestead Lane has its ups and downs. It passes through woods and skirts fields and there are a couple of houses along the way, not to mention flocks of sheep watching our every movement. My paranoia towards sheep is well-documented on this blog.

We saw only one Lycra monkey en route to the bus stop and Andy commented that while he was out on Christmas Day morning (he rode alone to Chipstead Lake and gets a major 'respect is due' for his efforts) he saw a few brave Lycra monkeys and decided, as it was Christmas, to offer his season's greetings – a kind of Christmas truce. I ventured that he should have suggested a game of football in homage to the famous World War l Christmas Truce.

As for the Tatsfield Bus Stop, it was still just that: the same old bus stop. It never changes. It's a lump of wood that shelters us (and others) from inclement weather. Today, however, it was, as always, just the same old same old. Well, not quite. For some inexplicable reason, somebody had screwed a gold-coloured clothes hook into the wood. It doesn't say much for the bus service as it probably means there's enough time to take off your coat, make yourself comfortable and endure a long wait.

If I was a tramp I wouldn't sleep rough at the Tatsfield Bus Stop – it's too exposed, but it does have one redeeming factor: it's off the ground (or rather its integral bench is off the ground). In this cold weather the last thing you want if you're sleeping rough is direct contact with the ground. Why we discuss sleeping rough and being tramps whenever we're sitting at the Tatsfield Bus Stop I'll never know, but we do. Personally, I'd sleep in the small woods at the top of White Lane, in a small tent, concealed from view, although at this time of year, with bare branches and fallen leaves, it's difficult to remain hidden.

Why the clothes hook?

Perhaps that clothes hook means that somebody has made the bus stop their home. Who knows? I'll keep you informed if I see anything else there, like a sofa or a coffee table or a 'home sweet home' sign nailed to the wall and mounted in a quaint wooden frame. When Andy rode along Pilgrim's Lane towards the lake on Christmas morning he encountered an entire bathroom suite dumped in the middle of the road and, as we rode up Beddlestead Lane earlier, we encountered another example of 'fly tipping'. Somebody had left a load of domestic rubbish by the side of the road: a bedside cabinet, a vacuum cleaner – what a mess.

After two cups of tea and some Belvita biscuits we headed home. Andy branched off halfway and I continued north along the 269. I reached home around 11am and later drove to Felbridge to see Dave and his rescued dog Sasha – a Staffordshire Bull Terrier with a sad face and clearly in desperate need of a permanent home. It wasn't a 'dangerous dog', thankfully, and I quite liked her. I stayed for tea and biscuits and left after dark, reaching home around 1900hrs – home in time for part two of Top Gear's Patagonian adventure.