Da Bruno, Karlstrasse 16, 40210 Düsseldorf, Germany

Da Bruno, Karlstrasse 16, Düsseldorf, Germany

There's a first time for everything and for me visiting one restaurant every night for the last four nights is a first. The eaterie in question was roughly a 15-minute walk from my hotel – so no taxis were involved – and in terms of value for money it scored highly, costing around 21 to 25 Euros (excluding tip) for one person. What's more the quality was there and so was the service and the ambience.

After a tough day – and all the last four days have been tough – I looked forward to visiting Da Bruno a small Italian trattoria located at Karlstrasse 16, 40210 Düsseldorf – telephone (0211) 38 23 00 and prefix that number with 0049 if you're calling from outside of Germany (and exclude that zero before the 2).

I dined alone every night and took with me a copy of The Economist on one day and Thursday's Times today. For the other two days I had my iphone to fiddle with, which was fine, but as all of my colleagues were staying in different hotels, some a considerable distance away, I dined alone every night.

Today was to be my last night at Da Bruno and, as always, it was busy. In fact, thinking about it, I should have reserved a table, but despite not doing so, they still managed to find me a table. What did I like about this great little restaurant? For a start it was Italian and I love Italian food. Then there was the fact that it was a small, cosy restaurant – they're rare these days – and then, of course, there was the service, which was perfect, and we can't forget the food as it was amazing. I made a point of not overdoing it as I wanted to be relaxed and chilled and happy to walk the 15 minutes along Karlstrasse without feeling tired and bloated. With this in mind, I had pasta dishes every day: pasta with mushrooms, penne arrabiatta, linguine with pesto and tonight pasta with lamb chops. On two occasions I had a small mixed salad, there was always bread and I also tried the minestrone soup (yesterday) and the tomato soup this evening. And I couldn't resist the proscuittio with melon. Fortunately I managed to avoid dessert as I knew that had I weakened I would have opted for the tiramisu (my all-time favourite dessert).

Despite being small and intimate there was plenty of hubbub, which I like; there's nothing better than feeling cosy in a restaurant, listening in to the banter of the other diners and taking in everything else like the smell of the food being cooked and the conversation between the waiting staff.

Every day has been different in Da Bruno. On day one there was only a group of men plus myself in the restaurant, but then it was fairly late. I remember being pleasantly surprised at the size of my glass of house red – it was huge – and then being taken aback by the waiting staff who were quite happy during one of my visits to put a bottle of red wine on my table and charge me only for what I consumed. No rigid portion control policy! But it was a policy never abused by yours truly. I never overdid anything and left the restaurant every night feeling at peace with the world and ready (hopefully) for a decent night's sleep.

There really is no praise high enough for Da Bruno and whoever runs the place. It's definitely a community restaurant with a strong local following and I'm pleased to say that while the restaurant was once on the other side of the road, it's not anymore as the building in which it resided was recently sold. One of the waiting staff told me they were lucky to find their current premises and I found myself thinking 'too right!" I would imagine that locals would mourn the loss of Da Bruno for many years and may never have gotten over it. I know I wouldn't.

So tonight, as I paid up the bill, gathered my stuff together and bade farewell to the waiting staff, there was a tinge of sadness as I walked into the evening air and headed back to my hotel. But I know that one day I'll be back as Düsseldorf has become a regular haunt of mine.

I've got roughly a half day of work ahead of me tomorrow and then I must head to the airport for a flight to London City Airport – a 70-minute hop as opposed to hours of driving on autobahns and motorways.

Here's to the team at Da Bruno for running an excellent restaurant and charging a reasonable price for above average food and impeccable service.

Da Bruno
Karlstrasse 16
40210 Düsseldorf
Telephone: (0211) 38 23 00
Fax (0211) 384 0147
www.dabruno.de

Ah! I get it! The theme is sixties fashion icons!

Twiggy in Room 207's bathroom

Not being either a fashion icon or in anyway fashionable myself, it's taken me a day to work out that the theme of my 'boutique' hotel is fashion and, in particular, fashion icons - Twiggy in my bathroom, framed photos of Karl Lagerfeld and Yves Saint Laurent on the breakfast room walls and others whom I am sure my 'fashionista' fellow guests recognised immediately. Except that, looking around me I see businessmen, not fashion victims, so, clearly, if you're a 'fashionista' - don't you hate that word? - there are other places to stay in Dusseldorf.

Breakfast here is not brilliant, although it's not bad either; everything is arranged as if it was thought about at the last minute and is crammed on to a shelf on the bar and a window sill. I miss the big bowls of fruit and the dishes of raspberry or strawberry yogurts found in the bigger branded hotels, but in all honesty there is little to complain about here and I really am clutching at straws. Even the brightly-coloured room has grown on me and now that I've found the perfect Italian restaurant - Da Bruno - about 10 minutes from the hotel I'm made up if I'm honest. More importantly, it was the hotel that recommended the restaurant so top marks to them.

As I write this it's Wednesday night, 1130hrs, and despite having attended a function in the old town of Dusseldorf at a venue on the banks of the Rhine, I still managed to catch a tram in the general direction of Da Bruno and eat dinner there – minestrone soup followed by linguine with pesto, a glass of red wine and some still mineral water. I never thought I'd get there tonight, but I did and I'm so pleased. I'm planning on going there tomorrow too.

Da Bruno is a local Italian trattoria located at Karistrasse 16, 40210 Düsseldorf (tel: 0049 (0) 211-382300). It offers everything you might expect from an Italian restaurant – including quality food and incredibly good value for money. It's homely, the service is good and, most importantly, it's friendly and I feel right at home, even if I do have to dine alone – an occupational hazard for me, I'm afraid,  but one I've gotten used to; I bought a copy of the Economist in Folkestone, Kent, on the journey out here and this morning, sitting alone in the breakfast room (like a few others) I read about Atlanta's growing problem with Asian gang culture. Last night (Tuesday) in the restaurant I read about the need for the national governments of rich countries the world over to let the dust settle on the recession before making any rash decisions about putting up interest rates and thereby setting the whole recessionary nightmare into fall swing again. Last night (Wednesday) I had nothing to read so I messed around with my iphone's Notes facility, writing down how much I'd been eating and generally faffing around like somebody with absolutely no friends. There had been a huge party of Japanese in the restaurant – they kept bowing at one another for some reason – but when they left only seven of us remained – two couples and then two men at diagonally opposed corners of the floor, with me completing a kind of triangle (if you joined the dots so to speak).

After a while I got chatting with one of the restaurant staff. I told her that I'd come from London and that I was flying back there on Friday and that I would be returning to Da Bruno tomorrow for my final meal in Dusseldorf – I've never visited the same restaurant on four consecutive nights. Soon it was time to settle the bill and walk back to my hotel in the dark.

Thursday morning...
This morning (Thursday) I was awake around 0630hrs and when I peered out of the window I noticed that the Buddha statue on the rooftop below the room had, for some reason, been moved closer to my window – I reckon it's all part of a plan to freak me out, a bit like the Weeping Angels in Doctor Who. I'm guessing that in a few days' time the statue will move to the left and eventually make a complete circuit of the small rooftop area that I can see from my hotel window.

I've got a haircut booked for this morning at 0930hrs as I noticed, on leaving the room yesterday evening, that I'm starting to look a mess. After a while – between six and eight weeks after having it cut – my hair becomes a little uncontrollable, like a Brillo pad, and there's no alternative other than to have it cut short, but then, of course, I resemble a criminal, a bank robber on the run or some other kind of miscreant, so in many ways I can't win.

Boutique hotels – getting 'quirky' right is an exact science

"Good morning, Twiggy," I said, undoing my trousers and preparing to answer the call of nature in front of her. As usual, she says nothing but simply stares back at me in a disinterested way. What else could I expect from a framed black and white print of the sixties fashion icon that will stare at me every morning this week whenever I enter the bathroom of my hotel room? Because the framed photograph of the model's head is life-sized – and nailed to the wall directly above the toilet – it is mildly disconcerting as the eyes follow me around the bathroom and they're even staring at me when I'm in the shower. It's one of the perils of staying in a 'boutique' hotel where the concept of 'quirkiness' is always taken to another rather irritating level and the guest – or me at any rate – has to suffer, endure, put up with, deal with, accept, the 'joke' and laugh along with it, silently and in good humour. Why else would I choose to stay in such a hotel if I wasn't prepared to be amused by the proprietor's sense of humour or the absurd? Why else indeed.

Friends Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

I have a problem with boutique hotels because, very often, they are the living embodiment of the phrase 'you don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps'. They are the one place where interior designers forget themselves and ignore the golden rule of 'function before form'. How many times have I fallen victim to this? Too many times – and the problem takes many forms.

Oddly, the most common area where designers fail to follow their own rule – that of 'function before form' – is in the bathroom. That framed photograph of Twiggy is a case in point, but there are other things I can moan about. The over-sized soup bowl sink doesn't have a plug for a start. There's no way of stopping the water running away, which is both annoying and not very good for the environment. It's no good asking your guests to hold on to their towels rather than expect them to be changed daily if you're just wasting water.

I've stayed in 'quirky' hotels where they've had a mannequin in the room on which the guest can hang his or her coat. The only problem being that when they wake up in the middle of the night – as I did once in Didsbury, Greater Manchester – they get the shock of their life and would be forgiven either for having a seizure or lunging at said mannequin and wrestling it to the ground before realising that it's (ahem) just a mannequin.

In another 'quirky' boutique hotel in Leeds the porter carrying my bags to the room asked me if I required any help with 'operating the room'. I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about and said no. Later that night, after eating out nearby, I returned to my room and spent most of the night trying to turn out the bedside lamp. There was a control panel on the wall that dimmed the lights, switched on the television, moved curtains up and down, everything BUT switching off the bedside lamp. I remember growing increasingly impatient and was on the verge of calling reception when I discovered that the switch was on the lamp and not in any way connected to 'the system' operating the room. I felt an exasperated fool but I was alone so it didn't matter.

There's nothing worse than quirkiness. It's slightly more bearable when you've only travelled a few miles by train in the UK from London to Manchester or Leeds, but when you've endured a transatlantic flight, say, or a long haul in premium economy to the Far East, it's the last thing you want to deal with – a prankster proprietor insistent on making your stay 'entertaining' and unforgettable. To be fair, it will be just that – 'entertaining' (in inverted commas for good reason) and certainly unforgettable and perhaps that's a good thing.

As always, there are places that get it right and one place that springs immediately to mind is the Ace Hotel in Portland, Oregon, USA, where they've taken the idea of the beatnik hotel – the sort of place that Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy might have frequented back in the late forties and fifties – and transformed it into a wonderful space that is far from annoying – in fact its a sheer joy to stay there and I only wish I had an excuse to pay another visit.

The Ace gets it right on so many levels and mainly because its quirkiness is understated and it's coolness is subtle enough almost to go unnoticed.

There was a time when the Ace was not as it is today. There was a time when it was like its neighbour across the street. The Joyce is very much a modern day 'beatnik' hotel that some travellers have described as a dangerous place to be avoided at all costs as it houses some of the city's undesirables. Some have described it as a hostel for winos and streetwalkers and a local paper even published an article based on spending a night in the place where fights often break out in the hallways and the best policy for self-preservation is to keep your head down and keep yourself to yourself.

During my stay at the Ace I had a room that faced the Joyce and I could see into one of its rooms where a guest watched television 24/7. I could pick out graffiti on the walls inside the room and there was never a time when the TV wasn't on; I was so intrigued by the place I even thought about spending $15 to stay the night, just to say that I did it, but in all honesty I couldn't drum up the courage and remained instead in the comfort of the Ace hotel where I could live out my Kerouac/Neal Cassidy/William Burroughs fantasy safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't be making headlines the following morning.

It's been eight years since I checked into the Ace, Portland, and I've been missing it ever since. Here's hoping that one day soon I'll have a legitimate reason to make a return visit and, who knows, I might just wander over to the Joyce for a nerve wracking night to remember – or, perhaps, forget.

In Bruges...

... for all of one hour having lunch in the main square. I've never been before and because I was only there for lunch – and two dark ales that played havoc with my digestive system for the rest of the journey – I couldn't really pass judgement on the place, although judging by the shops and the general vibe, it's the sort of place to visit for a long weekend, although there was something a little 'samey' about it. For a start there were global brands: H&M, Claire's Accessories and Zara spring to mind, and then there was that air of 'tourist destination' about the place. Cue horse drawn carriages and restaurants with outdoor seating. I'm sounding ungrateful, I know, but after while I did find myself saying ' alright, I get it' and then wishing I could turn around and go home – metaphorically speaking, of course, although going home would be nice especially as the weather this week is odds on to be hot and summery and I'm going to be stuck in an exhibition hall all day when my family and back garden await me.

Er, tone it down a bit! Room 207, Friends Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

Half of me wanted to remain in Bruges instead of pressing on to Dusseldorf, my ultimate destination, which I reached just before 9pm. It's been a long day: up at 0600hrs, out of the house by 0800hrs, driving with a colleague to Folkestone to catch the EuroTunnel shuttle and then the hour and a half ride to Bruges, which is en route to Dusseldorf.

When I reached my hotel – the Friends Hotel on Worringer Strasse – I was full of so much gas from the dark ale that I could almost have floated to my room, but I had to check in first. It was all very efficient, but then I was in Germany where, fortunately, everything works, trains arrive and depart on time and everybody seems to be driving a decent German automobile.

Because tourists are money! The main square in Bruges, Belgium

Having checked out the website for this hotel prior to leaving the UK, I knew what to expect: it was a quirky boutique hotel so there would be out-sized angle poise lamps and whacky colours and I wasn't to be disappointed. I had two of the aforementioned lamps over either side of my bed, the wall behind the bed was painted a shocking orange and the carpet was brightly-coloured stripes. Had I taken mind-altering drugs, I wondered, as I noted with mild amusement the purple curtains? No, I hadn't. I didn't need to as this place was a kind of Korova Milk Bar and acid trip rolled into one.

Eager to sort out my digestive problem I headed straight for the bathroom – a shocking white affair with a black and white framed photograph of Twiggy looking surprised to see – she had an even bigger surprise coming, I thought, as I gulped down a bottle of complimentary Evian mineral water, lit the blue touch paper and waited. It all went smoothly bar a moment of panic when I thought I'd blocked the toilet. Horrific visions of calling up a member of staff to sort it out crossed my mind but, fortunately my fears were all in vain as suddenly the water level receded and all was well with the world.

I'm in Room 207 and it's a pleasant enough space if I ignore the brightly-coloured decor. The main thing is that everything works and the guy on the front desk even had an adaptor for me and it worked! I plugged in my iphone to charge it and then, grabbing glasses, money and a credit card I headed outside to check out the restaurant scene... only to discover that I was in kebab land. Better make that 'kebap' land. And there were only men in the restaurants, groups of them in denims, trainers and open neck shirts exposing hairy chests chatting, I could have been in Istanbul or the Yemen.

A short distance from the main square, but still very much in Bruges.

I walked up all the streets joining Worringer Platz but found nothing but 'kebap' houses. Eventually I went back to the hotel and asked if there were any restaurants in the area, good restaurants, that weren't kebab shops. Yes, was the answer. There was an Italian restaurant about 10 minutes' walk along Karl Strasse called Da Bruno. It was dark outside but I'd decided that I better eat something and made the short trek, past a few down-and-outs until I eventually stumbled across the restaurant. It was good and very authentic but again only men could be found grouped together at one of the tables talking, no women.

I ordered pasta with mushrooms and a glass of red wine – no wine list was produced, just a fairly generous glass of red wine and some bread rolls. But it was good food and much welcomed, although I had considered simply hitting the sack until I realised how little I had eaten today. The bill came to EUR15.00 but I liked the place so I gave the waiter a 10 Euro tip and then made my way back to the hotel from where I now write this blog post.

Oddly, at night, the wild colour scheme of the room seemed muted (unless I switched on a light). What I do like is the guest book for room 207. Shortly after arriving I flicked through it and found the comments of other guests who had spent the night in this very room. Half of them were written in foreign languages I didn't understand, but there was one from Jan and Natalie – 'Lancashire Girls, UK' who now live in County Mayo in Ireland. They even drew a funny face. Their message was clear, that the Friends Hotel was beautiful and had friendly staff and there was a small piece of advice for guests like me: the caff next door offered superb ice cream. They were only here for one night, but say that they hope to be back for longer in the not-to-distant future. I'm looking forward to adding my comment, but I'll wait until I've stayed here a little longer before I put pen to paper. Or perhaps I'll do it now.

Just a word on that caff next door. Earlier I'd considered it for my evening meal but my first impression was that it might be an ice cream parlour. But then I saw a blackboard advertising pasta and soup and ciabatta, but it didn't appeal, not for an evening meal at any rate, but I might take up Jan and Natalie's advice and check out the ice cream – but not until I've exercised, stretched my legs and possibly even hired a bicycle (I need to check the availability of a bike share scheme).

Right now it's time to hit the sack. With such bright colours I'm not planning on setting my alarm clock as I'm sure the purple curtains and striped carpets will wake me up as soon as daylight dawns.

Tatsfield Churchyard...and I get a puncture on the way home...

Sunday 14 June 2015 – I get a puncture on the B269

A far better day than yesterday in terms of the weather; it was warmer and brighter and the Tatsfield Churchyard seemed like a good destination. We got there, drank our tea, munched our biscuits and then I set about trying to take a decent image that would, in some way, epitomise the ride. Except that most of the shots we've tried before and, let's be honest, when you're in a churchyard it's all a little morbid. One of the shots I snapped today featured Andy and I between two headstones – very depressing – another was a shot of me posing, crouched down, at the end of a wooden bench; this shot was over exposed for some reason and so was another shot of the grass and bushes in front of our bench.

However, on the way home my bike wobbled slightly – I had a puncture! The shot above proved the most exciting. It shows my bike having its rear wheel puncture repaired and Andy's somehow defying gravity in the background.

Fixing the puncture took about 20 minutes and soon we were back on the road. As usual we parted company at Warlingham Green. I reached home around a quarter past ten and I'm guessing Andy got home at roughly the same time.

Chilling at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

I took last Tuesday off and the weather wasn't appalling, but it wasn't very pleasant either. It was dull and blowy and not really conducive to sitting in the garden and chilling. Then, once back at work, the good weather was back. In fact, it remained good all week with Friday (yesterday) being the hottest day of the year so far – according to the TV weather forecasts. Needless to say I think we, that is Andy and myself, expected the good weather to continue for the weekend, but no, sod's law dictates otherwise, it always does, and this morning, when I woke up prematurely around 0400hrs, I peered out of the window and noted a dull, dark and dreary world, the grass wet from overnight rain. It was early, I said to myself, what could I expect? It was four in the morning. But the dullness lingered and was still there at 0700hrs when I left the house and opened the garage. There was no sign of Phil, but I knew that Andy would be waiting at the green and I was running late.

My bike at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 13 June 2015

As I cycled wearily up Ellenbridge Road I noticed the odd spit of rain, but it never went any further than that. Instead it remained dull and dark and just like an October morning rather than June. The fact that I'd been awake since four o'clock made cycling and, dare I say it, life in general, seem a little depressing. As I rode through the churchyard I found myself sighing with despair.

We had planned to ride to Westerham and Andy, perhaps a little ambitiously, had sent a text earlier suggesting we simply ride there and back, stopping at the Botley to catch the 'Botley on the Road' catering truck that we had been promised would be waiting for us. It seemed like an unnecessarily harsh ride: all that way to Westerham and then, without so much as a cup of tea, a ride back up the hill without rest until we reached Botley Hill. I suggested by text that having tea at Westerham would be miles better than waiting for the van and he agreed. But with the dull weather and the threat of rain looming large, we decided to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop instead.

A mist rolled in from the West as we rode past the  Botley Hill Farmhouse, noting the absence of the aforementioned catering van, and when we reached the bus stop we drank tea and ate chocolate chip BelVita biscuits.

"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"We could break into the art world."
"How?"
"Well, some works of modern art are little more than squares of colour on canvas. We could do that."
"Yeah, it's all about the bullshit, that's how we'd sell them."
"Technically, though, it would be easy: get a few brightly-coloured oil paints, get the canvas and then off we go! In fact, even better, place a bicycle wheel on the canvas, spin the wheel and then throw on the paint. It would create a kind of Catherine wheel effect..."
"Yeah, and then if we come up with something pretentious to say about it..."
"...and a pretentious name for the work..."
"Like 'Cog'."
"...we'd be quids in."
"How would you convince the art world to visit the gallery?"
"More importantly, how would we be able to afford the gallery in the first place?"
"Perhaps we'd just persuade an existing gallery to exhibit the work."
"It takes years. There are waiting lists apparently."
"Really?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we'd have to bullshit them. One of us would be the 'artist', the other the artist's agent and we'd have to develop some kind of pretentious clap trap about the work..."
"Sounds a bit like our plan to open a cycle caff in Westerham."
"You mean doomed to failure?"
"Yep."
"Actually, it wouldn't be a con, would it? I mean the 'art' would be real in a sense so we wouldn't be faking anything."
"Did you watch Chris Evans last night?"
"No."
"He did a one-off TGI Friday and, if I'm honest, it was a bit lame, a bit embarassing almost and a bit dated. Roger Daltry singing My Generation with Liam Gallagher."
"There's a certain irony about Roger Daltry singing 'hope I die before I get old'."
"Yeah, he's seventy years old – or thereabouts."
"I don't know why people don't just accept that they've had their day, made their money and that's it."
"But listening to the original recordings is alright, it's just that I don't want to hear them attempting it in their old age."
"Yeah, you're right."
"But with TGI there's something wrong about, I don't know, recreating the past. I mean was it THAT good in the first place? I don't think so. In fact I reckon that whole 'anarchic TV' thing that started with TisWas is now a thing of the past. All that 'boozy' rowdiness and the stars of the time who epitomised it: Sean Ryder, Liam Gallagher..."
"I used to watch The Word when I came in after the pub."
"Yeah, me too. A class piece of television – produced by Paul Ross – but not for today's audience."
"No, you're right. For me, certain broadcasters – Clarkson, Chris Evans – they're good in their own right, they don't have to recreate their past successes."
"Wasn't Clarkson on TGI?"
"Yeah, but don't get me started on that subject, I'm still mourning the passing of Top Gear."

And with that we decided it was time to head home.

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking...

A friend of mine recently announced the death of his father and whenever news of that nature finds its way to me I reminisce – if that's the word – on the time when my father died back in 2011, a turbulent time for yours truly as, in addition to bereavement, I had to deal with an unscrupulous employer who decided he wasn't going to pay me. I won't go on about it because it would be an unwelcomed digression I'd rather not make, but he was a despicable individual who, to this day, continues to con people. Hopefully, he'll meet with a sticky end sooner rather than later – for more on the most insecure moment of my career, click here.

When your father dies it's not good, even when he's had the proverbial 'good innings' – my dad was almost 82. It's something to do with being a dad yourself, I think, as you find yourself imagining your own death and you start imagining your own kids mourning their loss – you. It's all very sad and it's advisable not to dwell on the subject as it will start to make you question virtually everything.

When my dad passed away I did my level best to keep things together and this meant never outwardly showing any emotion about the situation. In short, I maintained the great British stiff upper lip and saved my feelings for when I was alone on the bike, riding along the 269 having bade farewell to Andy.

It was a strange time and was made worse by the fact that I knew dad was on the way out – it wasn't a sudden death, but equally it wasn't a long and drawn out affair either. I remember taking him to the hospital on a Sunday, hopeful that things would be sorted out, and a week later he was gone – I missed his actual passing away by minutes and to this day I'll always remember the sensation of rubbing his forearm, his body still warm, and not seeing him again until the heartbreaking moment in a local chapel of rest when my mum, on seeing the man she had shared her life with lying there, peacefully, but nevertheless not of this world, broke down.

In all honesty I didn't know what to think. Either way the most dreadful thing imaginable had happened and there was no going back. Everybody would simply have to deal with it and, in retrospect, I think we all dealt with it in a perfectly respectable manner.

When somebody passes away – I mean when somebody close like your dad passes away – all is not really lost. I am firmly of the opinion that in some way we all do carry on; something gets transferred and I often find myself feeling that, for some reason, I'm talking like dad, using one of his expressions, or in some way looking like him. I've seen many a photograph on this blog where, when I see myself, I see my dad and even now, writing this, I feel as if a part of him has transferred to me – that urge to write something down. Had dad been of the generation that embraces technology he too would have had a blog and he, like me, would have recorded silly things like hotel bedrooms and views from hotel room windows. In that sense I've taken on his tenacity.

There are so many things in which to find solace, be it a book or a piece of music, or simply mowing the lawn. Dad loved his garden and I think it's something he's magically transferred to me as I now enjoy being 'out there' tidying things up and moving away from my age old argument that puts forward the notion of 'the futility of gardening'. Dad used to tell me that my garden was my gym, I didn't need anything else and while I would still disagree about not needing anything else (I couldn't give up the cycling) I know what he means about gardening and exercise and I feel duty bound to keep my garden under control.

In the weeks leading up to my dad's demise, I had a small bonfire at the top of the garden. Like dad might have done, I made a kiln of sorts out of some spare bricks and then set about burning a few twigs of an evening. There's something primeval about fire. I could sit in front of glowing embers forever and a day and would make do with a candle if need be. The other day I noticed that the parched patch of ground where the kiln had once blazed was still visible – just – and those memories of taking dad to the GP a week prior to that final ride to the hospital flooded back to me. Despite the dire nature of his predicament – of which he was blissfully unaware – he still managed to joke with those waiting to see the doctor about something or other, I can't remember exactly what.

I try not to think about my own mortality. I prefer to rely upon the phrase 'I am me and this is now' in direct appeal to the magical 'here and now' and the fact – the reality – that we all live in the moment, in the immediate present, always on the edge of the future, the edge of time no less, but never, ever getting there, a bit like that scene in The Wrong Trousers when Gromit, sitting on the locomotive, throws down the track ahead of the train, thereby creating reality as he goes along, or like Jory Miller, the 12-year-old boy in Philip K Dick's UBIK who, living in a state of 'chill half life' creates reality for other people by imagining what they might expect to see as they walk along a street or drive along the freeway. Perhaps that's how it is – we're all creating our reality as we go along and none of it really exists until we get there.

The other day I was trying to work out what might be the best album and the best album track in the world. I came to the conclusion that it had to be Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and the track Time, which, in my opinion, sums it all up to a tee. Here's the lyrics in full:-

Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day

You fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way

Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town

Waiting for someone or something to show you the way

Tired of lying in the sunshine staying home to watch the rain

You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today

And then one day you find ten years have got behind you

No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun

So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking

Racing around to come up behind you again

The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

Every year is getting shorter, never seem to find the time

Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines

Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way

The time is gone, the song is over

Thought I'd something more to say...

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.