Spur-of-the-moment solo ride to Chipstead Lake...

Perfect cycling weather. A hazy sunshine. I decided to ride to Chipstead Lake for a late snack in the Bricklayer's, a Harveys of Lewes pub.

Only eagle-eyed readers will see my bike through the pub's window.

Departing at around 1230hrs I followed the usual NoVisibleLycra route up Church Way, across Sanderstead Green – otherwise known, for some reason, as The Gruffy – and along the Limpsfield Road, which, understandably, was a little busier than usual as it was a mid-week lunchtime and every man and his dog was on the road. White van men whistled past me, a heavily tattooed woman – who I initially thought was wearing patterned tights – walked on by and soon I was approaching the first official marker, Warlingham Green. I didn't stop, but continued on towards Warlingham Sainsbury's and that strange coffee shop just beyond it called Amano, which used to be a pub. Normally when I pass it's closed because it's very early in the morning, but today it was open and seemingly very busy. I've always wondered how Amano was performing in a business sense. Outside there was a blackboard announcing that the garden was open, reminding me that it was once a pub. I caught a glimpse of a gleaming servery counter as I rode past and made a mental note to pay a visit one day as it might be worth it.

Ham sandwiches, chips, salad and a pint

Soon I passed Knight's Garden Centre and the five-mile marker came into view. Ledgers Road marks the point where, if I turned back, I would ride a total of 10 miles by the time I reached home. But I was going further. I followed the 269 towards Botley Hill. There was very little traffic, but more than I was used to, so I watched and listened for signs of nutters and kept as far to the left as I could without falling onto the grass verge. Motorists round here don't like cyclists because they think they should use the cycle path provided for them. What they don't realise is that the path in question is lined with Hawthorn bushes and I was in no mood for a puncture, not at this early stage of the ride.

After a short while I found myself at Botley Hill, a kind of junction point as, from there, I could ride straight on for Oxted, turn right for Godstone or left for Westerham. I opted for the latter route and sped down Clarks Lane past the Tatsfield Bus Stop and then past the entrance to the churchyard before reaching the twisting road that leads down to Westerham. I slowed as I reached the final bend right and instead of continuing towards Westerham I branched off left and followed the Pilgrims Way. From here onwards the ride was sheer bliss.

The early part of Pilgrims Way is flanked by fields on the right and expensive detached homes set back from the road on the left, but after crossing Westerham Hill (A233) there are fields on either side and it's easy to forget where you are, and by that I mean you're never far from civilisation.

Chipstead Lake or Longford Lake? I wish I knew

After crossing Hogtrough Hill, the Pilgrims Way continues, crossing Brasted Hill and making its way to the foot of Sundridge Hill where I turned right into Ovenden Road, enjoying the warm breeze and the sunshine and green hedgerows on either side of the road, which concealed more cornfields. The Ovenden Road bears left and runs parallel to the M25 for a short while until it joins the Chevening Road. I turned left here and followed the road to Chevening Cross. I turned right and followed the road over the M25 and down into Chipstead village and the pub. It was almost 2pm.

Across from the pub there is a small green leading down to the lake. There is a sailing club on the lake and some of its members were taking advantage of the warm weather. Sailing dinghys were out in force displaying colourful sails as they weaved their way back and forth across the vast expanse of water hemmed in on all sides by trees and bushes.

Cornfields along Pilgrims Way

I padlocked the bike against a bench and went in search of a pint of beer. Harvey's Lewes Castle, a brown ale (4.8%) seemed like a good choice so I ordered one and a round of ham and mustard sandwiches. Pint in hand, I headed back to the bench to enjoy the fresh air, but I forgot how annoying eating and drinking alfresco can be, thanks to pesky wasps trying to get a swig of my pint. In fact, I decided to head back to the pub and sit inside when I spied the woman from the pub marching towards me with my food order. I stayed put for all of five minutes, but having spilt some of my pint trying to swot a wasp I decided to head indoors where I found a shaded seat by a window looking out on the lake and my bike padlocked against the bench.

The sandwiches were fantastic and so were the accompanying chips and side salad so I ordered dessert. Apple and berry crumble with a tiny jug of custard, plus another pint, and sat there reading the Daily Telegraph.

More cornfields on the Pilgrims Way

Later on, having paid the bill and finished my pint, I headed back outside to the bike and the lake and for a short while took in the atmosphere: the warm sun, the wind gently blowing in the trees. It was time to head home. I mounted the Kona and cycled out of Chipstead at a leisurely pace, which made all the difference. Back along the Chevening Road, right into Ovenden Road, left on to the Pilgrims Way. I stopped here and there to take photographs of the fields flanking Pilgrims Way, whenever there was a break in the hedgerow, and slowly made my way to the foot of the hill we normally climb out of Westerham. Soon I was passing the Tatsfield Bus Stop and within a few minutes I was sailing through Botley Hill towards Warlingham Green.

The traffic was picking up a bit. I had no idea of the time but it seemed very much like five o'clock or thereabouts as there were plenty of people eager, I'd imagine, to get home from work. Riding along the 269 I was extra vigilant where parked cars were concerned, indicating right every time I veered out into the road and then veering back at the earliest opportunity, but it wasn't too bad and soon I found myself riding through Sanderstead churchyard and then, of course, heading down Church Way.

Chipstead Village, so let's call it Chipstead Lake

From Church Way it's a downhill ride all the way home. I padlocked the bike in the garage and opened the front door of my house around 1730hrs (1733hrs to be precise). All was quiet so here I am letting you all know what I've been doing all afternoon.

Sunday 3 August – to the Tatsfield Churchyard for an amazing Bakewell tart

I was feeling unwell – but not anymore. It was down to past-their-sell-by-date blueberries and resulted in yours truly feeling the need to be in tune with the location of public conveniences while out and about – but only for a day. I felt weary all Friday and by Sunday I had recovered.

A perfect Bakewell tart made by Phil

I don't often frequent public conveniences as they're not very nice places to visit at the best of times. I remember once, in Sutton, Surrey, my hometown, there used to be a public toilet at the top of the Throwley Way – it's probably still there – but the off-putting bit was the attendant who I once spied eating a Sunday roast in his small office INSIDE the public convenience in question. He must have had a fairly good view of his 'customers' doing what comes naturally and I'm guessing he was used to the putrid stench that must have invaded his space (and his dinner table) 24/7. I don't know about you, but I can think of many better places to enjoy roast beef and Yorkshire pudding (or any meal for that matter) – although he'd be in the right place if the beef was a little past its sell-by date.

"Keep away from my tart! " Phil and his Bakewell
at the Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 3 August 2014.

But enough of this crap. Suffice it to say that I wasn't feeling on the top of the world although, oddly, I didn't feel ill, which is always a bonus. I felt well enough to get myself acquainted, on Saturday afternoon, with a rather charming public convenience on the beach in Broadstairs, Kent, but I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say that I was glad there was nobody waiting outside my cubicle when I sheepishly emerged from behind the blue door.

There was no cycling on Saturday morning as it was raining during the early hours so nobody went out, although Phil sent me a text to say he'd changed his mind about aborting the night before and was ready for a ride if anybody was interested. Andy hadn't bothered and my phone was off so I didn't pick up his text until it was too late. Instead, I drove to Broadstairs in Kent for a largely pleasant day of walking along the seafront and taking in the fresh sea air of the East Kent coast. I'd felt under the weather all day on Friday and had spent most of the time lazing around due to my generally weary state of mind.

Another awful pair of shorts, a silly hat and that terrible tee-shirt again. 

Yours truly holding court at the Tatsfield Churchyard early Sunday morning.

We rode out on Sunday morning to the Tatsfield Churchyard and Phil had made a tremendous Bakewell Tart, courtesy of a Jamie Oliver recipe.

When we reached the churchyard the sobering sight of new graves reminded us that life was not only too short but too fragile. Moments later and after the shock that we're not immortal – we knew that anyway, but whenever we're reminded it's always a bit of a shock – we watched as Phil unwrapped the Bakewell tart and were amazed that he'd managed to keep it intact in his rucksack on the eight-mile ride. It was in perfect condition. We were equally amazed when he produced a rather dangerous-looking knife to cut it with and another utensil to ensure it made a clean break from the base of the flan dish in which it was baked.

The proof of the pudding was, as always, in the eating and it goes without saying that it was a fantastic Bakewell tart. We drank tea, chatted about this and that and then headed home again.

The weather was fantastic too, although there was a coolish breeze as we headed out at 0630hrs. The day remained bright and sunny, however, and we were all glad that we rode out on what became the perfect summer's day. I later drove to Rye in East Sussex followed by Camber Sands.

Dumbing down

I was reading yesterday that veteran broadcaster and intellectual Jonathan Miller has described those in charge of commissioning at the BBC as 'media studies twerps'. At last, I thought, somebody speaking out about the growing incompetence and lack of vision that has been slowly developing in the UK and, I'm sure, elsewhere, and its resultant effect on the standard of television and, let's face it, other facets of life too. I don't know about you, but I no longer 'watch' television. Sometimes, in our house, it's on but nobody is watching or, worst still in many ways, somebody is flicking through the channels desperate to find something worthy of their attention but only finding repeats on Dave or American sitcoms.

Jonathan Miller

Blur once claimed that Modern Life is Rubbish and they weren't wrong, but don't get me started on popular music, well, perhaps just one comment...driving home from Camber Sands yesterday evening I found myself listening to Capital Radio. My! How it has declined in quality! I don't even know the name of the female presenter but she had 'Professor Green' and somebody else whose name escaped me, a female 'artiste', in the studio, both of whom were going to perform for the listeners. But that's not what was wrong. What was wrong was that the presenter engaged them in a game of 'snog, marry, avoid' – or whatever it's called, you know the game I'm talking about, the one where you're given the name or names of certain individuals and you have to decide whether they're worth snogging, marrying or simply avoiding like the plague. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't want to be a spoilsport or anything, but going back to Miller's remarks about the BBC being full of media studies twerps, I found myself thinking: would Peter Townshend of the Who or Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin or Damon Albarn of Blur or Bono from U2, would any of them have been engaged in such a stupid game by John Peel or whoever else was presenting music programmes on the radio 'back in the day'?

Using the phrase 'back in the day' makes me sound like a bit of old git (perhaps I am) but listening to Capital last night made me realise that things have dipped very, very low culturally and the crappy nature of everything was brought into focus last night with the closing ceremony of the Commonwealth Games. God! It was awful! Unprofessional, disjointed, an untidy collection of individuals and some God awful performances by the likes of Lulu, Deacon Blue and Kylie who, I'm told, was miming. In fact, Kylie is regarded as good these days, a musical icon, but it's a real case of the Emperor's New Clothes in my opinion. It amazes me how tongue-in-cheek acclaim soon translates into genuine hero worship. I managed to avoid watching any of the games. I couldn't tell you who won the most medals, I couldn't even tell you the names of athletes who made a name for themselves, which in itself is an amazing achievement as the Games dominated the BBC's channels One, Two and Three.

Why was it so dominant on the UK's 'state television'? Probably because of the forthcoming referendum on Scottish independence. The royals were out in force and the BBC did a 'Doctor Who' – they had a kind of 'Commonwealth Games Confidential' programme fronted by the sadly ubiquitous Clare Balding and some other bloke – a poor man's John Stapleton – both of whom were charged with the task of 'bigging up' something that what was essentially very boring (just like Doctor Who – click here for more). I'm so glad it's over.

As for Miller's comment about 'media studies twerps' I think it goes some way towards reinforcing the theory that things are dumbing down, being diluted, getting worse and certainly not in anyway improving. The 'golden age' of most things seems to have passed in the UK – we're crap at football (that golden age passed in the sixties on the international stage and the national game is now full of nobheads earning far too much money for what they're really worth); popular music has imploded (just listen to Capital Radio or Kiss FM at virtually any time for proof of this); literature, well, there's too much of it, too much crap, and I'm not well-versed enough in the art world to pass serious comment – although there's always the Turner Prize and the fact that many so-called works of art are known as 'installations'. As for politics, we no longer have politicians that really care about world in which we live. In short, they are 'career politicians' concerned only with themselves and the direction in which their careers are travelling. Even our terrorists are no longer polite enough to warn of an impending attack.

What was good on television recently was Melvyn Bragg's new series on radicals, people like John Ball from the 14th Century and, later this week, Tom Paine. It was good on many levels thanks to Bragg's intelligence (what was John Humprhys doing criticising him recently?) but also because it made me realise that we need some more radical thinkers and revolutionaries in the UK as things are beginning to look very similar to the late 14th Century when we had the famous Peasants' Revolt – my guess is we need another one: right now!

Between a rock and a wooden bus shelter...

The corn fields of Iowa? Nope, just a short ride from (ahem) Croydon.

This shot of my Kona Scrap taken along Beddlestead Lane a few weeks ago, probably a few months ago as the trees, I notice, are still bare. We must have been on our way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, hence the stupid headline for this post. I rather like the shot as it looks as if it might have been taken somewhere hot and desert-like when, in fact, it wasn't more than 40 minutes ride to central Croydon.

To the Tatsfield Churchyard....looking like a right nork

Foolishly I didn't ride out on Saturday, despite the amazing weather, but Sunday Andy and I headed for the Tatsfield Churchyard. Mind you, I was looking like a right gaylord. Check out that disgusting tee-shirt (courtesy of Nestlé Foodservice and years old), and what about those God awful shorts? Add the crash helmet and, well, I look like a right nork. The worst thing is I spent the weekend in those shorts. Alright, I changed the tee-shirt and the socks, but bloody hell, what was I thinking?

Matt and Andy at Tatsfield churchyard

We rode the fast way to the churchyard and later than usual. Nothing untoward happened and I reached  home at 0950hrs.

The Road Headed West by Leon McCarron

There is a growing number of very good travel books based around the bicycle. Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike and Rob Lilwall's Cycling Home from Siberia spring to mind and now I'd like to add one more: Leon McCarron's The Road Headed West.

Leon McCarron with Lola, his trusty steed.

McCarron's book is all about his ride from the East to the West coast of the USA at a time when many of his peers are back home – although exactly where home is I'm not sure – looking for work in recessionary Western Europe.

Short chapters make it easy to read and, like all travel books of this nature, the reader has that strong sense of moving forward and being part of McCarron's adventure from the word go.

The book starts in New York where McCarron, a film studies graduate, has been working in some kind of routine job, possibly an internship, and has decided to throw caution to the wind and cycle from one side of the USA to the other. The plan is simply (I use that word 'simply' advisedly) to ride from New York to Seattle but when he gets there, McCarron realises that he still has that thirst for adventure and continues on down the West coast towards the border with Mexico, although this bit of the book isn't really as detailed as the main journey from East to West coast.

While McCarron, like many travel writers, points out that it's by far the best bet to travel/ride alone – and not be influenced by others or, indeed, be prevented from making friends with others en route and decide upon your own destiny – he does spend a great deal of time in the company of others, namely Susie, Matt, Sean and Alex plus somebody called Bryan who, I have to admit, I felt rather sorry for as McCarron singles him out for some reason, not as somebody he doesn't like, but as somebody he seems to have less time for than the others. This mildly annoyed me.

New York – the start of the adventure

That McCarron spends more time in the company of others than Mike Carter or Rob Lilwall doesn't in any way detract from the greatness of his book or the quality of the adventure. In fact, quite the opposite as dialogue here and there brings the book alive. While Carter and Lilwall tended to shun company more than McCarron, I think it depends on where you're going to ride. In the UK, riding around the coast, say, I'd probably shun company to a great extent and allow my thoughts to roam free on the ride. In the USA, however, I'm with Leon on the whole company thing and while, as he says in the book, he gets used to camping alone on occasion, I'd feel a lot happier knowing that others were around in case of emergency. In fact, talking of emergencies, Leon has one encounter with a gun-toting nutter in Iowa, quite a terrifying encounter as it happens, and I was amazed that he made such a clean escape considering he had a heavily loaded bike to lug around too.

He overpacks, as did Mike Carter in One Man & His Bike and even pulls a trailer along behind his bike all the way across the USA, something I would have avoided like the plague. It's odd when I think that Andy and I often discuss books like McCarron's and Carter's and Lilwall's and I've always been of the opinion that if I was going to do something similar, ie ride across the USA or around the coast of England (Lilwall's riding home from Siberia seemed a little excessive to me) I would travel as light as possible: I'd take the tent but I'd probably map out a route that enabled me to stay in cheap hotels or guest houses. Easier said than done, I'd imagine, but for me it would be panniers, not a trailer, some waterproofs, and a few essentials. I might carry a book, but not books, and I'd ensure that I had a credit card too.

Iowa – not Leon's favourite US state (looks great to me).

He doesn't like Iowa and he doesn't like Michigan, mainly because, in Iowa, everything is so flat and samey and, I guess, monotonous. In Michigan it was the down-at-heel nature of the places he passed through. Other close encounters include a bear that pads around outside his tent  because he's left half a chocolate bar in his pocket, but outside of that, traffic is the big danger along with the occasional bout of reckless riding, when he forgets the rules he set himself, and bridges without a hard shoulder.

Like all good adventurers, Leon has the girl at home (Clare) to occasionally consider. Lilwall met somebody en route and Carter was recently divorced (which led to two excellent travel books, the other one being Uneasy Rider).

What I found heartening about Leon's book, as, indeed, Carter's and Lilwall's, was the generosity of those they met on the road and the fact that many folk offered them food and accommodation. Leon meets more good people than bad and relies upon a website (www.couchsurfing.org) to find people willing to offer a bed for the night. Invariably the people on couchsurfing.org appear to be very laid back and always on the way out, ie they're off on holiday or going away for the weekend but are happy to leave Leon with the keys and give him the run of the house or apartment. Still, it seems to have worked and Leon doesn't encounter any problems from what appears to be a like-minded community of people all over the world (and certainly in the USA).

Leon does a good job describing the changing scenery as he progresses from East to West and, as Rob Lilwall says on the book's front cover, it "Will inspire you to chase your bicycle adventure dreams." Well, it certainly did.

Seattle, Washington, but the ride didn't end here

At no stage was I left wondering how the hell Leon could afford to embark upon such an adventure. What annoyed me about Carter's One Man & His Bike and Lilwall's Cycling Home from Siberia was a nagging thought of 'how can they afford to do this?' Well, one thing was clear: they were free from responsibility. Carter was recently divorced and Lilwall single, but that's not the issue, it's the money that bugged me and the fact that the book's publishers in a way misled the reader, although I won't level that criticism at Leon, even if the back cover of his book asks "What happens when you swap the nine-to-five for two wheels and the journey of a lifetime?" Because that's what he does, rather than remain in full-time education or be unemployed.

Carter's back cover asks "What would happen if you were cycling to the office and just kept on pedalling past?" Well, the truth of the matter was that he didn't just ride to work and keep on going, he planned the trip to some degree, the office knew he was doing it and let's not think otherwise. Throughout One Man & His Bike (which I still think is among the best books I've ever read) I found myself wondering how he was funding the trip and I'm guessing that somewhere he explained, although perhaps not that clearly. I know, for instance, that he rented out his flat and I'm assuming that, as a journalist, he wrote about his adventures in the newspaper he was working for, but it's not made crystal clear.

Leon gets by on a few dollars a day and while at first I found this hard to believe, I began to realise that when you're on the road and often in the middle of nowhere, there's not much to spend money on.

Finally, another great thing about Leon's book is the bit at the end entitled Cycle Touring: a how-to of bicycle travel in which he outlines every element of what is needed to embark upon such an adventure. I liked the fact that he makes it clear how accessible cycling is to everybody and that you don't even have to be that fit as the very act of cycling gets you fitter and fitter as the days go by. Start off doing around 40 miles a day (easy if you're a regular cyclist) and build up from there.

In the Epilogue, Leon explains how his journey didn't end in on the Mexican border. "After a little while in Mexico I rode back north to LA on whim, and eventually made my way to New Zealand. Passage came courtesy of a free air ticket that was bestowed upon me by a large Kiwi corporation after I sent them an email telling them I would like to visit their country and ride my bicycle and keep a blog about my travels."

He visited the North and South islands of New Zealand, pedalled the East Coast of Australia and also rode through Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and China.

"Perhaps some day I will write a book of those cycling days...". Well, let's hope so, Leon.

Further information, http://www.leonmccarron.com

To buy The Road Headed West by Leon McCarron, click here.

Watch the book's promotional video by clicking here.

To Westerham for Mary Berry's Christmas cake...

It's been discussed and now it's become reality. Mary Berry's Christmas cake, made by Phil, has made it on the ride. It was fantastic.

We met on Warlingham Green at 0700hrs, waited a few minutes for Andy and then, heads down, we set our sights on a 22-mile round trip to Westerham, knowing full well that when we got there, we'd be eating cake.

Happiness is a huge slab of cake: Matt, Andy and Phil (LtoR).

We parked our bikes, took our seats and tucked in and Andy had the audacity to bring biscuits too.

Great weather characterised the ride. Cloudy but warm and bright and later sunshine.

But Mary Berry's Christmas cake won the day and we all enjoyed what can only be described as 'chunks' or 'slabs' of the cake.

We arrived at Westerham at 0750hrs and were getting a few strange looks from passers-by as we made ourselves comfortable at the wooden tables behind the statue of General Wolfe. People were quite clearly envious of the cake, the biscuits and the hot tea that we were enjoying.

I struck up a conversation with a Lycra monkey from Tunbridge Wells. He didn't look as if he ate cake. Quite the contrary, he was lithe and Lycra-clad and was putting in a good 67km, he said, before breakfast. I pointed to our mountain bikes with their fat tyres and clumsy demeanour and said we'd be tackling Westerham Hill later, but he spied the cake on the table and I don't think he took me seriously.

Around 0830hrs we headed out of town and up the hill, stopping halfway along the 269 to say goodbye to Andy. It takes me just under one hour to ride from Westerham back to South Croydon, not bad considering the hills.

I reached home around 0930hrs and then drove to Felpham for a long walk on the beach.

To Botley Hill alone and later than usual because of the rain...

Early rain put paid to any chance of getting out for an early morning ride. Had the weather been nicer I would have hoofed it down to Westerham but, as promised by the weather forecasters, it was grey, rainy and stormy. I kept looking out and watching the birdbath, looking for splashes of rain (and finding them). But, by 0930hrs, it began to brighten up, the skies cleared and the sun poked its head out from behind the clouds.

Over the road from the Botley Hill Farmhouse...

While it was tempting to simply say that time had passed and the moment had gone, it hadn't gone anywhere and by 1010hrs I was out of the house and riding up Ellenbridge Road towards the usual places: Elmfield Way, Morley Road and Church Way where, because of the late hour, I couldn't break the law – for all of 30 yards. Normally, at the earlier hour of 0630hrs I can ride this short stretch of one-way street without any hassles, but at 1000hrs there are more cars on the road, forcing me to ride around the traffic island. It's a matter of seconds, but there's nowt better than a bit of law-breaking even if it is just riding the wrong way along a one-way street.

The weather was amazing. The skies were full of steamy clouds, it was warm and there was a wonderful freshness in the air. I rode up the Limpsfield Road towards the green and sailed past it in the usual fashion, heading towards Sainsbury's and the Amana coffee shop, a former pub. Then it was Knight's Garden Centre and out into the wilds of the 269, the banks on either side overgrown with summer greenery.

There were more Lycra monkeys on the road than usual, but it was much later than usual so I wasn't complaining. There was also more traffic and more pedestrians. All-in-all everything was much busier than normal, which meant I had to be extra careful.

At the entrance to the Botley Hill Farmhouse pub...

By the time I'd cleared the incline that I normally moan about, the weather was fantastic, the air so fresh, the sky clearing by the second, the heat and humidity building by the second. But I couldn't go any further than Botley, although the temptation to ride to Westerham was strong. I rode to the Botley roundabout and turned around, heading back towards the pub and then back towards home.

The weather simply got better and better. The sun shone brightly all day, I mowed the lawns front and back and went to see mum. We sat in the garden and it was just wonderful. Right now it's dark outside and while more thunder storms are promised, so far there hasn't been a sound. I'm hoping all will be fine for a ride tomorrow especially after Phil's text a few minutes ago. The Mary Berry Christmas cake is in the oven...

Rain and thunder...

I've started reading The Road Headed West, by Leon McCarron, who cycled across America in 2010. I'm almost halfway through it and it's very good. Similar to Rob Lilwall's Cycling Home from Siberia and well worth a read if you like cycling and travelling. Billed as 'a cycling adventure through North America', the book details Leon's ride from New York on the East Coast of America to Seattle in the West, although, looking at the map at the front of the book (all good travel books have maps in the front) he rides south along the Pacific coast towards Mexico.

Leon McCarron – he's written a great cycling book.

The reason I'm sitting here writing about Leon's excellent book is because of the rain. I know that Leon wouldn't worry about such things, but then he was attempting to get from A to B in a foreign country, whereas I'm just going out for the sake of a bit of exercise and the rain ain't pleasant when you're planning a shortish ride (say 15 miles) so I'm sitting in my conservatory instead, hoping that tomorrow will bring the good weather or that things will brighten up and I can go out today. Unfortunately, neither Andy nor Phil are riding today, so the motivation isn't there either.

It's stopped raining now, but it could just as easily start again. The skies are grey and we've been promised a thundery, stormy sort of day, so I'll probably not ride out today and besides, the momentum has been lost and there are things to do, as always, although never say never; I might well get out there around 10am, not sure.

I hate days like this and in many ways I would rather be in Leon's position. He'd either be riding through the rain or taking cover somewhere in a ditch or hedge until the weather blows over. But then, as I said, he's moving from A to B, from the East to the West coast of the USA. I'm simply considering a ride to Botley Hill and back, although, if you remember my last post, I was out in the rain, taking shelter for a few minutes and then heading for Westerham – a true adventurer! But not this weekend...not yet!

Harris – somebody should have tied his kangaroo

down, sport.

The weather has been excellent: hot sunshine all week, thunder and lightening at night and humidity, you get the picture. But, here we are: Saturday morning and there's grey skies and rain. I figure that things can only better.

In the news? Russian-backed separatists in the Ukraine have shot down a Malaysian Airlines commercial jet carrying 295 innocent people. One word: bastards! In other news, the Israelis are killing Palestinians. Bastards! Hamas is firing rockets into Israel indiscriminately. Bastards! Oddly, we've not heard anything from Isis of late or any news of the West going in there to sort them out with their new pals, the Iranians. You know what? I was thinking about Tony Blair the other day and that thing about him being appointed peace envoy for the Middle East. I can't recall whether or not he was actually appointed, but when you think about it, if he was appointed, it's similar to putting Rolf Harris in charge of child welfare or allowing Harold Shipman to head up the campaign for assisted dying.

There's so much more to look forward to: British politicians and paedophilia – that's yet to kick off. There are certainly big suspicions and stories of a cover-up by the police, so expect more 'breaking news' in that department, just as soon as they've sorted out who their dead scapegoats ought to be. And talking of dead scapegoats, this literally just in... they've found one – the late Viscount Tonypandy!

Blair – he's still at large.

What always amazes me is that, for years, we've all had it drummed into us that we, the British, are an example to the rest of the world – the only nation that does things in the right and proper manner. We watch on scornfully (and a little smugly) as other countries' political leaders mess up and get involved in scandals of one sort or another, or are discovered to be corrupt. We look on in horror as the military atrocities of other nations (the Serbians, for example) unfold on our television screens and we all sit back and thank our lucky stars that we are British and the British do things properly. You won't find British newspapers doing anything underhand, like hacking the mobile phone of a murdered schoolgirl. You won't catch our politicians fiddling their expenses. And our 'national treasures' are just that – you certainly won't catch them abusing children... and likewise our politicians, they're the best in the world, they're setting an example for others to follow. I mean, look at the late Cyril Smith, he was an example to us all! And as for our military, well, they're squeaky clean too, they're not going to ill-treat their prisoners of war. And our governments aren't going to get engaged in 'illegal' wars, are they?

However, slowly but surely we discover that yes, they are just as bad as everybody else – and always have been – and will do their level best to cover up their misdemeanours until somebody blows the whistle on them.

Hague and Jolie: Just make war illegal and call it a day.

And what's all this about 'illegal' wars? How can a war be 'illegal'? When Hitler walked into Poland did somebody in a grey suit holding a clipboard approach him and say, "I'm sorry Mr Hitler, you can't do that, it's against the law." Perhaps they did, but he didn't take any notice and that's how wars start, when somebody does something that another country isn't happy about, ie invade them. That term 'illegal' really annoys me. So the Russian separatists committed an 'illegal' act by blowing up the Malaysian airliner. Of course they did, but who's going to appear in court next week? Nobody, because its a war situation. And what about Angelina Jolie and William Hague going around saying they're going to make it illegal to rape somebody in the theatre of war? Does that mean that, at present, it's legal to rape somebody in a war situation? If so, shouldn't 'rape tourism' be rife in war zones? Surely Hague and Jolie would be better off cutting out the middle man (in this case rape) and saying it's illegal to kill or injure anybody in war, making war totally pointless. And then, after the 'law' has been passed – assuming it's a universal  law recognised by all – the leaders of nations at war will have to make do with a huge snakes and ladders board that they can unravel on some lonely battlefield in Switzerland (it would have to be a neutral country) and resolve their disputes with a set of dice and a few coloured counters. And if they weaken and starting fighting – which would be illegal, don't forget – they'll be electronically tagged and told to stay in after 8pm or face the consequences – 150 hours community service or a short spell in an open prison in West Sussex where they can escape and rob a post office.

Putin: not to be trusted

Sometimes I find myself getting very angry at all that is going on. And the reason is quite simple: it's knowing that nothing is going to be done about any of it. It's not so much a case of 'we're all in it together', it's more a case of 'they are all in it together'. The West is pussyfooting around Putin and not really responding to the man's atrocious behaviour; it's the same with Isis – nobody's going to do anything and we've just heard that they're giving the people of Mosul an ultimatum: convert to Islam, pay a special tax or die. Saddam Hussein, as bad as he was, at least maintained order between the various warring factions in Iraq. Now, thanks to Bush and Blair (who are still at large, by the way) he's gone – and our troops have pulled out – and the nutters are free to take over and that's just what is happening. I find it odd that nobody appears to be doing anything about it. Similarly Afghanistan. Once US and British troops are out of the country, the nutters will take charge again and it will all have been a complete waste of time and money – a terrible insult to all those servicemen and women who have died fighting 'for Queen and Country'.

I know it sounds a little corny 'in this day and age' but all I want is for everybody to live in peace and harmony. The root of the problem, of course, is religion. How pathetic. When will people learn? We're all the same, there's no life after death, no God, no devil, no nothing. We're all going to die. Get over it.

Westerham alone and in the rain...

Up with the lark this morning. Well, not with the lark, I wasn't sleeping in an aviary, for heaven's sake. I was conscious at around 0540hrs and then, when the alarm went off at 0600hrs I was ready to jump out of bed and head downstairs for some tea, a banana and Weetabix with cold milk (I slice the banana, sprinkle it over the Weetbix and then add milk and sugar). Then, at around 0630hrs, having gazed out of the window to check the weather (and finding it was not raining) I retrieved the bike from the garage and headed for the green to meet Andy.

Sheltering from the rain Sunday morning outside Waitrose around

0645hrs – at this stage I was only planning to reach Warlingham Green

But the weather was going to let me down, I could feel it. Outside there were grey skies. All was downcast and it was threatening rain. It was fine as I weaved my way around the suburban streets of South Croydon: up Ellenbridge, up Elmfield Way, across Morley and up Church Way but then, as I made my way along Sanderstead High Street (which, incidentally, is a long way from Sanderstead railway station) the rain started to drizzle down. Andy sent me a text saying it was raining. He'd only just left his house, but I'd been out for a good 15 minutes and, once you're out in it, you feel slightly different about it. Fortunately, I found shelter at the Waitrose in Sanderstead where I hoped the bad weather would blow over.

Andy aborted and Phil was in the Cotswolds so I sat on a bench and watched the rain for all of ten minutes before it stopped and I resumed my ride. I'd decided to head for Warlingham Green, have my tea and then head back, but as I sped along the Limpsfield Road I decided to go further: Botley Hill, perhaps, or even the Tatsfield Bus Stop where I could stop and have tea before embarking upon the return journey.

I didn't have to wait more than 10 minutes before resuming the ride...

The weather seemed fine. A little grey, perhaps, with plenty of puddles in the road, but the rain was virtually non-existent as I sailed past Warlingham Green and headed towards Sainsbury's and Knight's Garden Centre. It was either Botley or the bus stop, I thought.

Fortunately I was wearing swimming trunks. Not 'budgie smugglers' but 'shorts' that I'd bought in the USA, probably somewhere like San Antonio, I can't remember, but they were more akin to the shorts worn by boxers than swimmers. Anyway, trunks they were so if they got a little wet it kind of didn't matter so I continued on, past Botley, past the Tatsfield Bus Stop and down the hill towards Westerham. Low cloud hung over the woods below me and the spray from my tyres provided an impromptu shower as I headed down the hill, crossing the Surrey/Kent border and then hitting Westerham proper where a 30mph speed limit sign announced that I'd arrived in the town. I felt good about the fact that I hadn't aborted and that, rather than call it a day at Warlingham Green I'd continued on past the Botley Hill Farmhouse, past the Tatsfield Bus Stop and past the entrance to the Tatsfield Churchyard and on towards Westerham. The ride turned into a good 22-mile work-out.

It was a bit like being on a non-stop train that was passing through empty stations en route to its final destination and in that sense it reminded me of my childhood. When I was a kid I used to pretend that my bike (the old Moulton Mini) was a train. I invented stations along the streets surrounding where I lived. One was called Plumbury because of a Victoria plum tree, the fruit of which hung over a fence. Then there was 'Wanash Gardens'. We lived in a cul-de-sac (my mum still lives there) and Wanash Gardens, while, in reality, the name of a dreary block of flats on the Carshalton Road (which is also still there today) it was the name I gave to a semi-circular chunk of our cul-de-sac. These memories flooded back to me as I rode down the hill into Westerham.

Churchill's statue in Westerham

There was a moment of panic when, for a moment, I thought I was going to fall off the bike. Somehow, my swimming trunks had become entangled in the saddle and I knew that if I stopped the bike I would simply keel over to the left or right and hit the tarmac. This was mildly worrying as I had nothing on underneath the trunks and I suddenly realised that, to untangle myself, I might have to somehow wiggle out of the shorts and then, while stark bollock naked from the waist down (bar socks and trainers) – and certainly while lying on my back with the bike on top of me – I'd have to disentangle the trunks before putting them back on. How humiliating would that be? Very!

Fortunately none of the above happened and I cycled into Westerham fully clothed and without any cause for embarassment, and found myself on the green. The benches were wet, the skies were still grey and it could have rained at any moment, but it didn't. Time for tea... except that when I opened my rucksack I discovered that I hadn't packed my cup or teabags. All I had was a flask of hot water and some milk. Luckily I only disappointed myself. Phil and Andy would have been a little pissed off as tea and cookies are the highlight of our rides. And judging by the way we've been talking of late, it looks as if future rides will be taking on a culinary twist. Yesterday Phil said he was planning to make Mary Berry's Christmas cake – including the icing! I've discussed making a corned beef pie as Phil wants to compare his mum's recipe with mine, and we've even talked about bringing a white tablecloth and a bottle of wine to make a real feast of it all – along with bread pudding for dessert and some Ambrosia Devon Cream custard. We'll see how things go on that front.

Back to the present and, dejected, I resolved to simply ride back home. I sent Andy a text and a photo of yours truly in front of Churchill's statue – with a certain smugness, having reached Westerham alone despite the rain – and then I climbed back on the bike and headed out of town. There was no more rain. In fact it got a little brighter as I headed up the hill, past the churchyard, past the bus stop and past Botley Hill and then back along the 269, into Warlingham, through Hamsey and home.

Saturday 12th July 2014

On Saturday we rode the long way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, our first ride with Andy since he returned from the Canary Islands. Last week our cycling was rained off so it was good to get out on the bike. Going the slow way to the bus stop enabled us to chat about this and that (cakes, Lance Armstrong, Phil's new wheel) and when we reached our destination we enjoyed biscuits (quite a lot of biscuits) and tea before heading back the fast way and parting company with Andy at Warlingham Green – when Andy rides his racer, as he did on Saturday, he never takes the short cut across the fields halfway along the 269. Phil and I headed down the Limpsfield Road, through Hamsey and along Sanderstead High Street. The weather, incidentally, was wonderful: beautiful sunshine that remained all day. We rode down Church Way and home where Phil announced that he had a puncture. A good place to get a puncture, when you reach home, I thought as I unlocked my garage door and padlocked my bike.

Waiting at Warlingham Green for Andy on Saturday morning, but without any 

money to visit that Coughlans Bakery for a mug of tea and a bun. Oh dear.

With such beautiful weather I made my way to the back garden where I enjoyed a cup of tea while reading another, yes another, Bill Bryson book; this time, Made in America. On Friday I finished Down Under.

All in all a good weekend of cycling: 22 miles today and around 16 miles yesterday, so, that's almost 40 miles. Good work!

In the news, the Netherlands beat Brazil 3-0! Last week the Germans beat Brazil 7-1! Today is the final between Germany and Argentina. I'm rooting for the Germans, who I think will win.