The underlying misery of the airport hotel...

Downtown Cleveland at Lakeside

I've never been a fan of airport hotels. The thing is, they're always a last resort or a necessity and both mean the same thing: that you wouldn't stay in an airport hotel for the hell of it. Who would? No, the airport hotel is there for people like me who, for some reason, aren't going to make their destination, normally home, as originally planned. It happened to me last year and it's happened again and on both occasions it's involved the same airport: Chicago O'Hare. It's also because of the weather – storms basically.

I reached Cleveland Airport with plenty of time to spare and there was nothing to suggest bad weather. The temperature in Cleveland most of the week has been in the mid-80s, there's been blue skies and bright sunshine. It's been tee-shirt weather, far too hot to wear a suit jacket, just shirt sleeves will do. So I was expecting the pilot to say something along the lines of 'excellent flying weather', although that's something that only British Airways pilots say and my BA flight was going out of O'Hare to London. Leg one was with American Airlines and the American pilots are generally pretty matter-of-fact and fast talking. They say as little as need be whereas the British pilots talk about the weather back home and very often use that consoling phrase, 'excellent flying weather'.

But clearly 'excellent flying weather' is not what we have today. There are heavy rain storms over Chicago and they're delaying flights in and out of O'Hare. My flight was due to board at 1800hrs and take off at 1830hrs but oh no, not only is my flight nowhere to be seen (it's not left O'Hare yet) but the flight before mine is just sitting at the gate and going nowhere. It soon becomes clear that my flight won't be getting there in time for me to make my connection to London so, along with many other passengers, I have to weigh up the alternatives. Do I spend most of the night sitting at the gate in Cleveland only to reach Chicago late at night and then search for a hotel, OR do I simply stay put in Cleveland and start again in the morning? I opt for the latter, re-book my flight (I'm now due to depart for London at 1810hrs tomorrow evening) and then I need to work out where to stay for the night.

My immediate thought is to head back to the Doubletree, but that will mean a $35.00 taxi fare there and then another one back ($70 in total ignoring the tip) and that's not far off what it will cost to stay in a hotel near the airport (Sheraton, $119.00) so I take the free hotel shuttle, check in and here I am, along with a few other familiar faces, people who live in Chicago but have been advised to book into a hotel in Cleveland and try again in the morning.

View from room 418 of Cleveland's Hilton Doubletree hotel

The Sheraton is nice, there's no getting away from that; it's corporate and while it's pleasant enough, people like me – there's a few of us here – are not in any way 'enjoying' it. Airport hotels are not to be enjoyed, they're to be endured and, to be fair to them, they do their level best to make what is generally a fretful and very depressing state of affairs endurable. But while it's nice to know that the restaurant is open until midnight and that a hot dinner with a glass of wine is only a short stroll away, it's not as if I'm going to enjoy it. All I could think of was that the long flight I'd psyched myself up for earlier – which, at the time of writing would be around five hours from touch down at Heathrow's Terminal Five – hadn't even started yet and I had the prospect of a long wait at O'Hare which, I can assure you, is not pleasant. After lunch at Romano's Macaroni Grill there's nothing to do but wander around aimlessly, but while I could have taken a later flight to O'Hare, I didn't want to tempt fate and find that I missed my second attempt to reach London. So I'm out of here early (ish) in order to catch the 1025hrs flight to Chicago and then I've got to hang around until 1810hrs before heading across the Atlantic towards the UK where David Cameron has just found himself back in Downing Street after a surprise election result. All in all, then, pretty damn depressing.

I've emailed home to let them know the score but it's still early in the morning in the UK as I write this so they won't be aware yet that I won't be there at 1000hrs on Saturday morning and that, instead, it'll be Sunday morning. All very depressing.

Clippitty Cops – mounted policeman in Cleveland

And while the room is very swish and there's a flatscreen television, tea and coffee making facilities, a decent-sized bed and so on, none of it in anyway appeals to me because, in all honesty, I don't want to be here, I'd rather be on the flight home getting more and more uncomfortable but safe in the knowledge that within a few more hours, I'd be home and sitting in a taxi weaving my way back to my house, tired and exhausted. As it happens I've still got to endure the horror of a transatlantic night flight and I don't even know what seat I'll be sitting in – here's hoping it'll be an aisle seat as I need to stretch at least one of my legs and I can't stand having to wake up sleeping passengers every time I want to stretch my legs or visit the restrooms (alright, the bog).

In fact, the word 'depressing' comes nowhere near describing how I feel about being here writing this when I should be halfway home.

At the heart of Cleveland's downtown area

Even dinner – soup followed by roast chicken breast, mashed potato and kale accompanied by a glass of Cabernet and a cup of tea to finish – was tainted by the fretful nature of my predicament, although, thanks to the waitress, Juliette, things were a lot pleasanter than they might have been. She hails from England and is in fact, English, although you wouldn't guess judging by her American accent. She lived in Bishops Stortford for the first 13 years of her life and then moved with her mum and step dad to Cleveland where she funds college by working three jobs. Some people work ridiculously hard, I found myself thinking, not meaning that I don't, but some people really put themselves through it. Juliette lives with her boyfriend in the Cleveland suburbs. She works in a Doggy Daycare centre from early in the morning till around 2pm, then she goes home, freshens up, goes to work at the Sheraton, gets home around midnight and simply repeats the process day in and day out. And when she's not working she's studying. I'm tired anyway, but listening to her schedule I feel weary and slightly more depressed than I was already feeling.

We chatted about American cities and I said that I find them almost unreal as if they're masquerading as cities and are little more than facades, like those old cowboy town movie sets, which are propped up by pieces of splintered timber. Cleveland, Indianapolis, San Antonio, I always get that strange feeling that they're play acting at being big cities, creating, perhaps, a false illusion, a facade, just for me, by pretending that they're cities when, in reality, I'm miles from civilisation and alone in the middle of the desert because all the people aren't real either. Spooky. Alright, I know that there are places like Chicago and New York and Los Angeles, that are 'proper' cities because they have that suburban 'sprawl' you get in the UK – miles and miles of boring suburbs – but for some reason I feel mildly cheated when I look up at the vast skyscrapers of Cleveland and I can't quite figure out why I feel this way.

The last time Juliette was in the UK it was one year after the London bombings of 7/7 and Leona Lewis had won the X Factor. Oddly, I said, Simon Cowell has followed her around as there's America's Got Talent and, of course, an American X Factor. We talked briefly about Sharon Osbourne, Piers Morgan and the Hoff and then got round to discussing how Cleveland was going all out to establish itself as a tourist destination with some decent restaurants, theatreland and, of course, the downtown. And that word 'downtown' kind of sums up what I was saying earlier; those skyscrapers that somehow don't ring true are not so much characteristic of a city centre but a 'downtown' area. I get the feeling that somebody, somewhere, must have said 'we need to have a 'downtown' and if we're going to have a 'downtown' then we'll need some high buildings.

Cleveland's Doubletree – fantastic hotel

But, when all is said and done, I like the USA. I like the huge distances the Americans drive and seem to take in their stride, I like their attitude and the fact that while it might be 'no country for old men' the old men in question wear denim and putter around on Harley Davidsons and look a little bit more 'out there' than their UK counterparts who are much more staid and, dare I say it, boring. And again, I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think that countries offering their inhabitants vast distances to travel from one state to another somehow instil a kind of transient restlessness that influences fashion and attitude. I find it fascinating wandering around an American airport as I see such a wide and varied group of people all flying to strange places with romantic names like Sioux Falls or Grand Rapids.

I'm in my room and it's time to hit the sack, but before I do I need to inform the UK taxi driver that I won't be there tomorrow morning as planned.

Cleveland food and drink briefly appraised...

As the votes continue to come in back home in the UK, I'm here in Cleveland having just returned from dinner and almost ready to hit the sack. However, it's probably worth saying a few words about the food and drink here in the city.

Cleveland at night – not threatening

American beer

It used to be that American beer was almost just a choice of one brand: Budweiser. Everyone who likes beer probably can't stand Bud, I know I don't like it; I'd put it up there with Fosters as a horrible drink, but then again, I've never been a fan of 'lager'. So the Americans have been developing microbreweries and everyone with an interest in beer seems to rave about them...but not this writer. Look, I've enjoyed many, many different beers over the years, but my favourite TYPE of beer is good, old fashioned real ale. I've been drinking it since I was a teenager – and my favourite brand is Young's Ordinary Bitter because it has a low ABV and is generally regarded as a 'session beer' meaning you can drink around four pints of it without falling over and swearing at innocent bystanders. Fine. So the Americans have their microbreweries and they're all over the country but I can't say I'm impressed. Everytime I find myself drinking an 'artisanal' American beer I find it thick and syrupy. In fact I'd rather have a Bud.
Marks out of 10 (for American beer): 3.

Restaurants explored

Bar Louie, West 6th Street – not impressed. There's a lot of 'sports bars' over here, you know the sort of place: noisy, serves burgers, fries and beer and is peppered with flatscreen televisions. Well, this is that place and we went there twice. First time round I had a beer and thought no, not very pleasant, too thick and syrupy. As for the food, well, middle-of-the-road, burger-in-bun grub with fries thrown in. On our second visit, my colleague's burger was cold. Marks out of 10: 4.

Taza ll, West 6th Street – this was good and we visited twice. Or rather we went there once together and then I went back for dinner alone. Both times it was good. In fact, the second time round was best as there was a band playing a couple of doors down and they were good. I sat outside and enjoyed this westerned version of Lebanese food. Good service on both visits and decent, fairly light food. I will definitely return to this place if ever I find myself in Cleveland again.
Marks out of 10: 9.

Urban Farmer, East 6th Street – really not impressed, not least because we were ripped off and didn't realise until we'd left. First, this place is billed as a 'legendary' steakhouse – nothing could be further from the truth – but only has ONE burger. ONE BURGER! When we mentioned this to the waitress she bristled and was clearly upset. We didn't eat here because it was pricey for what it was – very pricey – we didn't like the attitude either and the small dark beer we ordered was just like the American beer we'd sampled at Bar Louie – meaning it was thick and syrupy and not pleasant. Marks out of 10: 0.

The Marriott Hotel – West St. Clair Avenue. We'd nipped in here for a beer and decided to return to try out the food. In a word, nice. My colleague ordered a pizza while I ordered a fish dish, don't ask me what kind of fish because I can't remember. The bottom line? Good food and service. My food was light, the pizza a little heavier, but I had a couple of slices and it did the job. I chose wine, my colleague had a beer, the service was friendly and we'd definitely return. Marks of out 10: 7.

Blue Point Grille – West St. Clair Avenue. In a word, unnecessarily poncy but not quite living up to its own poncyness. I had a potato and leek soup starter that arrived in a cup rather than a bowl – not a good start and a little too thick – more porridge than soup in fact. My main course was swordfish steak, which was fine but there was paste-like mashed potato (could have been sweet potato) and a few vegetables on top. Not the best food in the world and a little on the minimalist side. My colleague had a steak followed by S'mores for dessert and cappuccino. I won't return in a hurry, but the service was good. Marks out of 10: 5.

Brasa Grill Brazilian Steakhouse – West 9th Street at St.Clair. No, no, no, no, no! In fact we didn't eat here. There was a strange system in place involving a beer mat that was red on one side and green on the other. If green you get bombarded by waiters with skewered meat that they offer to carve at the table. If red, they leave you alone. There's a huge serve-yourself salad bar too. In fact, I had a cous cous salad with a couple of asparagus spears and a glass of wine and that was my lot. My colleague didn't even have that because he'd been stuffing his face on crap back at the hotel. We had a side of fries and deep-fried banana croquettes, which I ate, and that was it. We didn't fancy the meat at all so we flipped the beermat to red and asked for the bill. Top marks to the waiter who didn't charge us for anything but the beer and the glass of wine – a top man, in other words.  
Marks out of 10: 6.

Stadium 3 Bar & Grille, Hilton Doubletree Hotel Restaurant and Bar – 1111 Lakeside. A nice and friendly hotel with good staff and a pleasant, homely atmosphere. I had breakfast here most days (porridge, French toast, fresh fruit, yoghurt and tea) and on one occasion dined in the restaurant which was also fine, although I fell asleep at the table. I ordered Atlantic salmon with mashed potatoes and vegetables, a good, homely dish and not over-the-top pricey either. I also had lunch in the sports bar, which was also very good. Marks out of 10: 7.

Wandering around Cleveland's downtown...

As I write this it's just gone 10pm in the UK and it's just gone 5pm here in Cleveland, Ohio. At home voting in the General Election for 2015 is over. I voted by post prior to coming over here and when I wake up in the morning I'll know who's in charge of the country for the next five years. I won't say who I voted for as it would ruin the whole idea of the secret ballot that we British have enjoyed for so many years.

I love this art 'installation' near Cleveland's City Hall

The weather here – especially today – has been wonderful, although I'm told that this part of the USA gets pretty rough winters with snow and ice being commonplace between October and March and sometimes the temperatures going down to minus 30 degrees. That's cold. However, the people living in and around Cleveland tend to get good summers. Right now there are blossoms on the trees, the skies are blue and today the sun shone brightly. All week I've been walking to the Cleveland Convention Center in my shirt sleeves. Alright, I was also wearing trousers (otherwise I might have been arrested).

With my work done and after having lunch with a learned gentlemen I'd met earlier in the day who was connected to my line of business, I decided to take a walk around town and started walking in the direction I've been taking all week along St. Clair towards Louie's Bar, where the burgers are cold, incidentally, and the food, in my opinion, not that brilliant. On the same block, however, there are some excellent establishments including a Lebanese restaurant and a place called Johnny's, which is next door and which I visited the last time I was in Cleveland back in 2013. I headed up St. Clair then turned left along West 9th Street, left again on to Superior Avenue and then along Prospect Avenue, turning left on to East 9th and then joining Euclid Avenue and walking up towards Green Square and heading back towards the Convention Center where, I remembered, there was a Starbuck's in an office building. It was just what I needed and the fact that it was dark and shaded from the heat outside made it a good place to stop for tea and a biscuit and a read of the New York Times which I found rather boring and I got annoyed with the fact that All The Words In The Headlines Started With A Capital Letter.

One of many empty streets on Sunday

It was tempting to walk down East 9th Street to the North Coast Harbour on Lake Erie but I decided to head back to the hotel instead from where I write this post. It was equally tempting to just sit on the grass and take in some rays.

The area around Euclid and Prospect Avenues is different from the main downtown where office buildings dominate. Instead the architecture is very much like that depicted on Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti album cover.

The 18th floor of my hotel offers a great view of Cleveland looking east. There's the Burke Lakefront airport (designed for small jets), there's Lake Erie and there's the railroad track along which some very long freight trains wind their way through and out of town. What you can't see, of course, is the FirstEnergy stadium. For the past few days my colleague and I have enjoyed relaxing on the 18th floor in the early evening with a glass of wine, but now that he's gone to Buffalo for a meeting and I'm alone here on Lakeside, I'll probably give it a miss as being alone is something you can do anywhere, although I might take another look at that view as I'm flying home tomorrow night.

Turn left for Burke Airport

I get the impression that Cleveland has more than it's fair share of crime and I've been told to avoid going East from the hotel and to keep West. The downtown is pretty safe but you do occasionally get the odd feral-looking person talking to himself and it's best to avoid making contact with them. I've also been warned not to use the trolley (a free step-on, step-off bus service that makes circuits of the city). Generally, though, it's okay and not dissimilar to Indianapolis in terms of the downtown, although I'm guessing that a lot of American cities look the same downtown and are surrounded by suburban areas that are either good or bad in terms of crime. That said, crime, in its various guises, can turn up anywhere.

Going back to office buildings, something quite odd is the office block I can see from my hotel window. All night and day there are lights on but I never see anybody in there, just empty desks. Last night the only sign of life I could make out was a wall-mounted television that must have been showing the basketball game between Chicago and Cleveland (a grudge match that obsessed the entire city – and no, I don't know the score, but I think Cleveland won). Anyway, today (about five minutes ago, in fact) I saw life in the building. There was some kind of meeting going on, but it's ended as the room is now empty, just the like the rest of the place. Where is everybody? Ah! I've just seen somebody in there, so it's not completely devoid of life.

Tulips outside City Hall

I thought there was a bike share scheme going on here in Cleveland, but I've not seen any bike stations and had there been such a scheme I was walking through the right parts of town where I might have expected to find the bikes, but there was nothing. Prior to coming here I read about Cleveland's bike share being the only privately-owned scheme as most are run by the local authorities – that might have something to do with the lack of bike stations and, indeed, the lack of bikes.

I arrived here late last Saturday and on Sunday morning the roads of Cleveland were empty. So empty that it would have been possible to simply lie down in the middle of the road and read a book – it's a similar story in Montreal and in San Antonio and Indianapolis (a luxury we can only dream of in the UK).

In Cleveland, Ohio

Yesterday, as I wandered around Heathrow Terminal Five waiting for the 1120hrs BA295 to Chicago I spotted Jimmy Somerville watching the board for whatever flight he was due to take; it's funny as he's the second 'celeb' I've seen at T5, the other being Miranda Hart. Still, celebs are allowed to use the airports so it's nothing out of the ordinary, although I guess Somerville wouldn't take kindly to being described as a 'celeb' and who would blame him? I wouldn't want to be viewed as part the same clan that appear on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.

After a bit of faffing around, the plane took off and headed West, out across Northern Ireland and then skimming the coast of Greenland before turning left, or heading in a South Westerly direction, over Canada then Lake Michigan and into O'Hare airport where, I discovered, I had a long wait ahead of me. We landed around 1.30pm US time and when I found myself at Romano's Macaroni Grill it was 7.30pm in the UK and, therefore, time for something to eat. It was roughly 2.30pm Chicago time and my connecting flight didn't leave until 6.30pm. This meant that I could sit and read the newspaper and catch up with editorial comment on the General Election 'back home' – for the first time in history I've made a postal vote.

The reason I was feeling so chipper? Not really sure. I can only put it down to a fairly 'easy' and relaxed flight during which I read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged and dipped in to the newspapers. I tried to watch Birdman with Michael Keaton, but a mixture of the small screen, the noise of plane and the fact that, it seemed to me at any rate, all the actors in the movie were just shouting at one another and Keaton's character seemed to live back stage made it not a good movie to watch. That's my view. I'm sure if I sat and watched it at home I'd enjoy it, but there you go. I was going to watch Nightcrawler but, oddly, there was a warning issued that the movie contained scenes of a plane in distress so, being at 38,000 feet over the North Atlantic I decided not to bother.

An incredibly boring shot taken at Chicago O'Hare yesterday

The flight was smooth. Very smooth. The plane was a jumbo jet and my only criticism would be that they really cram in the passengers. I'd chosen an aisle seat – 45C as these days I'm not fussed about having a window seat. What's the point? It means I'm pinned against the wall and have to ask for permission to go to the washrooms. An aisle seat means no real restrictions and there's an opportunity to stretch my right leg, albeit at risk to those passing by. Fortunately, after reading, I did manage to wander about and stretch my legs, not to mention meet my colleague who had originally booked with American Airlines but the flight was cancelled. As a result, he was given a decent seat on the BA flight. We stood and chatted for a good 45 minutes in the galley area of the plane so all was well. Likewise the connecting flight with American Airlines was good and I arrived at Cleveland at 2030, roughly 0130hrs UK time.

Thankfully the taxis accepted credit cards and the ride from the airport to the downtown was brief. The check-in was good – I was given two complimentary cookies, one of which I've eaten, the other is going in the bin. I've noticed that my general intake of biscuits is on the increase and while I've always limited myself to two per day during working hours, it's got to stop as of now, although, as I write this, that remaining cookie is still in its wrapping and resting on the television cabinet to my left. Still, it's going in the bin. I've got to watch my diet as I've noticed that 'crap' is creeping in a little bit, possibly because I'm compensating for generally not eating that much. Not that I'm pigging myself. This morning I had All Bran, tea and a slice of toast. When I'd cleared security at T5 I had a cup of tea and, unfortunately, a Nutella cookie. I should have known. I thought it was just a cookie with a few nuts, but it turns out to be a cookie with a Nutella filling. I resolved to eat nothing more until the inflight meal was served.

Romano's Macaroni Grill at O'Hare

I love airline food and on today's menu was chicken tikka masala plus one of those little chocolate desserts, which I should have left well alone but I figured you never know what might happen at 38,000 feet and I wouldn't want anybody thinking I left the world yearning for a chocolate dessert, not that anybody would ever learn about my dilemma had the plane not made it. Those small bottles of red wine plus a bread roll made up lunch and I didn't eat again until I reached the aforementioned Romano's Macaroni Grill where I enjoyed Pollo Caprese and a glass of Merlot – but no dessert.

The Hilton Doubletree Downtown is alright, so far. There's a pool, but there's always a pool and I never use it, although I always bring my trunks. Perhaps I ought to get down there and swim off the cookies. But then there's the streets of Cleveland and the possibility of hiring a bicycle. I know that there's a 10-mile cycle ride around town today (Sunday) but who the hell am I kidding? I've worn myself out flying across the Atlantic to be here, the last thing I'm going to do is find a bike and ride in a 10-miler. No, I'm going to abort on that one, lads. But I might find a bike later, if there's a bike share scheme and I know there is because I read about it online. Perhaps a bike to the convention instead of a taxi, but first I need to find out where the convention is being held and to be honest I'm not doing anything until I've had a decent breakfast.

Out in the drizzle we sheltered from the rain at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

It's rare to wake up raring to go on a ride – the alternative being to lie in bed listening to Radio 4 – but it does happen, especially when the weather's fine or I've had a good night's sleep, but Saturday was not one of those days. I'd had a reasonable night's sleep, but it was gloomy outside and I couldn't quite work out if it was raining or not, although I figured that, at 0600hrs, there was around an hour to go before any kind of 'abort' decision had to be made.

I put the kettle on and ate a banana. When I switched on the mobile I had messages from Phil. First, he was going on the ride, but secondly, he said, it was raining but the weather forecasters said it would stop by 0800hrs. I peered outside, saw that it was raining – a fine drizzle – and texted back saying something like I'd check with Andy. Phil added that he had bacon sandwiches on the go and this, of course, swayed Andy who said, simply, "I'm on my way!"

I was in two minds. While very fine, almost non-existent drizzle, there was still rain and that meant it could get heavier and we'd all get soaked, but with Andy now racing towards to the green to enjoy Phil's bacon sandwiches and Phil outside the house on his bike, there was nothing for it other than to ride out. Had I been greeted with a puncture I might have gone back indoors and put my feet up, but with Phil raring to go – he'd earlier taken flight without me, under the impression that I wasn't going, but I called out to him from my front door step in the nick of time and he came back – it was time to get out there and ride the bike.

Soon we were on our way, heading along Ellenbridge Road in what was reasonably good weather. It was warm, put it that way, and the mild drizzle was easy enough to contend with. When we reached the green Andy was there so we headed straight off having agreed that the safest bet was the Tatsfield Bus Stop (our only destination offering cover).

As the ride progressed, so did the rain and by the time we reached Botley Hill it could no longer be classified as drizzle. There was also a thickish fog that got thicker as we made the turn, heading east along Clarks Lane and getting closer to our destination.

I really ought to get some mudguards fitted. My arse was so wet by the time I reached the bus stop that I had to stand up rather than experience the discomfort of sitting down on a slatted wooden bench in wet trousers. So I stood there, eating first my BelVita biscuits and then my bacon sarnie chatting about God knows what, small talk basically. Andy said he'd signed up for the Reigate Rouleur bike ride on 12th July – the 50-miler. Phil asked whether we preferred bacon to sausage sandwiches (or vice versa) and we all agreed that sausages were best.

As we sheltered from the rain it got heavier and so did the fog. We lingered a while longer in the hope that the rain would stop and it did so we embarked upon the return journey west along Clarks Lane and then north on the B269, parting company with Andy and Warlingham Green and vowing to meet Sunday morning for more of the same. But there would be no more cycling.

Sunday morning was like Saturday but more advanced in the sense that by 0700hrs it was raining properly. Phil had already aborted – as I switched on my phone his text flashed up on the screen. I texted Andy saying 'let's see what it's like at 0700hrs' but in truth it was heavier so we eventually aborted.

Outside as I write this it's cloudy but still and it's a little chilly (I'm wearing a jumper in the house). It's basically a boring Sunday afternoon and I'm feeling a little despondent, but nothing a walk around the block won't cure.

Phil aborts, Andy and I ride to the churchyard and I ride alone to Botley Hill...

Yours truly at Botley Hill standing on newly sown grass seed...oh dear!

Phil ruled out cycling this weekend due to family commitments, leaving Andy and I to our own devices on Saturday morning. We could have gone to Westerham but in all honesty I don't think either of us were in the mood for that hill on the return journey – the Northern Kent market town would have to wait a few more weeks. Instead we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard where we drank tea and munched on my favourite variety of BelVita biscuit, milk and cereal. Dunking them in my tea, however, I had forgotten their vulnerability and, on two occasions, had to fish out part of the soggy biscuit with a spoon. We chatted about this and that, mainly my trip to Amsterdam and how it was a very laid-back city full of laid-back people.

The weather was good. Or rather it wasn't raining. It was a little cold, but not unpleasant and not dissimilar to today's weather. I had a bit of a broken sleep last night and kept waking up every hour, finally drifting off around 0430hrs and then waking up with the alarm at 0600hrs, feeling weary and strongly considering an abort text to Andy. My phone was off so I switched it on and, after leaving it on the console table downstairs, I distinctly heard a short buzz and soon discovered that Andy had aborted, probably because he too had a broken night – that's what I'm guessing, although I might be wrong [I was wrong, he was knackered].

But I was up and out of bed, the kettle was on and I found myself staring out of the kitchen window on to the garden where a huge pile of chopped down bushes awaited my attention – it needed further chopping and then stuffing into green plastic bags and I was thinking that perhaps I didn't need to ride out after all as I had my exercise waiting for me on the lawn. I'd virtually resigned myself to not going out and when I checked my watch and noted that it was 0800hrs I decided that the garden would be my sole source of Sunday morning exercise...until I realised that my watch was still displaying Amsterdam time. It was only just gone 0700hrs, meaning I still had time to change my mind and get out on the road.

Austin Sevens on the Limpsfield Road...

I dithered. Why bother? But eventually, after a little more soul-searching, I put on my trainers and headed outside, hoping, perhaps, that I might have a flat tyre (although in all honesty I wasn't really hoping for a puncture, I think it just crossed my mind as a last resort). When I reached the bike there was no sign of anything wrong so I unpadlocked it and headed off in the usual direction.

Half the battle when confronted with a solo ride is getting out of bed, but that's not the end of it; once out and dressed there's plenty of time to over-analyse the situation and convince yourself that there are other things to do instead of cycling, but that nagging guilt is always there too, especially when the weather is good (or reasonable) and there's no real excuse other than pure laziness. For me, it's not until I've climbed Church Way that I'm fully out of the metaphorical woods. Once on level ground and riding through the churchyard – which has just re-opened after weeks of something or other being done to it – I knew that, bar a puncture, there was little to stop me.

I decided to head for Botley Hill, although Westerham crossed my mind (fleetingly) and I did consider the old faithful Tatsfield Bus Stop, but decided that Botley would do for today. Having left the house around 0730 – actually, later, it was roughly 0750hrs when I found myself on the bike and moving forward – I reached Botley around 55 minutes later. I wasn't really exerting myself. I left that to the Lycra monkeys in their Colnago-branded cycling shorts.

Solo rides often mean no tea or biscuits so riding to Botley was a good idea as there was nowhere to make myself comfortable and then regret not making a flask of tea. I lingered around a little bit to take the rather stupid photograph that accompanies this post (I should have been at least another two feet to my left) and then I headed back along the B269 in time to see what must have been some kind of Austin Seven car rally: there were loads of them and they were all being driven by grey-haired, grey-bearded men who were probably as old as the cars themselves.

In Amsterdam...

One of many canals found in Amsterdam

I flew out of London City Airport on Monday afternoon heading for Amsterdam and around 45 minutes later I was there. I jumped on a train from Schipol to Amsterdam Centraal Station and then, rather than take a taxi, I walked to my hotel on the other side of town (approximately a 30-minute walk). Walking is fine and I admit to doing a lot of it, but hauling a suitcase behind me makes it a little unpleasant. However, eventually I reached my destination – the Best Western Leidse Square – and a small room (room 356) with a single bed and cell-like proportions. There was definitely not enough room to swing a cat although, after a fashion, I found myself liking my cell. I've said before that large rooms I find uncomfortable. I don't like them and I suppose it's got something to do with the unused space surrounding me. In a similar manner, I'd rather camp in a small back garden, say, rather than in the corner of a very large field. I don't know, something along those lines.

I was tired and if I'm honest I could have done without dinner. In fact I was seriously considering not having dinner and just hitting the sack but convention kicked in: I always have dinner at dinner time (although the time was edging towards 9pm). So I went out with no idea of where to eat, although, having stayed in this hotel once before – in room 357 opposite room 356 and a much better room, I hasten to add – I knew what was out there. There was an Indonesian restaurant about five minutes away, there was an array of cheap and nasty places, plus some standard trattorias and pizzerias in and around the Leidseplein area and, nearby, a couple of hotel restaurants.

Soup served in a jar at Joost. Why not a bowl? Why? Why?

Avid readers will recall that the last time I was here I went down with food poisoning. At the time I initially blamed it on the Indonesian restaurant, but I was wrong: it was a seafood restaurant near the coast that I'd visited with a Dutch colleague. That aside, I didn't fancy the Indonesian place so I went into the cosy-looking restaurant in a hotel owned by the NH Hotels chain (I'm assuming it's a chain). It was dark and candlelit and I'd left my glasses in the room so I couldn't really make out the items on the menu. I worked out that the restaurant was predominantly offering steak (this was a place for people who like to pig out and while I used to be that sort of person, for the past year or so I've been watching my weight so I wasn't impressed. I opted for the soup of the day (I think it was potato and leek) followed by some kind of risotto, but I could have made do with soup and bread, I just felt a little guilty coming into a place where I was expected to eat half a cow and just order soup – a bit like going to an Indian restaurant in the UK and choosing egg and chips from the 'international menu'. I had a glass of red wine and some mineral water and then went back to the hotel and hit the sack.

My business meeting for the next two days was back near the Centraal station, mildly annoying as there was a cocktail reception for the event in question the night I arrived and I could have dropped in and introduced myself had I known where the place was. Still, it was not to be and I eventually opted for a cab on Tuesday morning to take me to the hotel in question. But that was my only taxi. For the rest of the trip I walked there and back and it was very enjoyable, thanks to excellent weather. Hotter than Spain the UK papers were saying before I left for Amsterdam and I have to admit that it was very nice walking along the canals and through the streets of this great Dutch city, watching the many cyclists riding along the cycle paths. I could have cycled to work these past two days but because the cycle paths don't necessarily follow the same route one would take on foot I decided not to introduce any more confusion into my daily routine. Besides, with the sun shining it was very pleasant.

A traditional Dutch 'Stampotje'. Tasty.

On Tuesday night I had another late dinner in the hotel restaurant across the road from the Best Western (which doesn't have a restaurant). The Vondel Hotel is worth remembering should I find myself here again, which is highly likely. First, it has a restaurant and, judging by the demeanour of the staff and the general vibe, it's probably quite a decent hotel all round. That said, I've never been a fan of 'quirkyness' because, like Quentin Tarantino movies, a lot of the time the word quirkyness deserves the inverted commas because it's not natural, it's contrived. In the case of the Vondel Hotel's Joost restaurant it was serving soup in a lidded jar, not a bowl. I wonder what they were thinking? "Right, this'll impress them: soup in a jar, not a bowl!" Well, no, it's just annoying. What sort of reaction are they expecting. "Wow! Soup served in a jar! Radical! Perhaps next time they'll hollow out the receiver of an old telephone and fill both ends with soup...now that would be really impressive!" Having said that, the soup was good and the main course even better, it was a traditional Dutch 'Stampotje' (I hope that's right) and consisted of mashed potato, a fillet of white fish and pickles – very tasty. I skipped dessert.

Last night, business over, I took a longer walk than usual and tired myself out in the process. I ended up enjoying a glass of wine and some very salty nachos with a guacomole dip by the canalside, reading The Economist's view on various subjects from Iran's nuclear deal with the west to the fact that both David Cameron and Ed Milliband are making predictable promises to the electorate along the usual ideological lines. The paper argues that had they both gone against the grain – let's say Cameron announcing he would end the non-dom taxation rule and Milliband cutting taxes for top earners – then the electorate might have more respect and turn out to vote; it's looking as if turn-out will be low and that another coalition government will be in place after May 7th or whenever it is the election is taking place.

My view of the canalside last night.

By the time I reached my hotel I couldn't be bothered to go out again so I skipped dinner, hit the sack around 8.30pm and here I am, refreshed after a decent night's sleep (and a pleasant breakfast) ready to see what the day has to offer. In essence, not much. I've got to check out of the hotel, put my bags in storage for an hour or so, probably find somewhere to have lunch (near Centraal station) and then jump on a train to Schipol. Before I do that I've got to write a couple of emails and then I'll be heading home.

Oddly, I gave the Best Western Leidse Square a fairly poor review on TripAdvisor the last time I was here, but this time I had a better stay. Perhaps they knew I was coming as the phone in my room didn't work and the room was tiny, although, compared with my last visit, the breakfast was much better – the fresh fruit salad wasn't as tired-looking and the general vibe was better, possibly because there were more people than last time. But if you consider the faulty phone, the tiny cell-like room and the mildly grubby and very slow to arrive lift, well, perhaps another poor review is on the cards, especially when there's a decent hotel just across the road. That said, the room was fine, I got a decent night's sleep, the shower worked fine so I shouldn't really complain and let's face it, the hotel is bang in the centre of Amsterdam. Who could ask for more? Well, alright, a restaurant would have been nice, a phone that worked, a faster lift, a bigger room...

Stop Press! Reigate Bike Ride is back on!!!

A shot from the 2012 Black Horse Ride

In all honesty I can't remember when we last rode the Black Horse Ride, but we certainly didn't ride it last year because it wasn't happening. But now it's back, I've noticed, having just read an email from the organiser. To be honest, I didn't look at it too closely, but I have seen that there's a 136km option on the table. We ought to be doing it, is the message of this post, which, incidentally, is being written from sunny Amsterdam – yes, it's sunny here too – where it's just gone 1850hrs and I really ought to be considering dinner.

In fact, going back to the Black Horse Ride, when I said I hadn't looked too closely at the email, what I meant was, I haven't really given any consideration to whether it's still called the Black Horse Ride, it might not be; there was a PDF attached to the email, which I'll go back and read in more depth in a second, but the long and the short of it is this: we must put in a NoVisibleLycra team...and dare we consider the 136km option (or was I not looking too closely at the email – can they really mean 136km? That's virtually 85 miles!!!!).

Right, I've re-checked my email and there's no mention of the pub at all. In fact, the ride is called the Reigate Rouleur (which sounds a bit Lycra Monkey to me) but there are four rides ranging from 50km to 136km through the Surrey and Kent countryside and there will be a fully marked course, feed stations and support vehicles. I'll keep you updated, but I'd imagine Andy will be the main information source on this one.

Sport talk – 'the language of those with nothing to say.' Discuss.

Now, that might sound a little bit harsh and, if the truth be known, it probably is, but being one of those people who, for whatever reason – I can't think of anything specific – doesn't particularly like 'sport' (and I've put the word in inverted commas because I mean all sport) it's a subject worthy of discussion.

Gooners – another name for Arsenal supporters

Fortunately, I'm not alone. Phil appears to feel the same way, although he started the conversation going by asking me if I'd been watching the golf. In all honesty, no, I hadn't been watching it because if there's one thing in this world I can't stand (there's more than one thing) it's watching sport. I'm simply not interested. Although, having said that, I'd picked up snippets of information about the golf (currently playing out in the USA at Augusta, but don't ask me the name of the tournament, I don't know, although it might be called The Masters) and I'd picked up that the guy in front was called Jordan Speith and the current runner up somebody called Justin, possibly Justin Rose. So I made the big mistake that all sports-hating people make when confronted with the question 'did you watch the [enter name of sport]' and brought into play the names of Jordan and Justin. Immediately I sounded as if I knew what I was talking about, part of the clan no less! Had it not been Phil who had asked the question I might have been forced to brazen it out by saying something phoney, like, "Yeah, I reckon Speith will go the whole way, just look at the way he's playing, he's at the top of his game." Pure, utter bullshit, but when you're 'talking sport', especially if you're a bloke (and let's face it, 'blokes' are supposed to talk about sport. We're supposed to be sick with sport us blokes) a sentence like that will get you out of jail free, but the problem arises if the person who asked the original question, "Did you watch the...?" comes back with something that requires a little bit more knowledge. In which case you can't beat a bit of history. Delve deep, mind, as, you're now in the thick of it and the only other alternative is to say something like, "Oh, bollocks! Listen, I know fuck all about golf, I can't stand it, don't try and hold a conversation with me about golf!" So, go for the historical approach, "For me, Jacklin's the best golfer I've had the pleasure of watching. Remember that hole-in-one?" The truth is, I do remember the hole-in-one, but at what tournament, what year, I couldn't begin to tell you.

Fortunately, I didn't have to go through any of this because Phil admitted that while he had been watching a bit of the golf at Augusta, he too wasn't really a sportaholic, much to my relief. But what is it about sport lovers? Oddly, I've never heard a woman engage another woman with the phrase, "Did you catch any of the [add sport of your choice] last night?" Perhaps it's because women are quite comfortable in their own skin and don't necessarily feel the need to enter into a challenging conversation of any kind, unlike 'blokes'. Sport, Phil said, was the language of those with nothing to say, and I know just what he means. Men feel they have to engage their fellow man in boring, shallow 'did you catch the rugby last night?" conversations just for the sake, perhaps, of not having to endure an awkward silence. Bring on the awkward silence, that's what I say. Bring it on! For a lot of men their entire conversational repertoire is based on bullshit-based sports chat and some men seem to know a lot of it: they know all about every team in the Premiership, the personalities, the goals, the name of the ground, "Good result at Loftus Road, the Gooners will be celebrating tonight." What? Loftus Road? The Gooners? Isn't that something to do with Harry Secombe, Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers? Or was that The Goons? The Gooners? If somebody said that to me in a lift I'd think they were crazy. "Sorry, where's Loftus Road? Who are the Gooners? Are you mad? Somebody call the police!" And the most refreshing response would be, "No, not mad, just a little sad. In all honesty, I'd rather give you the impression that I 'know my sport' rather than just bid you good morning and comment on the weather." How refreshing, but no, it would never happen. And my expected response to the Loftus road comment is supposed to be, "Yeah! Amazing result." In fact, knowing nothing about football and having no desire to know anything about it, that would be a good retort as I would know now that the Gooners (who are they?) are celebrating so they can't have lost and I'm giving my adversary the impression that I might be a Gooner myself. Result! He might then provide the score, "Yeah, 4-1, brilliant." To which all I need to say is, "Yeah, nice one!" and then move on to another subject – or hope and pray that whoever started the conversation has reached his floor and exits the lift.

And the thing that's really annoying is that people who are 'sick with sport' – remember Radio 1's Andy Peebles? – seem to be ruling the roost... and the airwaves! They've gone and given Clare fucking Balding her own sports-related chat show! As if Sue Barker's A Question of Sport isn't enough!

And then, of course, there's cycling. The fact that I ride a bike leads loads of people to think that I'm a cyclist! I must be up there with Bradley Wiggins, they think, and I must, of course, don Lycra and those awful luminous orange shoes and ride a sleek racing bike with dropped bars and I must take a keen interest in the Tour de France and be saddened by the antics of Lance Armstrong. Look, get it straight: I never watch the Tour de France or any other cycling event, I have no sporting aspirations where cycling is concerned OTHER than reaching my destination with enough time to spare to enjoy a slice of cake or a biscuit and definitely a cup of tea. I care nothing for 'precious grams' either – I just like riding my bike in the fresh air and sitting with Phil and Andy and whoever else might tag along and talking rubbish for half an hour. Period! Nothing more! Hopefully it keeps me fitter than I would otherwise be if I didn't ride out every weekend.

I could go on and on about this subject, but I won't. Instead, I'll refer you to something I prepared earlier, an article all about 'the beautiful game' – now there's a contradiction in terms. Anyway, check out this link, hell, just click here for the article in question.

To the Tatsfield Churchyard – for a healthy breakfast!
This weekend involved just one ride. Saturday, Andy planned to ride to Brighton but instead rode to a pub on the outskirts of town and then cycled back (53 miles in total). I should have gone out alone, but I dithered, as I'm prone to do when I have no motivation to go out. The annoying thing is that had I gone out at 0700hrs and riden to Botley Hill I would have been home before it started to rain. But no, I didn't go out and I resigned myself to getting no exercise until Sunday when Phil joined me and we rode to Warlingham Green to meet Andy.

Forest fruits, natural yoghurt and granola...lovely!

Phil normally brings sausage sandwiches with him, which are always much appreciated, and if it's not sausage sandwiches it might be a Bakewell tart or a Christmas cake, but today he bucked the trend completely and brought something healthy, but kept us in suspense until we reached our destination, the Tatsfield Churchyard. The surprise? Well, not sausage sandwiches and nothing remotely similar. Phil brought out four dishes followed by natural yoghurt, forest fruits and granola... and it was fantastic! Another 'respective is due' for Phil!

The weather was fantastic, as was yesterday's. Saturday saw just one burst of rain around 0915hrs but then there was sunshine. This morning was very pleasant too and as the day wore on the sun shone brightly even if there was a cool, occasionally blustery breeze. The weather people are saying our weather is going to rival Spain.

The churchyard is on a hill and is quite high up so there was the odd chilly moment this morning but, by and large, it was pleasant and so was the ride and it was all made a lot better by Phil's breakfast, Andy's Belvita biscuits and, of course, my flask of hot water and accompanying Twinings teabags.

A good ride was had by all and we're all together again next Saturday, weather permitting.

L to R: Matt, Phil and Andy at the churchyard

Delays mean another trip to Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Warlingham Green, Monday 6th April 2015, 0730 hrs.

Andy was slightly delayed but it was enough for us to rethink our planned ride to Westerham. The weather was fantastic: blue skies and cottonwool clouds and the temperature much warmer than the rest of the Easter weekend. We decided to head for the bus stop again, although we toyed with the churchyard and the village, and when we got there we did what we always do: drink tea and munch BelVita biscuits.

Lycra monkeys. Give them a bit of hot weather and out they come; you see hardly any during the colder months of the year and then suddenly there they are in their Lycra shorts and sponsored tops, although they're not even sponsored, they're just wearing tops covered in logos. And what's with the new fashion of brightly-coloured footwear? Luminous footwear!

As we sat at the bus stop, watching a passing Lycra monkey who was wearing bright red above-the-knee shorts we wondered what must be going through his mind as he pulls on his gear in the morning. Can he really think he looks good? And as for those idiots in the brightly-coloured footwear, what must they be thinking? Clearly, they must all think they look really good otherwise they wouldn't wear such awful clothing. Instead, they'd look like us in our Tesco ASBO specials (well, MY Tesco ASBO specials). Perhaps all that 'precious grams' stuff is because they know that if they put on a bit of weight they wouldn't look so good in their Lycra garments?

Later in the day I drove to Westerham and the weather was still wonderful. There was bright sunshine and plenty of people wandering about, enjoying the weather and the attractions on offer in this Kent market town.

Next Saturday Andy's riding to Brighton, leaving me to motivate myself to get out and ride the bike. I'll probably ride to the bus stop again, unless Phil's up for a longer ride. Andy should be back on Sunday so we might finally reach Westerham. I'm not even sure if we've been to Westerham in 2015 yet. Hold on a second while I check the archive...and the answer is no, we haven't riden to Westerham this year. In fact, the last time we were there was Sunday 30 November 2014.

Time for tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...