The Man Who Cycled the World

In 2007, when Mark Beaumont was in the process of breaking the Guinness world record for riding a bicycle around the world, I was (ahem) working on a magazine that was all about the global potato processing industry – the Mighty Spud, as we called it.

I'd been riding my bike on and off since the early nineties, entering the London to Brighton, London to Oxford and London to Cambridge sponsored rides on my Marin Bear Valley SE. A few years later, riding the Kona Scrap, I headed out towards Botley Hill alone, prior to the time in 2006 when, after a curry – no, we didn't go out on our bikes IMMEDIATELY after the curry – Andy and I first set out together during the magical pre-blog days.

Mark cycling through Iran. Pic: from his own website

In fact, as Mark pedalled his way around the planet, Andy and I were making a variety of what we regarded as pioneering rides in and around Northern Kent to places like Westerham and Oxted and Tandridge, not forgetting the now legendary Tatsfield Bus Stop.

What I'm trying to say is that I'm reviewing a book that was written a few years ago and I've only just gotten round to reading it. In fact, as I write this, I've just finished Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World. The only bit I haven't read is the final chapter, Una's Story, because, in all honesty, I've read the main bit of the book and it's now back on my bookshelf alongside some other cycling books. I'm seriously considering Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the Americas, but I won't read it straightaway, that would be overkill, and besides, I'm knackered, just like Beaumont, and need a rest from reading cycling adventure books.

Another reason why it's taken me some considerable time to get round to reading Beaumont's excellent book is that it's taken me a while to start reading books about cycling. And if you want another reason, it might have something to do with judging a book by its cover. Yes, I'm guilty of spotting Beaumont in Lycra on the front cover and thinking 'no, he's a Lycra monkey'. I was wrong, but before I realised this, I read quite a few other cycling books (Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike, Leon McCarron's The Road Headed West, and Rob Lilwall's Cycling Home from Siberia) all of which were very good and, like Beaumont's book, the reader feels as if he or she is actually on the ride with him.

I had picked up Beaumont's masterpiece in Waterstone's on more than one occasion and put it back on the shelf. Eventually I decided to take the plunge and buy it – a purchase well worth making and one I should have made much earlier. From the word go, this proved to be an adventure of epic proportions. Beaumont rides a Koga touring bicycle (similar to one I saw in a bike shop in Littlehampton recently) and sets off from Paris to ride leg one of his journey to Istanbul. Within days of setting off his is beset by problems: punctures, broken spokes, all sorts of mechanical issues he wasn't expecting so early on.

Beaumont camps a lot in fields, behind bushes – out of harm's way – and he isn't phased by it either. He blends camping in his one-man tent with nights in hotels, including some strangely entertaining places, like an odd establishment in the Ukraine, and, in between putting in some serious miles – and fuelling himself on cous cous and other foodstuffs, totting up to around 6,000 calories per day, he rides the bike from dawn to dusk. It's quite incredible how he takes some serious distances in his stride, on a daily basis, and finds time, in between eating and riding, to have the occasional massage, courtesy of a guy called Piotr who brings along his own massage table during leg one of the ride.

After reaching Istanbul (the end of leg one) Beaumont embarks upon the most worrisome section of his adventure – riding through Iran, Pakistan and India. By and large, however, he has no major problems. There are frustrating moments with a police escort through Pakistan, but he makes it through, spending nights in police stations and some extremely rundown 'hotels', somewhere (I can't remember where) sharing a room with a rat.

Leg three is from Bangkok to Singapore, where heavy rains play havoc with Beaumont's 'on board' computer systems, and then, leg four, Perth to Brisbane: a hot, punishing section of the ride where dangerous animals – snakes and spiders – were cause for concern while camping, along with strong headwinds. Leg Five sees him ride from one end of New Zealand to the other, where the weather is in stark contrast to that he experienced in Australia, and then he flies across the Pacific to San Francisco to begin his ride from the west to the east coast of the USA.

In the USA he has a lucky escape after a road accident, which is quickly followed up by a mugging while staying in a dodgy motel, chosen for him by the son of the woman who ran him down. Not good at all, but he pulls through, gets the bike fixed, sorts out the emotional fall-out and gets back on the bike, heading for Florida.

What a relentless ride! Beaumont just keeps on going, bar a few days off, powered by cous cous and pizza and plenty of other carbohydrates. Nothing phases him. He rides, he eats, he sleeps, he rides and he's hurtling headlong towards a well-deserved place in the record books.

The final leg, from Lisbon to Paris, was much harder than Beaumont expected it to be, mainly because he didn't research it; he figured he knew the lie of the land in Western Europe, but admitted: 'Spain had been far tougher than I'd ever imagined. Then again, maybe the problem had been that I hadn't really imagined it. I'd just assumed it would be more average miles.'

As the end of the ride drew near, Beaumont was too keyed up to want to imagine the finish, although he was looking forward to the freedom of not having to get up and ride a bike the next morning. He wanted to see his family and friends, many of whom were in Paris awaiting his arrival at the finish line.

In total Beaumont cycled 18,296 miles in 194 days and 17 hours – the fastest true circumnavigation of the world by bicycle and I'm assuming he still holds the record.

14 & 15 November – alright, we went to the Tatsfield Bus Stop again!

A friend of mine recently told me that I wouldn't be cycling over the weekend of 14 & 15 November. There was a storm coming. In fact, the storm in question had a name – Abigail – and it was, apparently, scheduled to ruin mine and Andy's regular weekend ride into the wilds of Northern Kent.

When I woke up I peered out of the window, expecting to see the trees rocking violently from side-to-side in the blustery weather, but there was nothing. The trees were still, like statues. The only sign of potential bad weather was a general bleakness that normally means rain, but so far it looked fairly dry. There was certainly nothing to worry about and no need to send an 'abort' text.

Add straw and punch a few air holes

In fact, talking of 'abort' texts, I hadn't received any either, although I seriously doubted whether Phil would be waiting on the doorstep at 0700hrs. He'd gone down with a sore throat and hadn't been on the ride for a week or two. Having said that, the weather's getting colder and that means Phil is on the verge of hibernation, just like Freda, the Blue Peter tortoise. When I was a kid I used to watch Blue Peter every week during the period when John Noakes, Peter Purves and Valerie Singleton were the hosts.

Freda was the Blue Peter tortoise – one of many on-air pets – and every year, when it was time for her to hibernate, Noakes, Purves and Singleton made a right old song and dance about it. They produced a cardboard box with holes punched into it and the name 'Freda' written on the side in black marker pen. Freda would be placed in the box and covered in straw and that would be it until the weather warmed up.

Phil is, in effect, the Blue Peter tortoise. Once the weather gets a little chilly – 'a bit parky' – Phil hibernates. He climbs into a cardboard box with holes punched into its sides and we don't see him until the spring time.

We rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and did what we always do – eat biscuits, drink tea and chat about this and that while watching the world (and Lycra monkeys) pass us by.

While we'd managed to avoid a soaking on the outward journey, we weren't so lucky on the return ride. We almost made it home dry, but shortly after waving goodbye to Andy having promised to be on the green again the following morning, the heavens opened. The only good thing was the mild weather, which took the edge off of things.

The rumour for Sunday was pleasant weather and sure enough, no rain and continuing mild temperatures. This must be one of the mildest Novembers on record. But it's early days yet. I remember back in November 2010 when the cold weather really set in (click here for details).

We rode again to the Tatsfield Bus Stop having originally considered a ride to Westerham. All the way along I was thinking about Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World and the way that he sometimes camped the night in some of the most remote parts of the world. The normal procedure was to wait until the coast was clear and then dive off the road in search of somewhere private to pitch the tent. I must admit that I'd be a little wary of what is known as 'wild camping' (which I think is illegal in the UK). The thought of somebody stumbling across my tent in the dead of night would mean sleepless nights for yours truly, but Beaumont took it in his stride and made me realise that, as long as you're concealed from view and nobody knows you're there, then all should be fine. Beaumont proved as much and, as I cycled along the 269, I started to wonder who might be camping off the road, behind a tree or a bush, out of harm's way and, more importantly, out of sight.

For a lot of the earlier stages of the ride, Beaumont seemed to live off of cous cous, but as the adventure continued he resorted to motels where he could get a decent night's sleep and something reasonable to eat.

We gave up on the idea of riding to Westerham – too much in the way of chores to do back home – and settled for the bus stop. Out came the tea and biscuits and we both sat there enjoying the moment: the fresh early morning air, the peace and quiet and, of course, something decent to eat and drink.

Yours truly's bike at the bus stop...

Getting up and preparing ourselves for the ride home is never pleasant. The bus stop is such a relaxing place and I could have done with more tea and biscuits and, perhaps, the Sunday papers. But no, it was time to go home. We rode up towards Botley Hill roundabout where we turned right and headed north along the 269 towards Warlingham Green. Halfway along Andy branched off and rode down towards Woldingham and beyond the to Wapses Roundabout where he must have prepared to ride up the hill towards Caterham-on-the-Hill (the clue's in the name).

The weather remained mild for the rest of the day and I spent an hour or two in the garden chopping up wood.

Colder weather is on the way, or so they say, but it's not going to stop us riding. We'll be back in the saddle again next weekend, unless it's raining, of course.

Ramblings from Dusseldorf airport...

Thursday 12 November: As I write this I am sitting in a cafeteria – there's a counter and trays so it's definitely not a café – enjoying a cup of black tea (as they say in Germany). I can't ask for a cup of 'builder's tea' as they wouldn't understand  me. There's no milk either, just creamer, which always reminds me of the days of my childhood when, for some reason, we sometimes had to endure our tea with Carnation evaporated milk. I can only assume that mum simply ran out of milk on some occasions. In Europe, largely, when you order a cup of tea you'll get a cup of warm water, a sachet containing a teabag and no milk. Awful.

It's around 1650hrs and it's getting dark outside. I'm through passport control and I'm killing time writing as I left Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World (which I've almost finished) in my suitcase, when I checked in.

The Rhine from the Schellenberg's breakfast room

As always when I stay in a hotel, I didn't get much in the way of sleep. I'd hit the sack around midnight last night and I woke up at 0700hrs so I reset the alarm for 0730hrs and tried to chill a little before getting up, taking a shower and heading down for breakfast. Although it wasn't 'down' it was up and over and, of course, it involved going outside into the fresh air (see previous posts for details). Not a big issue because the weather was mild, but it could have been much worse. Imagine getting drenched by heavy rain before reaching the breakfast room!

When I reached the breakfast room (the restaurant from last night) I was able to take full advantage of the Schellenberg's riverside location. It was, as I mentioned in the previous post, right on the banks of the Rhine. I sat there, having collected everything I thought I'd need – cereal, fresh fruit, a pastry, some scrambled egg and a pot of tea – and watched as huge barges passed by; they were passenger barges, designed for river cruises, and they were very long. Some had rooms with patio doors so I'm guessing there are overnight river cruises along the Rhine too; now that's something I'd like to do.

Viking River Cruises was one of the operators and there was another barge moored up on the bank below the hotel. At first I thought it was part of the hotel: extra rooms, perhaps; but soon the engines started the churn up the water and the barge disappeared up river.

Room 27, Schellenberg Hotel, Dusseldorf

On the opposite side of the river there were what looked like gently sloping 'sandy' banks that were almost beaches. It was probably mud, not sand, but it didn't look very muddy and I'm guessing that in the summer people might enjoy lying there, taking in some rays, but it was mid-November and the 'beaches' were deserted, despite the mild weather.

Breakfast was pleasant enough and so was dinner last night (I had cod with polenta followed by raspberry mousse, a glass of wine and a bottle of still mineral water). The entire bill was just 189 Euros.

I checked out and left my suitcase with the concierge while I nipped over the road to the convention centre until around 2pm when I met a colleague and his client for lunch at the hotel (potato and leek soup followed by salmon and a couple of glasses of Malbec). We talked shop and then I was driven to the airport (an incredibly short drive). Now I am sitting here having drank my tea. It's 1703hrs and soon I'll have to make my way to the gate for the return flight home. I've been reliably informed that the plane is another turbo prop, but unfortunately I've got an aisle seat. Not that it matters as it'll be dark when we take off and besides, it's only 55 minutes so I'll have to amuse myself in some other way. I have a notepad and a pen so perhaps I'll be inspired to write something, who knows?

Once again I forgot to buy myself some Ronnefeldt tea.  I know they've got some decent flavours because I've tried them and it's available throughout this fine land. It's always a shame to leave Dusseldorf, but I'm sure I'll be back. I seem to visit this great German city three or four times during the year.

View from room 27, Schellenberg Hotel...

I wandered to the gate (Gate 91) and then, as I waited to board, I added up the numbers of the flight, hoping that the total wouldn't be 13. It wasn't and I was relieved as I hate it when the numbers stack up against me, although they rarely do.

Next to the free bottles of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon that I always enjoy on any British Airways flight I take, the next best thing is John Simpson's regular column in High Life magazine. This month it was about the cities of Brazzaville in the Republic of Congo and Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo (previously Zaire). They're chalk and cheese according to Mr Simpson and his preferred capital is Brazzaville, although it never used to be. "I remember landing at the airport here in the 1990s with mortars and artillery fire thumping down...", he wrote in his column. I've said it before, but High Life should devote more space to Simpson's writing.

Annoying passengers
What never fails to annoy me on planes is when instructions from the cabin crew are ignored, especially when those instructions are designed to make things safer. We were told to switch off all electrical devices during take-off and landing and, of course, I did as I was told. But there were others close to me who simply ignored the request and continued texting and watching fucking Cumberbatch on their tablet. I felt like intervening, but decided to keep my powder dry for fear of starting some kind of international incident.

The flight was good and, being a turbo prop, a little more exciting than a jet. Turbo props, a bit like helicopters, 'chug' through the air and while the flight is a little rockier than that experienced in a jet, I think I prefer it.

We landed at London City Airport and after retrieving my suitcase from the reclaim I headed for the Docklands Light Railway to catch a train to Bank and then onwards to London Bridge where I picked up an overground train to East Croydon and then to Sanderstead.

Riding to mum's in the rain...

It's been a mixed bag on the weather front. While the temperatures have been mild, there has been rain and, as I walked home, without an umbrella, on a rainy Guy Fawkes night last week, wet leaves underfoot resembling soggy cornflakes, I began to wonder how the year has flown by. It's November, we're a month away from Christmas and I've still got loads of annual leave to take. It might have something to do with being constantly broke and in debt. In a sense I can't afford to take any time off as I don't have the money to spend on teashops and restaurants, and I have little in the way of motivation to 'do things around the house'. Besides, doing anything will require money that I simply don't have. So I work, I come home, I go to bed, I get up, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed... you get the general picture.

Cycling keeps me sane. Even though I only ride twice a week, I look forward to hitting the road and 'zoning out'. I've said it before: there's much more to cycling than pure exercise, which in many ways is the added bonus.

Mum on the doorstep...

The mild weather is strange. I have a Californian lilac in the garden in full bloom – in November! It normally flowers briefly in May and that's it, but mine is in full bloom. As I write this it's still dark outside so I can't see it, but I know it's there and when things brighten up it'll be good to see it. I've always admired the Californian lilac; I just wish I'd bought the one with the darker purple flowers, but it's a minor complaint.

When I woke up and looked out there was a puddle of water on the roof of next door's side extension, meaning it had been raining during the night. The lack of raindrops disturbing the puddle's mirror-like surface, however, was good news as it meant a dry ride bar the wetness kicked up from the road on my bike without mudguards.

Bare trees on Purley Recreation Ground, Saturday morning

Neither Andy nor Phil were riding today. Phil was shrugging off his sore throat while Andy had things to do. I could have simply stayed in bed, but there's never been any point in lying in and invariably I'm up by 0600hrs and sitting here writing something. Having switched off the alarm last night, I didn't get up until an hour later than usual and having peered out of the window I drifted downstairs, made some tea and continued to look out of the window at a rain-soaked garden, looking for signs of raindrops and finding none, although the potential was always there.

At one point I considered not going at all, based purely on the fact that it could rain at any time, but I had to get out of the house and by around 0800hrs I was in the open air, freewheeling down West Hill in what can only be described as a warm breeze. I was heading for mum's and enjoyed a very pleasant ride, which remained dry all the way.

Breakfast at mum's

After a boiled egg, some sliced bread and a cup of tea for breakfast I headed back. At first all was fine, but soon the heavens opened and within a short space of time I was soaked through. But I persevered, just like Mark Beaumont in The Man Who Cycled the World and eventually it didn't matter. It never does once you're out in it.

I reached home around 1000hrs or thereabouts. To be honest, I wasn't really minding the time as I usually do, I was simply riding, and whenever I leave the house later than usual, I tend to lose track of time. As I say, it didn't matter as the rest of the day was spent sitting around doing nothing and then driving aimlessly all the way to Horsted Keynes and back in the rain.

Thick fog at Milan's Linate airport...

The 1300hrs Firenze to Milan train

Milan has two main airports: Linate and Malpensa. The former is generally regarded as the best because it is closer to the city centre. I tend to judge an airport by its facilities beyond passport control – that strange, perfumed world characterised by big fashion and accessories brands that only Indians living in Hounslow seem to buy. Whenever I travel,  I like to get the security bit out of the way, which means that if I arrive at the airport early, I get the best of two hours to chill out prior to flying off.

On Monday afternoon I arrived at Linate early having travelled by train from Firenze (Florence). The train journey from Firenze to Milano takes just one hour and 40 minutes and costs 50 Euros. I tried to take a train to Linate, but was told there was only a bus. It cost me five Euros – better than 55 Euros for a cab when I travelled from Linate to the city centre last Thursday (22nd October). The bus journey was short and took me around the back streets of Milan, past overgrown brownfield sites and graffiti-infected walls, but soon I arrived and started to look around for the BA check-in desk. I was too early to check in my bag so I kept it with me, losing my deodorant and shaving foam in the process – it happens all the time. So much so that I've recently started packing a bar of Dove soap because it lathers up well and can be a good alternative to shaving foam. I discovered that my allocated seat (14A) had been changed to an aisle seat further back. I moaned, but not a great deal and I was switched to seat 28A at the back of the plane. Later, however, when I reached the final checkpoint at gate B28, my seat was 'upgraded' to 21A.

Panino Giusto at Linate airport, Milan

Once through security after queuing 15 minutes for passport control, I was a free agent with time to kill. I never, ever entertain any of the shops – for a start I can't afford them and then there's that whole thing about simply not being interested. But I did fancy chilling out with a glass of red wine and something to eat and I was annoyed to discover that Linate didn't offer much in the food department.

I found a place that sold panini breads – Panino Giusto – so I ordered a City (a turkey breast panini) and a glass of red wine, which soon became two, followed by a cappuccino. There's nothing better than a glass of wine and something to eat along with a decent book to read. I'm making good progress through Mark Beaumont's excellent The Man Who Cycled the World so I was in heaven. Beaumont's book, as I've said time and time again in recent posts, is amazing and at this point in time, I've reached the bit where he arrives in Australia. I'm looking forward to his other book, The Man Who Cycled the Americas, which I'm sure will be just as good.

I walked to the gate where I noticed thick fog outside."There's always fog at Linate," said a white-haired, middle-aged businessman with a resigned smile. I wandered around until the flight was called. Outside, the fog was thick, but the BA flight wasn't cancelled. I'm used to spending an additional night in an airport hotel (click here for more information) but not tonight. Yes, there was a minor delay, but once on the plane the cabin crew spoke of a 'zero visibility take-off'.

Milan's Central Station – very impressive

The plane made its way towards the runway and I began to wonder how the pilot was managing to navigate his way there, let alone take off, but he did both and within seconds we were airborne and above the fog and were greeted by 'excellent flying conditions'. There were clear skies all the way to London Heathrow's Terminal 5.

Writing early in the morning...

I arrived here Friday, today's Wednesday and yesterday I saw my first police car. Well, not JUST seen it, I saw it around lunchtime, but nevertheless it was the first squad car of the trip. Unusual, as I might have said already, being that I'm in the murder capital of the USA – none other than the Windy City, otherwise known as Chicago.

At last! A rare sighting of a Chicago police car...

Last night I had dinner in an Italian restaurant called Rosebud. It was alright. A bit dark in terms of the lighting – perhaps they're trying to hide something, but I doubt it. Chicken Milanese with pasta and salad and a couple glasses of Cabernet. It did me fine and so I returned to my room after a brief mess-around on the computers in the Apple Store. I love Apple computers.

I saw a huge rat yesterday evening. I mean huge. The size of a fucking squirrel, but without the bushy tail. It was running through the flower beds that line some of the streets here in Chicago. I saw it twice and by that I mean twice in the space of about 15 minutes. When I started to retrace my steps back towards North Michigan Avenue, en route to Rosebud, there it was again, running for cover.

I hate dining alone (perhaps I should have invited the rat) especially in a restaurant where it's too dark to read a newspaper, although, to be honest, it wasn't that dark and I had a copy of USA Today and read bits of it while waiting for my order. But sometimes I'm too preoccupied to enjoy reading. I mean, during the day, sitting in a Starbucks in a foreign country with a book and a cup of tea, that's something else, that can be cool and relaxing. But at night when I'm tired and my sole purpose is to go out and eat, well, reading takes a back seat unless I'm feeling particularly chilled and happy.

On the Interstate yesterday, coming back into Chicago

I've just woken up and it's 0310hrs – ten past eight in the morning back in the UK. Last night, after dinner, I read Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World before hitting the sack early. That's probably why I'm awake now and writing this, although I started writing last night and now I'm going through deleting bits and changing all the tenses.

News just in...
In Rock Springs, Wyoming, the city council has approved a ban on clothing and tattoos with profane or vulgar language at local recreation facilities. Meanwhile, in Juneau, Alaska – I've been there – around 20 people took a short tour to the Mendenhall Glacier in an electric tour bus, the first ever electric bus to drive on Juneau roads. In Providence, Rhode Island, we hear that the state's criminal  justice system remains largely white, even as 'children of colour' – as the paper puts it – comprise nearly 40% of Rhode Island's youth, claims the Providence Journal. In St. Paul, Minnesota, a group of state lawmakers and historians is looking at how art portraying Native Americans should be used inside the renovated Minnesota Capital building when it re-opens in 2017, according to Minnesota Public Radio News. Residents in Lawrence, Kansas, are being encouraged to either get rid of their ash trees or treat them against the emerald ash borer, an invasive insect that has devastated tree populations elsewhere. And lastly, Cascade Steel Rolling Mills was fined more than $7,000 for violating its water pollution permit, according to a report in the Statesman Journal.

Breakfast in America...

View from my hotel room window...

American breakfasts have always been known for their size, but the great thing about my hotel is that they leave the gluttony up to the individual. In other words, I could have made a pig of myself, but I didn't. Instead, I opted for some fresh slices of melon, a Greek yoghurt with blueberries, tea and fruit juice and some scrambled egg with a few diced and baked potatoes – they're probably called something, but in essence they were diced and baked (or possibly fried) potatoes. It might be hash browns, not sure.

What I hate about some hotels is that everything costs something, although I know that's true of everything. So the waiter puts juice and hot water on the table and says that the juice is so many dollars, the tea costs so much, the serve-yourself buffet is $22.00 and so on. I was waiting for him to say "and the chair, if you want to sit down, is $50, the cutlery, $25 and you have to pay me to serve you," but of course it was never going to be that bad. Perhaps it is in some places.

I've started reading Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World and it's an excellent read. So far he's riding through Poland but already he's experienced bike hassles – two punctures and the spokes on his rear wheel snapping, forcing him to find a friendly bike shop to fix it, which he did, and now that the rain has stopped for him – it pissed down as he rode through Germany – the sun is now out, his nose is burnt and he's staying in a strange hotel that seems to be run by the Russian mafia. I'll keep you informed and a book review of sorts will follow just as soon as I finish reading the book. I'll be writing more on David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries too, so watch this space.

Back to my breakfast. Once again I found myself mildly miffed that nobody other than the English seem capable of serving a decent cup of tea. They might turn up with their lacquered box full of packaged teabags – resembling a humidor and offering an unnecessarily large choice of different teas – but they can't serve it properly. Milk has to be requested, I'm given a teabag and some hot water and that's it. This is, of course, coffee land and it's always expected that people drink the stuff. I don't.

Room 811, Warwick Allerton Hotel, Chicago

The breakfast was fine. As an afterthought I had a banana and one of those small boxes of cornflakes in a bowl so large it made the portion size seem small and somehow beached on the plate, like an unwanted, toxic cargo from a sunken ship, washed up on a lonely beach. I sprinkled a sachet of sugar over it and finished it off in between paragraphs of Mark Beaumont's excellent book.

The breakfast cost me $26.74 – including the tip – quite pricey when you think about it, but I'm going to take a stroll around town shortly and hopefully I'll find a little café somewhere downtown that might offer a little more value-for-money, although, knowing me (and knowing most people) the convenience of the hotel breakfast will win through.