To the Tatsfield Churchyard...

Botley... on the road. We'll be here next weekend enjoying tea and cake

No Phil this weekend and none of us ventured out on Saturday due to other commitments, but Andy and I were at the green on Sunday morning (7th June) and we decided to ride to the Tatsfield Churchyard.

Looking down the steps from the Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 7th June

On the way back – after tea and chocolate chip BelVita biscuits – we discovered that the Botley Hill Farmhouse pub was under new management – the same people who run the White Bear in nearby Fickleshole. They've introduced 'Botley on the Road', a grey mobile catering van that's going to be around most weekends serving tea, coffee and snacks. There's even two wooden tables and chairs so we can sit there and enjoy it. The plan is to ride to the Churchyard next week but not stop. Instead, we'll cycle back to the Botley for tea and possibly cake in the open air, weather permitting.

Andy brought the racer to the churchyard...

The Botley is also hiring out bicycles – not a bad idea as pub goers can ride out from the pub along some interesting country lanes; they can ride to Westerham or Tatsfield Village and back or they can ride to Godstone Green or even make a wide circle into Woldingham, back up Slines Oak and right on to the 269 heading towards the pub. The permutations are endless – St Leonard's Church, Hesiers Hill, even Biggin Hill.

Bikes for hire at the Botley...

While it was sun and blue skies on Saturday there was also a cool breeze. On Sunday there was no breeze at all, in fact, I got a decent tan through spending most of the day in the garden doing my Sir Lawncelot bit. I also cleaned the car inside and out and then sat at the very top of the garden in the early evening, concealed from view by shrubs, and enjoyed a bottle of Banks's Bitter – you can't beat a bottle of Black Country beer in my view. In fact, you can't beat a bottle of beer, full stop.

Good weather's been promised for the entire week so this morning (Monday) I waltzed off to work without my black raincoat only to discover that it clouded over at lunchtime and was chilly as I walked home (briskly) this evening, trying to keep myself warm. I've got the day off tomorrow, so hopefully it'll be warmer than today...although I doubt if I'll have time for a ride.

Our bikes at the Tatsfield Churchyard... Sunday 7th June

Respect is due: Redhill and back alone and in the rain...

Pot of tea for one and a pain au raisin in West Central, Redhill

Yesterday I should have gone out cycling. The weather was fantastic, but I dawdled about. At 11 o'clock I thought it was time to hit the road, but I stayed put, and then, at noon, I almost left the house, but ended up not bothering. It was, to put it mildly, the worst possible example of apathy and general laziness made worse by the fact that I knew Sunday was going to be a terrible day characterised by rain and blustery winds.

Sunday morning and the weathermen were proved right: it was a mildly blowy and wet day, but the rain was almost invisible; the sort of rain that is only visible if I strain my eyes while looking at the trees – it didn't even reveal itself in the birdbath. But drizzle, as such rain is often called, is known to get worse and turn into full-blown rain. So I hesitated again.

Standing in the bathroom I stared at the shelf on which brightly-coloured toothbrushes, like alien flowers, stood to attention among the shampoos, conditioners and disposable razors. There was a bar of soap resting on the ledge of the sink and the shower curtain was drawn across exposing its colourful pattern to my tired eyes. Outside, through the frosted glass, I could see the green blur of the garden and I found myself thinking that I simply had to go out on the bike. The alternative was to have a day like yesterday of just sitting around the house not doing anything – other than reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged (I'm nearly on page 900!). So I metaphorically slapped myself around the face and resolved to take a ride.

I didn't want to ride to Botley or the Tatsfield Bus Stop, or even Westerham, so I decided to head for Redhill. The drizzle had stopped, the skies were grey but bright and, crucially, it wasn't cold. I rode the normal way, as if I was meeting Andy at the green, but halfway along the Limpsfield Road I turned right onto Wentworth Way, followed the road to Warlingham School and then headed down Tithepit Shaw Lane and into Whyteleafe. I crossed the railway track and headed up Whyteleafe Hill, turning right into Burntwood Lane and then left into Caterham, past the Esso garage and through Caterham-on-the-Hill along Town End and then High Street, which turned into Church Road. I realised that instead of turning right into Burntwood Lane I could have carried on along Whyteleafe Road, emerging on to Church Road shortly before the right turn into Stanstead Road where I was greeted by a leafy suburban street characterised by gated communities full of right wing people so scared of the proletariat they have to lock themselves and their families away from what they perceive as the cruel world – not far removed, perhaps, from the Michigan Militia and those awful people who store tinned food in hidden caves in preparation for the apocalypse.

Rural roads between Redhill and Caterham

Whyteleafe Hill was long and tiresome and time-consuming and so was Stanstead Road. I kept expecting to see the pub, the Harrow, but it kept me waiting as the aforementioned gated communities and the odd private school caught my eye as the bike took me into more semi-rural terrain. Soon I found myself on White Hill Lane – murder coming the other way but a piece of piss when you're riding downhill. I turned right into Spring Bottom Lane and then left on to Warwick Wold Road, which took me down into Merstham on the Bletchingly Road where I eventually turned left into Nutfield Road and then a short stretch of Battlebridge Lane before hitting Frenchies Road, which took me out on to the A23 for a couple of hundred yards and into Redhill.

I got there at 1055, having left the house at 0930hrs, and decided to find somewhere to chill and drink tea. I hadn't brought the flask so instead I headed for West Central, a 'not-for-profit coffee shop run by the church – although it cost roughly the same as other high street brands, such as Costa. I padlocked the bike outside and then ordered a pot of tea for one (£1.70) and a pain au raisin (£1.80) and sat at a table that allowed me to keep my bike in sight, not that any thieves would get far; it's a heavy bike and they'd have to carry it so I knew it was relatively safe.

West Central in Redhill – quite pleasant

Soon it was time to head home. I glanced at the time, it was 1140. I unpadlocked the bike and rode out of town, heading north along the A23. I'd decided not to hit the back roads for the return journey – or rather not all of them. Instead I rode along the A23 and through Merstham, turning right on to Shepherds Hill, which turned into Alderstead Road and then Dean Lane, which took me into the leafy suburbs of Chaldon on the outskirts of Caterham. Dean Lane became Rook Lane and then Chaldon Road. I turned left on the Coulsdon Road and cycled down towards the pub where I turned right on to Westway and left into Money Road before turning right on to Banstead Road, crossing into Burntwood Lane and turning left on to Whyteleafe Hill. I coasted downhill and across the railway line and then crossed the roundabout on the A22, up Hillbury Road and then up Tithepit Shaw Lane, a steep hill. Unfortunately my gears were playing up. I couldn't crank it down to the smaller cog at the front so I had to dismount and walk a few yards before jumping back on and hanging a left into Wentworth Road and then another left on to the Limpsfield Road. I rode through Sanderstead High Street and down Church Way where I encountered tragic circumstances. A woman called Jennifer Waller lay face down in the road in a distressed state of mind. According to a man driving a white van she was jogging down the road and simply fell flat on her face. An ambulance was called and when it eventually arrived I continued my journey down Church Way, left on to Morley, right into Elmfield Way and home.

While drizzly rain was present for most of the journey – and I was wet through – it was warm and, I must say, rather pleasant, although there was a heavy downpour around 2 o'clock, but, fortunately, I was back in the house by then.

The journey time to Redhill was one hour and 25 minutes at an even pace (and the same coming back) meaning that if I  cycled to work of a morning I'd need to leave the house by 0715hrs at the very latest.

Rural surroundings on the return journey from Redhill to Sanderstead

In praise of NH Hotels' Grand Sablon, Brussels...

Perhaps I’m easily impressed, but give me a canopy and a few flags out front and I’m half way to being convinced that I’m staying in a decent hotel. And for once it’s the truth – although, to be fair, most of the hotels I stay in are fine it's just that, after staying in two Best Westerns in Brussels – which were fine, don’t get me wrong – at last I’ve found a decent hotel with a restaurant. I know there are loads of decent hotels in the European Union capital with restaurants, that’s not the point, it’s just that, up until now, the hotels I’ve used on trips to this great city – Best Western Royal Centre and City Centre – have forced me to walk the streets at night in search of food (and I've not found anything brilliant).

I’m staying at the NH Hotels Grand Sablon, which is about 25 minutes on foot from Brussels Midi railway station if you use your smart phone’s GPS as I did and save the money (about 10-15 Euros) that would have been spent on a taxi.

Not a great view from room 334, but the hotel and room was terrific

First impressions do count. I’ve mentioned the canopy and the flags – always a good sign – but then there’s the grandiose entrance lobby, the polite staff on the front desk, free WiFi, free fruit juices waiting for thirsty customers opposite the front desk, polished floors, a business centre and all before I reach the room.

I take the lift to the third floor and room 334, a short walk from the elevator. It’s a very pleasant room with two single beds pushed together, a full minibar and proper coat hangers in a glass-doored wardrobe that is all part of one unit of furniture against the wall opposite the window. There’s not much of a view, but it doesn’t really matter as this is a good room with an easy chair, a decent flat-screen television on the wall opposite the bed and a decent bathroom with relatively subtle lighting compared to the usual floodlit affair. In fact, the one problem I did have throughout my sadly brief stay at the Grand Sablon was the shower. It was complicated. There were two options: a hand-held ‘rain shower’ or the wall-mounted conventional system. Both involved a lot of faffing about in terms of getting the temperature right – which proved impossible – and I had to endure a lukewarm shower, the alternative being scorching hot.

It was complicated, believe me...

Everything else about this hotel was amazing and I began to wish I was staying longer than just one night at this friendly, comfortable establishment. The best bit, however, was yet to come. While there were restaurants and bars a short walk from the Grand Sablon, none of them really appealed and I hate having the thought of walking back to the hotel after dinner hanging over me as I eat. So I dined in the hotel restaurant, a space part table-clothed for dinner with other tables showing bare wood. A redundant servery area indicated that the restaurant doubled as the breakfast room.

I took a seat by the window and met Emanuele the waiter – a proper waiter, I hasten to add, nothing half-hearted, this guy knew his stuff. I was on the verge of considering wine but, he informed me that in Belgium they drink beer and eat chocolate and I’d be missing out if I didn’t do the same. He was right. I ordered a La Chouffe with my starter and main course – soup followed by chicken – and then a Trappist Westmalle with my Belgian cheeses, the latter suggested by Emanuele. I was going to order pannacota, but he said I’d be missing out and he was right.

Emanuele was the star of the show? Why? Because of his passion for the job, his knowledge of the menu, his ability to capture the imagination of his customers and make them feel centre stage. I only wish I’d had another night so that I could enjoy the culinary experience and his excellent service all over again. The food was good, by the way, nothing heavy, just simple food and, best of all, there was no need to walk back from anywhere – just a short amble to the elevator and I was back in my room.

Yes, I know, it's a mess, but I was checking out.

On the way out of the restaurant Emanuele handed me a card inviting me to say something nice about the food, drink and service if I was considering a review for Trip Advisor. Slightly presumptuous, perhaps, but he needn’t have bothered asking as I had been writing this review in my head from the moment I’d taken my seat at the table. Good waiters are rare. The last one I remember was in an Italian restaurant in Geneva, near the main railway station, a couple of years ago, so Emanuele gets top marks from this reviewer.

Check-in and check-out were straightforward and this place comes highly recommended from me to you.

NH Hotels, incidentally, have 379 hotels in 29 countries. Click here for more.

This review is also on Trip Advisor and you will find a mention of NH Hotels in my recent post on Amsterdam, click here.

Overheard on the Eurostar to Brussels...

The Eurostar

"They call us roast beefs."
"Ooh does?"
"The French."
"Oh aye."
"Anybody want grapes?"
"I was looking forward to those crisps."
"Is that 50 Shades of Grey?"
"Ee wouldn't get past page one!"
"Tickets please!"
"Not very fast is it!"
"We haven't started yet."
"T'only takes hour an' 10 minutes."
"You what?"
"It's me left leg that needs exercise."
"Oh aye! Wait till we get int tunnel ant' lights go off!"
"Anymore of them grapes?"
"Ee 'ad nice soft hands, though."
"They might think you're an illegal."
"Me ears are going."
"Aye up! We're in France."
[We hadn't entered the tunnel at this point]
"We're all int same hotel – three nights."
"You never know, people might want to do different things."
"And ee never twigged?"
"I think the first one was your barbecue."
"I thought there was something stupid about that email."
"The Munich one?"
"Not sure, it didn't make much sense."
"But it was worth it just to see your face."
"Anne's got big sunglasses."
"They're the trend now."
"I used to 'ave big sunglasses but people used to laff at me and call me David Bowie."
"I'm just polishing up me French 'ere!"
"Bon jours!"
"Garcon!"
"She's got one of these smartphones from Sainsbury's: £12 a month..."
"Has 'e guessed anything yet?"
"He was saying to me 'do you know where we're going?'

A later start meant another ride to the Tatsfield Churchyard

Well, we'd probably have gone there anyway having riden to Westerham on Sunday morning, but the slightly later start – only 15 minutes later than usual – made riding there seem acceptable and besides we both had stuff to do.

Andy and Matt, Tatsfield Churchyard, Monday 25 May

The ride was pleasant and so was the weather although it was slightly colder than Saturday and Sunday – about four degrees colder. But there were still blue skies and cotton wool clouds.

As you can see from the photograph above, I'm wearing 'shades'. They're proper cycling glasses (a bit Lycra Monkey, yes) but they have a purpose. On Sunday my eyes were itchy (it's a summer, hay fever thing) so I figured that wearing the glasses would, in effect, keep my eyes from direct contact with the air and it worked. In fact I wore them later to mow the lawn and I managed to stay itch-free all day.

It's been a good weekend of cycling and roughly 55 miles were covered – good work!

Taking tea (and coffee) with Lycra monkeys

Sunday 24 May: For the first time this year we rode to Westerham, just Andy and I. It was a case of heads down and get there and we got there with the intention of taking breakfast at the Tudor Rose tearoom (Andy's treat – thanks, Andy).

When we reached the green after a pleasant ride, I noticed that Andy was looking for something and soon realised that he wanted to see the cycle shop and café combined that I had brought to his attention recently. Avid readers might recall that, a year or two ago as Andy and I sipped tea and munched cereal bars on Westerham's green we often fantasised about taking on the lease of an old Barclays Bank and transforming it into a cyclists' coffee shop, jam-packed with biscuits and cakes and offering a repair service too. But, of course, we were never serious about it and, as Andy said yesterday as we trudged morosely across the grass towards the roadside, our version of the Westerham Cyclery's caff and repair shop would have been half-hearted and certainly not as swish. I take the latter point about it not being as swish, perhaps, but would it have been half-hearted?

Amazing cake and cappuccino that's better than Costa.

I've already critiqued the place in a previous post, claiming it was too 'boutiquey' in its appearance, but that was based on standing outside and then having just a brief wander into the building before heading straight to the Tudor Rose – much more my cup of tea and, dare I say it, more in tune with what my version of a bike repair shop and caff would have looked like. But now, having experienced the Westerham Cyclery caff first hand, my opinion has changed. Let's face it, the guy in charge knows what he's doing and he's done a fantastic job. Yes, it is a bit 'boutiquey'. There are wooden floors and leather sofas and flatscreen televisions showing cycling on Eurosport, there are copies of Bradley Wiggins' autobiography, a few perfect-bound cycling magazines here and there, a range of energy snacks for Lycra monkeys concerned about 'precious grams' and putting in a good time and some signed Tour de France cycling shirts in frames on the wall. In other words, the place screams Lycra monkeys and so does the clientele – no ragged trousered mountain bike riders here... until now.

In fact, we did feel a little out of place what with me, unshaven and unkempt-looking in my tatty old Tesco ASBO specials and trainers, my right leg tucked into a grey sock. Andy, as it happened, looked relatively respectable as, unlike me, he'd taken the trouble to shave. It was as if two cast members from a Spaghetti western had bowled up to a posh restaurant with no intention of dressing for dinner. And we were early by about five minutes and were ready, had he not allowed us in, to make our way diagonally across the green to the Tudor Rose for a full English. But he opened early just for us, unlocking some wooden doors to the left of the caff proper to reveal parking racks for bikes and some comfortable outdoor seating at the back – this place covered all bases. There was a bike showroom upstairs, a bike accessories area to the right of the serving counter and, in addition to the energy bars, a selection of three tasty-looking cakes.

Andy ordered a cappuccino, I ordered tea and we both opted for coffee and walnut cake. It was all good. In fact, we both thought the cake was out of this world – very tasty. The cappuccino – which Andy said was better than Costa – had a chocolate bike stencilled into the froth (a nice touch) and, well, all-in-all, this was the perfect place for cyclists – especially Lycra monkeys. There was even a cycling club that operated out of the café and some of its members arrived as we enjoyed our cake, tea and coffee. Unlike us they were clean-shaven and clean generally: no Tesco ASBO specials just Lycra monkey gear, fresh complexions and perfectly combed hair. In comparison, we looked like a couple of vagabonds with bikes to match. We were, after all, from the other side of the tracks and let ourselves down by mentioning the C-word (Croydon). We should have said Caterham and Sanderstead, perhaps.

After paying £8 for two pieces of cake, a cup of tea and a cappuccino (extortionate, yes, but it's the going rate these days) we strode across the green towards the roadside.

"We wouldn't have done a better job," said Andy.
"No, you're right; that was perfectly in tune..."
"...with the Lycra monkeys' needs."
"Yes, it was," I said. "My coffee shop would have been a little more leftfield: underground music from the juke box, framed black and white prints of whacky existentialist novelists like Albert Camus, and Philip K Dick paperbacks on the tables," I said.

We mounted the bikes and headed out of town on the long haul towards the hill. As we neared the top we heard voices behind us. It was the Lycra Monkeys from the café – the junior greedheads and the senior management, as Julian Cope would probably have described them. They were headed in the direction of Botley Hill. When we reached the top we saw them parked up on The Ridge and wondered where they were going.

"Down Gangers, probably, and then along the A25 back into Westerham for tea and cake," I said.

Andy said nothing. We got our heads down for the ride along the 269 into Warlingham. It had been an enjoyable ride and we'd reached Westerham, which was good. Twenty two miles.

"Until tomorrow, then," I said.
"Yeah, I should be alright," Andy replied.
"Text me if there's a problem."
"Okay."

I rode the last four miles alone, riding up Sanderstead High Street, passing the pond, crossing the Addington Road and freewheeling down Church Way towards home and a hot cup of tea in the garden. Perfect.

The Tatsfield Churchyard with Phil and Andy, followed by a drive to the coast

On Saturday we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard on what turned out to be a tremendous day. Phil met me outside the house at 0700hrs and around 0730hrs we were at Warlingham Green debating where to go; Westerham was a strong possibility, but I was a little reticent as I was planning a day out in West Sussex. We set off, however, intent on reaching the Northern Kent market town, but a few yards into the ride I switched and said the churchyard would be best.

Felpham, late afternoon, Saturday 23 May 2015

Andy had been away on holiday and we chatted about the heat of the Canary Islands and the pointlessness of buying a time-share holiday and then moved on to the subject of 'Golden Ages' and how most of them – politics and pop music being the most obvious – had gone, or was that because we were getting older? If it's all just a matter of opinion, I thought afterwards, then the entire argument is redundant. In 20-30 years from now, perhaps there will be people mourning the relative quality of X Factor contestants and the charismatic David Cameron and Nick Clegg, although I would argue that today the only charismatic politician is Nigel Farage, the rest are faceless, 'career' politicians who, let's face it, are basically dull. We said goodbye to Andy at the green and then Phil and I cycled on to Sanderstead where we bade each other farewell.

It was a pleasant day but the really good weather was yet to break through. That would come later on the south coast with the family: a flat, blue, almost Grecian, sea and a kind of muted sunshine that hugged the coast for most of the day. By late afternoon, dark and foreboding clouds had gathered inland and contrasted with bright skies over the sea casting a magical light on the water.

We enjoyed a packed lunch on the beach followed by a walk to Old Point and then, after tea and a cookie, a bowl of chips and a hot chocolate in The Lobster Pot (my favourite restaurant) we headed home.

Looking east towards Littlehampton from Felpham

Arise, Sir Lawncelot – and ride to Botley!

Despite wonderful weather yesterday I decided not to go cycling. When I switched on my mobile phone I received an 'abort' text from Phil and I already knew that Andy wasn't around this weekend or next. But in all honesty, the reason behind my laziness was simple: the past two weekends I'd been in the USA and I felt that a lie-in was in order – I got out of bed at 0900hrs. Also, there was gardening to do; two weeks without mowing the lawn had left the garden in a bad way so I had to get out there and sort it out – and that meant mowing the lawn.

A freshly mown lawn

It wasn't going to be easy. I'd have to start with a high setting and gradually increase the severity of the cut until the lawn was like a bowling green. It took awhile. In fact it took all day and by the time I'd finished not only was I sporting a healthy-looking tan, the grass was looking wonderful too – call me the Lawn Ranger, call me Sir Lawncelot. I rolled the mower back into the garage around 1730hrs and today (Sunday) I've got the top of the garden to do and I've got to dig out a few weeds in one of the flowerbeds.

There was a certain poignancy to gardening this weekend as Friday last week marked the fourth anniversary of my dad passing away. As mum commented yesterday, it didn't seem that long ago and when I think back to that time, it was very unsettling all round with plenty of job insecurity thrown in for good measure. Still, time moves on and dad is still there in all our memories. At the top of my garden there is small patch of parched grass where, back in April 2011, the month before dad died, I erected a small brick kiln to burn a few leaves. I remember making a small video of the fire to show dad – he loved bonfires and gardening – and then, a few weeks later, he was gone. That worn piece of grass, however, is still there and yesterday it reminded me of four years ago and the last few weeks of dad's time on earth.

My own personal flowerbed – eat your heart out, Monty!

So, as I mowed the lawn yesterday, bringing it down from around 10 inches to little more than an inch, if that, I thought of dad and how he used to say that the garden was a gym and how a day in the garden was the best work-out you'd ever get. He wasn't wrong. I was out there from dawn to dusk, pushing a lawnmower up and down the length of the garden, I was crouching down trimming the edges with a pair of rusty old shears and I was raking the excess grass from the lawn's surface – twice! The end result was fantastic and today, after a little bit more work, I'm going to make a pot of tea and enjoy reading my book – yes, I'm still ploughing through Ayn Rand's mammoth Atlas Shrugged and taking it a day at a time. It's a huge brick of a book that I've been carrying around for weeks and I'm looking forward to the day when I finish it. I'm certainly not going to give up as I hate the idea of not finishing a book.

To Botley Hill alone...
I wasn't going to go cycling today either, but when I awoke at 0605hrs and saw the sun shining through the curtains, I felt I had to give it go. For breakfast I had Weetabix, a banana, a slice of toast and a mug of tea and after dawdling a bit I was out there, without gloves. I headed up Ellenbridge, then turned left into Morley Road and right on to Church Way and soon I was powering along the Limpsfield Road heading for Warlingham Green – where I was going to turnaround and come back as there was no Phil or Andy. Instead, I carried on to Botley Hill, went around the roundabout adjoining Clarks Lane and then headed back down the 269 towards home. It was a good ride. At one stage on the outward journey I considered riding to Westerham. That would have been good as we've yet to ride to Westerham this year and it's almost halfway through.

Sir Lawncelot at Botley Hill, Sunday 17th May 2015

One thing is for certain, the summer is here. The birds are tweeting, the sun is shining and there are leaves on the once bare trees. There's also a pleasant smell in the air, the smell of cut grass and the smell of leaves. Here's to some great rides ahead.

Flying home...

After dinner I moseyed on upstairs to room 535 – a number that adds up to 13 (5 + 3 + 5 =13). I bring that up because the flight number of the American Airlines plane that was not going to take me to Chicago on Friday evening was AA3073, which also adds up to 13. Had the gate been 13 I might have re-booked and would probably have ended up in the Sheraton with my other self in the same restaurant, wondering why the bloke sitting alone in the corner reading USA Today was, in fact, me. But let's not go there, it gets too confusing.

I got a reasonable night's sleep, aided by the fact that, seven days since I flew out of the UK, I was now fully acclimatised with US time – and now I had to go home and re-acclimatise myself with BST. That glass of red wine and the meal (see previous post) also helped. I washed, shaved and showered and soon found myself back in the restaurant eating granola, fresh fruit, a yoghurt and a slice of bread, not forgetting a mug of black tea. I was tempted to go the whole hog and have the hot breakfast (sausages, scrambled egg, diced and fried potatoes, hash browns) but I decided to keep up with my regime of healthy eating.

My Jumbo 747-400 to London Heathrow at O'Hare's Gate M12

Back in the room, albeit briefly, I did my final checks. Had I left anything behind? No. And I was off. Check-out was simple and the shuttle bus took all of five minutes to reach the terminal. Then there was security. Security is weird because it's not consistent. Some airports demand that you take off belts and shoes, others don't. Cleveland wanted shoes off. The worst bit about flying is going through security because you have to take the lap top out of the case, put it in a tray of its own, empty your pockets and then walk through the scanner. Sometimes you have to raise your hands above your head, like a criminal, and be searched by one of the guards, other times not, and then you find yourself on the 'other side' in the strange world that exists beyond passport control where the shops sell expensive perfume, wines and spirits, not forgetting watches and stuff you rarely see people actually wearing.

I tend to ignore the shops and head straight for the coffee retailer, although I always order tea and sometimes a pastry of sorts. Then I sit down, realise that hell will freeze over before I manage to suss out how the WiFi works and simply resign myself to wandering around, looking at other people waiting for other planes going to other destinations.

I started chatting with a woman from Cleveland who was on her way to see her mum, to surprise her because it was Mother's Day on Sunday. We talked about mice and houses and gardens and she seemed very amused at the fact that I was looking forward to having lunch at Romano's Macaroni Grill on O'Hare airport (opposite gate H3 if you're interested and well worth a visit). I think she was amused because, apparently, Romano's Macaroni Grill is a chain. The woman, whose husband worked for American Airlines, has plenty of family in Chicago and will probably visit most of them while she's in the Windy City. She was on stand-by and managed to get on the flight. In Chicago we said our goodbyes and she hoped that I would enjoy Romano's. I did, but I shouldn't have ordered lemon drizzle cake.

In fact, the drizzle cake led me to spend around an hour, possibly longer, simply walking around the airport. I passed virtually every gate in an effort to burn some calories and I must have burned plenty hauling my hefty suitcase behind me. The walk not only did me some good, but it was an education. I discovered that I didn't have to go through security twice in order to access the international terminal and Gate M12 from where my BA jumbo would depart. There was a bus service going from Gate K12 and that, my friends, is worth remembering. When I say I went through security twice, I meant that I endured it at Cleveland and you'd think that would be it, but no; at O'Hare, having arrived at what was essentially the domestic terminal, passengers taking the transit to the international terminal then find they have to go through security again – but not if you take the bus from K12.

The international terminal was a lot swisher than the domestic side of the airport (although it didn't have Romano's). I decided to do some more walking but not until I'd asked for a better seat. They'd given me a seat in the middle row of the plane (a 747-400) and I wasn't at all happy. The thought of being sandwiched between two other passengers for seven hours was horrific, but I was in their hands and after leaving them my boarding card, I wandered off and once again found that I couldn't work out how to use the airport WiFi.

When it was time to board I found that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I'd been upgraded. The bad news? I still had a middle aisle seat sandwiched between two passengers. But there was more room and I decided to endure it until after dinner and then stand up in the galley area for an hour or so. Dinner was good and because I'd been upgraded I got a real wine glass (made of glass) a menu from which to choose either pasta or steak and a cloth napkin instead of paper. I opted for the steak, listened to Money for Nothing by Dire Straits about half a dozen times (the music choice was awful) and then got up and went for a wander around. After standing in the galley area for about 30 minutes I walked to the rear of the plane where I a found a seat used by the air hostesses at take-off. I sat here for some time watching the sun rise outside as we edged our way towards daylight and chatted to an IT consultant from Bournemouth who, like me, has a 16-year daughter about to take her GCSEs.

The flight itself was relatively pleasant. No turbulence. I returned to my seat for breakfast (a chunk of cake) and found that my fellow passengers – the ones I was sandwiched between – were both asleep. I had to wake one of them up to take my seat.

We landed, I said goodbye to my IT friend and then headed towards departures to find my taxi driver who had called to say he was outside. I then endured a nightmare journey that involved said taxi driver missing turnings (clearly no idea of where he was) asking personal questions and playing his music miles too loud. I was so relieved to pay up and get out when I reached home.

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.