On meeting a Greyhound bus driver...

Today I met a Greyhound bus driver. How fantastic. The Greyhound bus embodies the romanticism of travelling in the USA, along with Jack Kerouac's On the Road, Sean Cassidy and Ken Kesey's old school bus, destination 'Further'. The Greyhound bus, now there's something else I'd like to experience, preferably a long ride down to the Mexican border, something hardcore.

I went past the Greyhound bus station yesterday on my stroll through the city and I just love the whole idea of it, the distances that can be covered at a relatively low cost and the sort of people you're likely to meet en route. That's the great thing about America, that capacity for drifting, moving from state-to-state, working your way around, living in rented rooms and basically acting out that whole Kerouac thing.

One of many bridges spanning Pittsburgh's three rivers...

In the UK you simply can't live that life. In the US you can up sticks and move states, move miles away, and work anywhere too, jump on a Greyhound bus or roar off on a Harley Davidson - without wearing a crash helmet even - and that's what I like about the place.Yeah, you could say, "well, you can do that in the UK" and I'm sure you can, but it doesn't have that ring about it, does it? "Hey, man. I was working in Swindon and I got a little fed up, so I headed east to Norwich on the M11." I'm sorry, it's not exactly the Interstate, is it?

Some people say that America's just like the UK or anywhere else in the world; and, of course, on one level it is: there are restaurants and hotels and bars and cars and people work in office blocks and commute on trains, but the weird thing about being here, feet on the ground, so to speak, is that feeling that there's so much more space. Sitting here in Pittsburgh I'm aware of the fact that I'm up in the North East of the country, but I'm also aware of the vast expanse of land heading both south and west and north. Alright, go east and you hit the sea, the North Atlantic, but sticking on dry land, I could ride a Harley to the Mexican border and beyond, spending the night in motels, perhaps, or God knows where, but it goes on for miles.

You know what I love about American airports? I love wandering from gate-to-gate while waiting for my flight and seeing all the different destinations open to me: Grand Rapids, Baton Rouge, Knoxville, all places that are around two hours flying time from wherever I find myself and yet they're all big cities hundreds of miles away from wherever I happen to be. And then there's the people. Some of them have a kind of wildness about them that you don't get in the UK. They sport long hair and straggly beards and have a kind of weathered, sun blushed appearance that speaks of wide open spaces and living in the wilds. Not that all Americans live under canvas or in trailer parks. I know that, but this really is another country, full of great people, positive people, friendly people, and it's unrivalled in Europe where that same openness is simply not there. People won't stop to say hello or wish you 'have a nice day'. Over here people give you the time of day, they're interested in what you're doing. Not in Europe. In Europe people are a little miserable and unsociable and in England it's even worse.

But there are bad things about the USA too. There's the gun laws for a start and the fact that some people don't feel safe without packing a piece. And it's one of those places where, if you're down on your luck you can lose everything and the state won't bail you out.

I've heard people talk, quite nonchalantly, about driving for 18 hours non-stop to get somewhere or other and today, hearing from the Greyhound bus driver, well, I was chuffed to say the least. We were both over by the tea station in the hotel. I was making myself a Bigelow's black tea with orange rind and spices and he was brewing up his own kind of drink, I'm not sure what. He had driven all the way from New York via Philadelphia to here, Pittsburgh, and said the key to driving long distances was getting your rest. If you don't get your rest, well, you'd better watch out.

We bade each other farewell. I assumed he was going back to his room to get some rest as tomorrow morning he's driving right back to New York City and probably won't get there until early evening. He told me how today's Greyhound buses offer WiFi and rest rooms, making the journey that little bit more pleasant than it might have been in the past. It was great chatting to the guy, but when he went back to his room I went back to the television in the communal part of the hotel (on the ground floor close to the front desk) to catch up on the EgyptAir flight that might have been downed by a terrorist bomb. The big question is whether the bomb got on board when the plane was in Paris (these days Paris is a kind of European Islamabad, so it's not out of the question). I can't say I like Paris. It's a dirty city and now we know it's full of Islamist terrorists too. Still, it's too early to say what actually happened. The black box has yet to be recovered.

But it's all rather worrying. I've got to fly back home tomorrow afternoon and things like the EgyptAir catastrophe make the whole experience a little bit edgy. Ultimately, it's the luck of the draw and it goes without saying that I hope things are going to be alright.

You know what? I'd like to embark upon a road trip across the USA. I think I'd fly to New York or Chicago and then head west to Seattle and then down to Portland, Oregon, and west towards Los Angeles. I'd like to then drive back east, possibly towards Charlotte, North Carolina, before getting a plane home. If I was going to be more ambitious, I'd leave the UK from Southampton on a steamer to New York, right across the Atlantic, then I'd drive westwards to LA, try and take a boat to Hawaii and from there see if it was possible to get to Japan. I'd chill a bit in Japan, visit Tokyo and then search out a boat to take me to Vladivostok from where I'd board the Trans Siberia Express to Moscow and from there make my way through Europe to Calais where I'd board a ferry to Dover. I'd then get a train to London Victoria and then a suburban service back out to the burbs where I live; but I wouldn't want to be put any time limit on such a journey. I'd like to take my time and have my family with me all the way.

One day, when I've made loads of money, perhaps I'll buy the ticket. I have no intention of planning anything (apart from visas). The idea would simply be to pack a suitcase, walk to my local railway station and take it from there. Planning it would somehow defeat the philosophy behind doing it in the first place.

It's 1821hrs here in Pittsburgh and today the sun has been shining brightly. It makes a big difference. On Sunday the weather was appalling. Rain, cloud and a cold wind. Today it's wonderful, like a summer day, even now at almost half past six.

It's going to be a busy day tomorrow. I've got a meeting at noon, but before that I've got to tidy up my room, pack my suitcase and generally get things organised for the flight home, like booking a taxi to the airport. Yes, tomorrow sees the beginning of 'travel hassles' and all that phrase entails: going through security, getting the lap top out of the case, making sure that I don't have any toothpaste or shaving gel on me (unless I check in my suitcase) and so on and so forth. But hopefully, at the end of the process, I'll arrive safely in London and I can head home to my garden and enjoy a peaceful weekend with the family, listening to the tinkling of the wind chime and enjoying the decent weather - that's assuming there is decent weather.

A stroll before dinner in Pittsburgh...

After writing up a Trip Advisor review of the hotel I'm staying in - a risky practice when you consider that I still haven't checked out - and then penning another review of the restaurant Eleven, where my colleague Paul and I have been dining most of the week (it's across the road so why waste money on cabs?) I decided to take a stroll before dinner.

It was an interesting stroll around town that took me along Liberty Avenue and into the bustling centre of town, which wasn't really that bustling as it was after 5pm and I'm assuming most of the people I saw were making their way home from work. I ended up on Penn Avenue where yesterday I'd enjoyed a quick drink in Lefty's Bar with Paul and ended up in a Mexican restaurant where I ordered a paella and a beer. I can't say I really enjoyed the beer, but the food was alright.

I wandered about with the river on my right hand side and eventually I headed straight for it only to find that, for some reason, the bridge was closed. Not that I was going over it, but it's intriguing, isn't it, when a bridge is closed and you start to wonder why. "There's a match on," said a woman, pointing to the stadium on the far bank. "Oh," I replied, but I wasn't really interested. I couldn't tell you what kind of match it was, football, baseball, I just don't know, so I headed back towards the David L Lawrence Convention Centre, followed the road round and eventually decided that I ought to eat before it gets too late.

Eleven on Smallman Street – the best restaurant in Pittsburgh?

I knew I'd go back to Eleven because it's so good and on so many different levels. The service, the ambience, the food, everything, not least the convenience. I know that I can just cross the road and walk to the hotel where, incidentally, I am now, having just made that walk. It's just gone 9pm.

Having enjoyed dining with Paul all week, I found it hard going back to dining alone, but dine alone I did. A table for one. I knew the menu inside out. But sometimes it's good to 'people watch' and that's just what I did, but without them knowing I was watching. The last thing I wanted was somebody asking me, "What are you staring at?"

Earlier, as I walked up Penn Avenue I stumbled across the geekiest of geeky shops, a comic book emporium called Eide's Entertainment, billed as 'the world's greatest comic shop'. It was certainly that. Not only was the place crammed from head to foot with comic books, over three floors, it also stocked old vinyl records. A truly amazing place. I picked up a copy of the Clash's first album and their second (Give Em Enough Rope) not forgetting the triple album Sandinista, and found myself inwardly humming along to Hitsville UK, one of many great tracks on the album, although Sandinista was not the best Clash album.

When I picked up the Give Em Enough Rope album - and, indeed, the band's first album simply called The Clash - I was transported back to the late seventies when I was just a little bit older than my daughter is now. I have mixed feelings about those times and some strange memories, some of which sadden me. One of the latter memories involved my 21st birthday and a watch my parents gave me as a present. It was a gold Timex digital watch that I truly wished I still owned now, but I don't, and I feel particularly bad about that and the fact that I never really appreciated, at the time, the thought that went into the purchase of that watch. I was too tied up in being an angst-ridden young man to care about most things. Those days haunted me as I thumbed through the vinyl albums, particularly those first two Clash albums. While unemployed and down on my luck, working as an evening shelf stacker in Sainsbury's, I taught myself to type and I distinctly remember typing out the back cover of that first Clash album. As I looked at it, the memories flooded back. And now, of course, dad is no more. He passed away in 2011, in fact his fifth anniversary was last Sunday.

As I walked back towards the convention centre I thought of the moment when mum saw dad in the chapel of rest back in 2011. It was a sad moment for her, of course, but seeing her upset like that has stayed with me and came back to me as I walked along the street. 

When I reached Eleven I considered not going in just at that moment, but doing a little more walking before 'pulling up a chair' and tucking in, but I'd had a good walk already and I figured it best to get in there and eat something before it was too late. They sandwiched me in between a party of bankers, or businessmen, I can't figure out what they were, but one man was particularly annoying. He shouted rather than talked. "I'm 65 and my wife is just 39!" he boasted to a man who was so old I figured he'd never make it through the meal. "Give me another shot at president and I'll sort those Chinese out!". He was a real cock of the highest order and I wasn't that keen on his dinner companions. They all looked like greedy, money-grabbing sorts, the kind of people Michael Douglas might have targetted had they been characters in the movie Falling Down.

Whenever I drew back my hotel room curtains...

On my right was a young couple. I'm not sure if they were together or not, but they were fairly pleasant. She was from Tokyo, he was born and bred Pittsburgh. We eventually chatted (how else would I know that she was from Tokyo and he lived on the outskirts of town?) and they were great, wishing me well and hoping I'm treated right while in town. I told them that I had been treated perfectly well and that all was good on that score, but that was at the end of my meal. The chicken dish was fine: breast of chicken, greens and a risotto accompaniment. The banana cake was light and delicate, that's why I ordered it, and besides, I knew it would be good because I'd ordered it only a couple of days ago. The beers were pleasant enough too, although I'm going off of beer and I don't particularly like the new-fangled American 'real' ales, they're too syrupy and gassy. Give me a pint of Young's Ordinary Bitter any day.

When I wasn't talking to the couple or eavesdropping on the ruddy-faced business nob head, I played with my mobile phone, in particular the Roger's Profanisauras App where I learnt some excellent phrases, like 'clear the custard' - meaning to have a long overdue moment of gentlemanly relaxation. "I've got 10 minutes before I have to take mass. I'll just nip upstairs and clear the custard."

I had to be very careful not to suddenly burst out laughing as when you're dining alone there are certain things you simply don't do, one of them being laughing out load, seemingly for no reason. Here's another good entry: 'atomic mutton' - a mature woman trying to look younger than she obviously is and ending up looking like a tart in the process. An example being Liz McDonald out of Coronation Street.

I like Dangermouse too - a slim fanatella. But on that note I must hit the sack.

Taking a ride around Pittsburgh...

The last time I returned from Pittsburgh, one of my colleagues asked me if I'd taken a bike ride. My answer was a rather shameful 'no' having cycled around San Antonio and Indianapolis as well as other places, such as Berlin, Amsterdam and Essen in Europe.

That's the bike I rode on the left of the shot...

Now that I'm back in Pittsburgh I felt I ought to take a ride and, just by a stroke of luck, while out walking this morning I stumbled across Golden Triangle Bike Rentals and, having recently discussed with Andy how we rarely see any Kona bicycles on the road, this little outfit down by the river had a selection of rides all made by Kona. I was made up as you can imagine. It cost US$8.00 for an hour ride or US$30 for the day so my colleague Paul and I decided to take a ride – and it was well worth it, I can tell you.

This contraption probably transported hot metal from the furnace

Apart from the fact that the bikes were incredibly well-maintained (ours seemed brand new) the route was all mapped out and it was all off-road on paths that were once railroad tracks. In other words, no danger from cars and with that came a tremendous amount of freedom. We were told to pay when we brought the bikes back and that we did.

On the Hot Metal Bridge heading south...

The path followed the north bank of the Monongahela River along what was known as the Eliza Furnace Trail towards Hot Metal Bridge, which we crossed and headed west through the South Shore Riverfront Park on what was now the South Side Trail. Along the way we passed Birmingham Bridge, then 10th Street Bridge, Liberty Bridge and the Smithfield Street Bridge. We had a brief look at Station Square and then, somewhere along the route, encountered a dead end. We had been told about this, but it still confused us momentarily until we found a route across the Fort Pitt Bridge back to the North Bank of the Monongahela where it meets the Ohio River. We could have followed the Ohio River along it's northern bank on what was called the Chateau Trail or the Allegheny River's Strip District Trail on its south bank, or crossed the Fort Duquesne Bridge and followed the North Shore Trail, but instead we headed back along the Monongahela River towards the Golden Triangle rental shop where we started, although things didn't go 100% as planned. Once over the Fort Pitt Bridge we lost our way and ended up on the riverside looking for a way up to the trail level. Eventually we had to carry our bikes up a flight of concrete steps and eventually found ourselves back on the trail and yards from the rental shop*. We'd been out for just over an hour and had enjoyed an invigorating ride in threatening weather. It was bitterly cold.

The guy in the rental shop told us that the Great Allegheny Passage leads all the way to Washington DC, 345 miles away, and that just before we had arrived to hire our bikes, a party of cyclists had headed out on that very journey, described as 'a multi-day adventure'. To go to DC you cross the Hot Metal Bridge, but instead of turning right, as we did, you turn left and keep going. If you don't cross the Hot Metal Bridge but keep going you come to the Panther Hollow Trail that borders Schenley Park and stops close to the Phipps Conservatory.

An old slag pot...

The trail we took was full of Pittsburgh's steel heritage as the photographs illustrating this post testify.

What the cycle trail looks like...

There are 25 miles of traffic-free riverside trail in Pittsburgh and, in addition to the city's steel heritage, you might stumble across the odd homeless person asleep in a sleeping back or in a tent en route. I'm not mentioning this for any underhand reason, just saying that there are homeless issues wherever you go in the world and one thing I know is that in the cold weather, being homeless can't be any fun.

Pittsburgh's iron and steel heritage is recognised on the cycle trail.

The guys at Golden Triangle will also provide a map that not only details the routes of the trails, which are fairly easy to follow, but also list various restaurants, museums, ice cream parlours, bars and restaurants that can be found en route, and you don't have to ride alone as guided tours are also on offer.

The Canadian-Pacific Railroad – a never-ending goods train...

I'm not sure how many of my readers will find themselves in Pittsburgh, but here's the details, should you need them:-

More of the Hot Metal Bridge...

* On Thursday I hired another bike and revisited Sunday's route, but this time I managed to stay with the trail once over Fort Pitt Bridge – it meant a little time on Pittsburgh's roads, but it was fine.

Golden Triangle Bike Rentals and Tours
Downtown Pittsburgh
600 First Avenue
Pittsburgh PA 15219
Tel: (412) 600-0675
www.bikepittsburgh.com
www.gap-outfitters.com

Travelling to Pittsburgh, USA...

When the conveyor toaster collapsed in front of me I knew that breakfast wasn't going to be that memorable an experience. Then, when I noticed that the cutlery was plastic and the crockery made of paper, my suspicions were confirmed. This was basic. But in many ways it didn't matter; it wasn't that bad a hotel.

I'd checked in the day before, at around a quarter to eight in the evening, having taken a taxi from Pittsburgh airport. It had cost me $60 and my driver told me he was a recovering alcoholic who claimed he didn't sleep well because he drank too much diet coke. More fool him, I thought, as I bade him farewell and entered the lobby of the Hampton by Hilton.

Now that's a huge hotel room! You can't see the kitchenette!

The check-in was friendly and the man at the front desk guessed it was me by my accent. He gave me my room card and directed me to the elevator where I travelled all the way to the top and discovered that my room was huge. And by huge I mean enormous. It was the size of a small conference room and would probably seat around 50 people 'theatre style' if the need ever arose. I found myself wondering why a hotel company would waste so much space. There was only a bed and a sofa in the room, plus a television, and I figured they could have made around four average-sized rooms out of the space occupied by mine.

I've probably mentioned before that I don't like large hotel rooms – or large rooms full stop.There's something about sleeping in a wide open space that unsettles me, but I was so tired that I could have slept anywhere. Earlier I'd endured an eight-hour flight from London Heathrow to Charlotte, North Carolina, and it wasn't the smoothest of journeys. There had been prolonged periods of turbulence that required everybody to be seated and, if I'm honest, I wasn't that happy with American Airlines. I much prefer British Airways, but for some reason I'd opted for the former.

The flight was late for a start. We were supposed to take off at 1215hrs but I don't think we left the ground until around 1300hrs, if not a little bit later, probably 1330hrs. But what annoys me is that I always get the feeling that the Americans, while supposedly being big on 'service' and 'have a nice day' don't actually give two fucks about the customer. They seem to be saying 'like it or lump it' and work on the principle of the captive audience. So, the flight's late but there's no explanation as to why and it goes without saying that everybody accepts it. I think if people were more reactionary – and by that I mean if they simply, en masse, said, 'fuck you, American Airlines, we're going back to our hotel, sort your fucking lives out!' then perhaps they might change their attitude.

The view from my hotel room...

And then, on the plane, that whole class thing came into play; the whole notion that the further back you are in the plane, the scummier you must be and, therefore, the least service you get as a result. I was in seat 30D, an aisle seat, and when it was time for the food to be wheeled out, the 'trolley dollies' rolled past me and headed towards the front of the plane. One of the American airline hostesses was a big mamma. She seemed pleasant enough, but man she was 'wide', but more of her later. I knew then that I'd have a long wait until they reached me and sure enough I did. Eventually, however, along they came and there was a choice between chicken and pasta. I opted for the former and, as airline food goes, it wasn't too bad. What I didn't like was the wine. It was awful. Normally on planes I ask for a couple of those small 187ml bottles of red wine and I get a Merlot or a Cabernet, but this time I noticed that the trolley carried a huge bottle of red wine and they were dishing out paper cups of it. Now, that's fine, you might say, probably much more wine than in a small bottle, but the quality was piss poor. It was so bad that I handed mine back after a few sips.

The view from my hotel room looking left...

But let's get back to the trolley dollies. One of them had such a huge arse that she had to shimmy diagonally along the aisle and every time she went past me she nudged me, and I had to make sure that my tea or water or whatever I was drinking was in my right hand, otherwise it would have been knocked clear out of my hand and into my lap. It got very annoying and even if I had advanced warning – and by that I mean if I could see her coming at me from a distance – she still managed to nudge me. Her arse was so huge she'd do a fine job acting as a fender for ships coming into port.

There was plenty wrong with the flight. The screen on which I was supposed to be able to watch movies didn't work and the speakers they gave me to listen to music were shit, so I simply didn't bother. There wasn't even a map showing the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic. And that was another thing: time passed slowly; very slowly. I passed the time reading. I had a copy of The Week, an excellent publication, along with The Times and not forgetting a copy of GQ that I'd bought a couple days earlier. There was a good article in there about the Manic Street Preachers, and an interview with Chris Evans ahead of Top Gear reappearing on our screens, and not forgetting an article by Tony Parsons on Brexit, which, I must admit, took me closer to voting out rather than stay, although I still think I'll vote to stay.

A bill poster in downtown Pittsburgh

The turbulence didn't worry me as much as it used to, which was just as well because it was prolonged. As a consequence I remained seated for most of the flight with only brief sojourns along the aisles just to stretch my legs.

Towards the end of the flight I struck up a conversation with a guy across the aisle from me. He was a really nice bloke who reminded me of the television journalist John Sargeant, although he was an American from North Carolina who'd been on a Norwegian cruise. His day was much longer than mine had been. While I didn't leave the house in London until 0900hrs, he'd been up around 0400hrs, in Copenhagen and had flown to London to catch the flight we were both on. Our conversation was friendly and touched upon all sorts of subjects: Donald Trump, gardens (or 'yards' as he put it) cycling, St. Petersburg, Copenhagen, Norway and so on. His wife, who had the window seat next to him, looked tired and didn't say much and in a way I envied them because they were getting home whereas I was miles from home. They would get to see their 'yard' but I wouldn't see mine for another week.

We were warned that the approach into Charlotte would be bumpy, but having spent most of the flight seated due to turbulence, nobody really cared and soon we found ourselves on the ground and going through the hassle of American immigration, queuing in a long zig zag queue and eventually coming out the other end. I had a connecting flight to Pittsburgh and somewhere along the line I managed to say goodbye to the man and his wife before going through security again – I hate going through security – and then striding purposefully towards the gate for last flight of the day.

I reached Pittsburgh around 1930hrs and jumped in the aforementioned taxi to the hotel and then, after dropping my bags in the room I went to meet a colleague in a restaurant across the street. It was something like 0130hrs UK time, but only around 2000hrs here in Pittsburgh. The restaurant was called Eleven and it was dark and bustling and the food was good. I ordered chicken with risotto and greens plus a glass of cabernet and finally managed to relax a little. I knew I'd have a rough night's sleep later, mainly because of the journey and I did wake up two or three times, but eventually I could see daylight so I jumped up and took a shower and then it was breakfast and that conveyor toaster and the paper plates and then we took a walk around town and eventually a bike ride too, which, arguably, was one of the best rides I'd ever taken in a foreign country, mainly because it followed disused railroad tracks and skirted the river, passing many old relics from Pittsburgh's steel industry heritage. I'll write a separate post about that later.

Right now, as I write this, I'm not in my room (as I normally am when I write stuff). I'm in the hotel's business centre, which is very good. In fact, if you forget about the paper plates and that conveyor toaster that took it upon itself to simply collapse in front me, this is a nice little hotel. There's even a pool, which I'm tempted to use this week, although I've just had a tremendous bit of exercise on the bike. In fact, going back again to the paper plates, they're not that bad an idea. There's no restaurant in the hotel – always a bit of a bummer in my books – but at least that means we get to sample the delights of Pittsburgh's culinary scene.

I've been to Pittsburgh before. In fact, as we came into land I could see the 'cathedral of learning'. The so-called 'cathedral of learning' is Pittsburgh University. It's a tall, grey building that stands out, a bit like a cathedral, and was close to where I stayed when I was last in town, back in 2013. I remember the street where my Quality Inn was located, the Boulevard of the Allies. What a great name for a street. I crossed it earlier today as we, my colleague Paul and I, walked around town.

Weatherwise, it's not so good. While it was 70 + degrees in North Carolina, here in Pittsburgh it's cold and cloudy and spitting with rain. Yesterday it was raining too. The guy in the cycle hire shop said things were going to improve, but the ride we took earlier was, shall we say, a little 'bracing', but worth every minute. It's so nice to ride a decent bike. Well, not decent, but a bike that works, a bike with all of its gears, a soft saddle and fully blown up tyres. I don't think my bike back home is ever in such a state, it's always got faulty gears or dodgy brakes or something wrong with it.

I'm amazed at how many hotel brands are owned by the Hilton Group. There's Hilton Hotels & Resorts, Waldorf Astoria, Conrad Hotels & Resorts, Canopy by Hilton, Curio 'a collection by Hilton', Doubletree by Hilton, Embassy Suites by Hilton, Hilton Garden Inn, Hampton by Hilton (where I'm staying) Homewood Suites by Hilton, HOME2 suites by HIlton, Hilton Grand Vacations, Hilton HHonors.

Last year in Cleveland at roughly this time I stayed in a Doubletree. What a great hotel! The main thing there was the free cookies. And on that note, it's time for lunch, or it will be shortly. Today, Sunday, is our only day off. From tomorrow onwards we have to work so I've got to make the most of my time today. We've had a decent bike ride and now it's time for lunch.

Somewhere I can hear Don't You Worry Bout a Thing by Stevie Wonder.

To Westerham for tea and toast, and a solo ride to mum's

The word 'moreish' is often used to disguise greed, as if the notion that something is 'moreish' somehow excuses one from admitting that he or she is simply a pig. You know what I mean, you stuff your face with a bag of non-salted cashew nuts and when somebody mentions that you've 'scoffed the lot' your rather lame excuse is simply that they were 'quite moreish'. As if the person accusing you of being a pig is going to say, "Ah! Moreish are they? Well in that case I take back what I said."

But let's face it, unsalted cashew nuts ARE moreish. Once a packet is opened they have to be scoffed. Likewise sultanas or raisins, purchased for the purpose of making a cake, are soon consumed and at the risk of no cake being made. It's a sorry state of affairs, especially for somebody like me who finds quite a lot of things 'moreish'. Beer and wine being a prime example.

The breakfast table was set when I arrived...

I must point out that, as I write this, I am sitting in my back garden on a newly weeded patio. The sun is shining, the skies are blue, I can hear the distant sound of a light aircraft making its way somewhere and there's a wind chime chiming away in the light breeze. In short, it's absolutely wonderful. I am sitting under a large green umbrella, there's a towel swaying silently in the breeze on a rotary drier, birds are tweeting and, as I look out on to the lawn, I spy what looks like the discarded antlers of a reindeer but is, in fact, a branch from a tree that needed pruning and now needs to be cut into tiny pieces ready for disposal. I look at it with other ambitions. I'm thinking that I might have a bonfire later, in the twilight, with a beer. I want to enjoy the full primeval wonder of the flame, fanned by the breeze as the sun goes down. I even have thoughts of one day, lighting up a wood fire and pitching a small tent at the top of the garden where I might even spend the night, under the stars, as they say, with, no doubt, other members of my family looking out after dark, from the warmth of the house, and wondering whether I might have taken leave of my senses. Perhaps they would be right, but then I often think about sleeping in the wild. Yesterday, while driving through Ashdown Forest on the other side of East Grinstead, I felt a strange yearning to be under canvas and, as avid readers of this blog will know, it's a subject that has come up before on many a ride. I would dearly love to combine the two, cycling and sleeping under canvas, but as yet a suitable situation has yet to arise. One day, perhaps.

The reason I bring up cashew nuts and, indeed, beer, is that I've just enjoyed both. I remembered that there were cashew nuts in the larder and so helped myself to a couple of handfuls and I had just finished a bottle of Golden Summer Ale, I think that's what it was called, from the Hepworth Brewery in Horsham, West Sussex. Both – the nuts and the beer – are moreish and that, perhaps, is a good reason why I only have one bottle of the aforementioned beer in the house. Had there been two I would, no doubt, be drinking it right now; and if there were three, well, it wouldn't be long before I tucked into that too, putting paid to any idea of finishing off the garden chores and, indeed, anything else other people might have had in mind for my otherwise relaxing Sunday afternoon.

It is unbelievably peaceful out here in the garden. Earlier I threaded the lap top's charger through the kitchen window, enabling me to engage in a bit of alfresco blogging and I have to say that it's the way to go. The wind chime continues to chime, the breeze occasionally blows and the skies are even bluer than they were a few minutes ago. That towel still sways on the rotary drier and, lo and behold, the sound of an aeroplane brings back memories of my childhood when, on a similar day to this, I might have been sitting in a paddling pool with my brother and sister, back at home in Carshalton, feeling, perhaps, a little cold in the breeze and getting mildly disheartened when the sun disappears behind a cloud and all I could hear was the sad sound of a crying airliner, invisible to the naked eye, making its descent towards Heathrow. There was something strangely depressing about the sun being extinguished and the sound of a jet engine, almost moaning, as the plane prepared for its final approach.

Amazing weather
The weather this weekend has been truly amazing. I was going to say 'like a summer's day' but in all honesty, it IS a summer's day. It's early May and, for the first time in many a month it was odd to see Phil in a tee-shirt and shorts and wearing no gloves. Yesterday we rode to Westerham with Steve, but before we set off I quickly fixed that bulge in my front tyre, which, Phil informed me, had something to do with catching the inner tube in the valve. Once fixed we headed towards the Limpsfield Road and then, on Church Way, Steve's rear wheel of his Boardman mountain bike, seized up and he had to return to get another bike. Phil and I pressed on towards Westerham wondering how far we would get before Steve caught up with us. Steve, it must be said, is fit and a keen road racer. We joked that he'd catch us at the top of Church Way, but in the end we were sitting comfortably outside of the Tudor Rose café sipping tea and munching toast before he arrived. We sat and chatted for a while about keeping fit and about bikes and Andy and I's long lost idea about setting up our own cycle café and shop and soon it was time to head for home.

Nobody likes the hill out of Westerham, but, as always, it was a case of heads down and get on with it – and that we did. Soon we had reached Botley Hill where Steve decided it was time for him to power home without us, leaving Phil and yours truly on the Limpsfield Road, quite content to make our way home at a steadier pace. The weather was fantastic. There and back we were graced with the presence of a warm breeze, blue skies and sunshine and it wasn't long before we were sailing down Church Way having enjoyed an excellent ride. I reached home at 1019hrs.

The great thing about riding to Westerham, as opposed to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (our default ride for many months) is that we feel as if we've had a decent ride and that's because it's a decent distance – a 22-mile round trip. I think we should aim to ride to Westerham on at least one day of the weekend. To be fair, there have been two successive Westerham jaunts (this week and last week) so we're getting back into our stride.

A Sunday morning ride to mum's
This morning I decided to ride to mum's and left the house around 0730hrs having enjoyed Weetabix, blueberries and sliced banana plus a cup of tea before departing. Once again the weather was amazing, better than yesterday if the truth be known. There was the blue sky and the sunshine and a mild breeze as I wound my way down West Hill, turned left into Essenden, right on to Carlton Avenue and then down Jarvis Road, past my pal Martin's house, up Hayling Park Road and across the mini-roundabout towards Purley Playing Fields. Today, the fields seemed to be endless and green and peppered with goalposts minus the nets. They stretched off into the distance like a giant game of croquet. Dotted here and there was a handful of early morning dog walkers. I rode towards the A23 and the grey, squat Hilton National Hotel and then I turned right and left and found myself on what became the Stafford Road.

Mum and yours truly in mum's garden, Sunday 8th May 2016

There's little traffic on the outward journey to mum's on a Sunday morning, but it gets a little heavier on the return trip. I could have riden to Botley Hill or the Bus Stop, but it's no fun on my own so I pedalled over to Carshalton with a view to a second breakfast consisting of boiled egg, orange segments and a couple of slices of bread and butter, not forgetting the tea and the chat. I'd hoped to see Bon there, but mum said he'd probably gone for a drive. The fact that he didn't respond to my text messages backed this up so I chilled for a while, went out into the garden with mum and reminisced about the olden days.

While the garden has changed considerably since we all lived at home, the surrounding trees and the general environment have remained the same and that's what brings back those memories of dad sitting in the garden with his Tolly Cobbold and the Sunday Times, back in the day when the term 'the right wing press' held little significance. In those days, reading the Sunday Times was a sign of intelligence and astuteness, while reading the Daily Mail was something only women did – the latter is probably still true.

I think the reason why the summer months bring home those times of childhood is because the warm weather takes us out of the house and into the garden and that's where the happy memories lurk: the swimming pool, the hose fights, the cups of tea in the garden, mum's homemade lemonade, dad and with his beer and cigarettes – the smell of tobacco smoke in the air, dad in his blue shorts and white bush hat, and burning old newspapers with magnifying glasses. And let's not forget the trains at the top of the garden, hidden from view during the summer months, but exposed in the winter.

As I cycled up Rossdale I noticed how nothing had really changed. The road was still a golden colour, just like mum's hair, although it was patched up here and there with stretches of black tarmac (the road, not mum's hair). The houses looked the same too, because they were the same. Mum and the Browns, however, are the only original residents, the ones who were there when I was a kid. John Brown, who used to play tennis with dad and run the odd London marathon, turns 70 this week. I know this only because I spied an envelope with his name on it in the kitchen and mum told me it was his birthday.

We sat outside in the garden for about 20 minutes or so and while it was just gone 0900hrs, it was already warm. In all honesty I could have sat there for longer, but I was conscious of the impending ride home, so I made my farewells and headed home, following my outward route, but slightly more warily due to the build-up of traffic.

I can't remember what time I reached home, but it was probably around 1030hrs and I had the rest of the day ahead of me. The sun continued to shine, the wind chime played on in a light breeze and I sat in the shade nursing that beer I mentioned earlier before deciding to write this post in the open air.

It's now just gone 1800hrs, the sun is still shining, the wind chime is still tinkling in the breeze and as the sun heads west the shade races across the lawn. Those towels are still swaying gently on the rotary drier and the skies are still blue. It's warm too and time to consider dinner so I'll sign off until the next time.

Bank Holiday Weekend Cycling – Part two: to Westerham for tea, toast and cake...

Of late – and by 'of late' I mean for many years – my life has been largely devoid of music, mainly because it's impossible to listen to it without some kind of interruption, somebody asking me to 'turn it down' or requesting different music or wanting to discuss something. Ultimately, whenever I consider putting on some music, I think twice and decide not to bother.

As music has basically seeped away from my day-to-day life, like a burst water main, the machinery designed to bring music into the house started to fall into disrepair too. Old speakers soon found themselves in the garage en route to the municipal tip and now there is an amplifier and a CD player sitting self-consciously unconnected and redundant in the living room.

The music itself is in a state of disrepair. CDs can be found in a draw, not inside their original packaging but somewhere else: a New Order Best Of, for instance, might be residing in REM's Out of Time packaging and vice versa, and some CDs have no packaging at all. Needless to say some of them get damaged so that on the odd occasion when I find myself driving to mum's alone or nipping out to the supermarket to buy some milk, I place a CD in the player and it jumps, so I either switch if off or listen to the radio instead.

In all honesty, music has ceased to be important. I won't listen to anything produced beyond, say, 1995 – around that time good music stopped and a mixture of hip hop and Simon Cowell took over, giving the world some of the worst music it's ever likely to hear. It's not going to get any better either so I'm left with my memories and a few damaged CDs. When I say that music is no longer important to me, it used to define my very existence by providing the soundtrack to my life. I lived my life as if it was some kind of movie with me as the big star. Perhaps we're all guilty of this.

From an early age – probably around 13 onwards – I had been listening to music, trying to find meaning and relevance in the lyrics and, occasionally, transporting myself into a fantasy world where I was the lead guitarist playing in front of a huge audience, until the record ended and I came crashing back down to earth and found myself in my bedroom or, if I engage in such fantasies now, Sainsbury's or round at mum's house. And while I really should know better, I still engage in such fantasies.

Some people put music on as 'background' noise. I can't do this. Or rather I can, but I tend to want to listen to whatever is playing, drift off into some kind of other world and, hopefully, stay there for as long as I can. But, of course, such activity is impossible nowadays as there's always something else to do and, therefore, music is no longer relevant simply because there's never any time to just sit down and listen to it like there used to be. In many ways it's sad because I've always believed that music is good for the soul.

So, this week, on a mid-week drive over to mum's, I found All Mod Cons by The Jam – undamaged. What a tremendous album. From the word go it's brilliance shines through and it took me right back to 1978, a strange and formative year for me in so many ways. It reminded me of Bon, my brother, and going to the pub in Carshalton and drinking pints of Young's and not really having any worries – no mortgages, no bills, no responsibilities.

A few days later I found myself walking around the streets of Redhill with Jezza, a work colleague, who asked me to name any other artist – other than Paul Weller – who had not only remained relevant, but was still putting out cutting edge albums. I tried. The Rolling Stones? No, they're largely reliant upon their back catalogue. I wracked my brain and eventually scored: David Bowie. I was right, but Weller, as Jezza was keen to point out, was the only one of our contemporaries – Jezza and I are roughly the same age – who was still of massive relevance today and, of course, is still with us.

Yesterday, as I stood alone at the check-out in Sainsbury's, I spied Quadrophenia – a double CD set with a smaller version of the black and white story that's interwoven into the cover of the original vinyl offering. It was only £5. I'd earlier put a copy of the Observer into my trolley and now I picked it up and noted the price – a good £3. I cast it aside and put Quadrophenia on to the conveyor instead.

What can I say? Quadrophenia, in my opinion, is the best Who album. Better than Tommy, better than Who's Next, better than The Who by Numbers and so on. There are so many aspects of this great double album to bring out, but for now just two: Keith Moon's drumming and John Entwhistle's bass after Daltry has belted out, "Can you see the real me, can yer, CAN YER?!!!!" Driving home yesterday from mum's I found myself replaying it time and time again, it was that good. And when you think about it, what an achievement – the Who have had TWO albums turned into movies.

Another fantastic bit of drumming by Keith Moon can be found at the beginning of the track Bell Boy. Honestly, it's just amazing and, let's face it, they're all good – all four members of the Who.

Breakfast in Westerham. Pic by Andy Smith.

But right now, as I write this, my brain's in-built Walkman is playing In the Crowd from All Mod Cons. It's on from the moment I'm conscious or, as yesterday, when I rode along the Limpsfield Road towards the Green where Andy was waiting. We headed out to Westerham on what was easily the best day of the weekend – blue skies and sunshine and warmth. There was no heavy flask of water in the rucksack, no teabags and no milk as we were headed for the Tudor Rose café where we would enjoy tea, toast and the most amazing fruit cake.

The ride to Westerham was perfect. Great views, albeit with a few Lycra monkeys thrown in for good measure. We sat outside the Tudor Rose and watched the market traders setting up their stalls. Our tea arrived in a huge (and heavy) white teapot followed by two slices of thick, buttered toast and, of course, a couple of slabs of fruit cake. People walked past – dog walkers and old-age pensioners – and we sat there trying to put out of our minds the journey home and that long hill. But soon we were back on the bikes and heading towards the dreaded hill and I said something like, "Soon we'll be at Botley wondering what all the fuss was about." In truth, it was not that bad – it never is. The initial hill is peppered with flat sections and then, once beyond the Surrey Hills totem pole, it's a slow burn to Botley. We soon reached the pub and all that remained was the ride north along the 269 towards the Green. It was such a clear day we could see London stretched out before us, from the Shard to Docklands, but it soon disappeared behind the trees and suddenly we were back in suburbia.

We parted company at the Green and decided not to ride on Bank Holiday Monday, but, as I sit here now on that very day, with the time only minutes away from 0830hrs, I'm still mulling over a possible ride, although I don't think I'll bother. Instead, I'll take my exercise in the garden, sawing a few branches, pulling out some Devil's Forget-Me-Nots and sweeping the patio. Summer is fast approaching, the garden is starting to bloom... and In the Crowd is still playing in my head.

Bank Holiday Weekend Cycling – Part One: to the Tatsfield Churchyard

It's been a good weekend for cycling. First, Andy announced that he would be riding on Saturday. This is always good news as it means we head off somewhere and I'm not saddled with an urban ride, something I enjoy now and then, but it's good to get out in to the countryside, especially when the weather's fine.

While there are blue skies and sunshine, I've noticed a frost on the lawn in the mornings and, let's face it, the weather has been a little suspect. We've had the odd snow flurry, put it that way. Saturday (yesterday) was certainly colder than today (Sunday) but both days were bright and not really that cold at all.

On Saturday we headed to the Tatsfield Churchyard where, fortunately, the benches were dry, so we sat there eating chocolate-flavoured BelVita biscuits and talking about blogging. Andy has set up a photography blog and wants some advice from me, the grand master of the blogosphere (as the world of blogging is known).

A good example of bad photography, taken by yours truly at the churchyard

Andy, as you probably know already, is a keen photographer and he's written a post about the relative merits of digital photography over the more conventional film-based photography characterised by visits to the chemist to get your snaps developed. Initially, Andy's argument was as follows: it's a shame that digital photography has, in a sense, taken away the 'sociability' of taking pictures. By that he means that gone are the days when you take your film to the chemist, hand them over the counter, get given a slip of paper and told to come back at the end of the week. Then, when you pick up your photos you take them to the office and show your friends, having first weeded out those in which your finger has accidentally covered the lense and so on.

You might have a few shots blown up and framed, but the key here is that the shots are accessible. Alright, you might shove them in a draw with a load more paper wallets full of snaps, previously developed at Boots, but by and large, you can ferret around in that draw whenever you want and find the images you've been looking for. Sometimes, simply sitting on the sofa handing round a few old family photos is a pleasant thing to do, but these days that luxury has left the building as most people store their images on the hard drive of their lap tops, rarely to be seen by man or beast.

But is that really true? It could be argued that the advent of digital photography has brought the art of the snapper to virtually everybody in the country. Who hasn't got a smart phone these days? Most people are taking shots of virtually everything they encounter. I know that I'm one of those sad individuals who even takes photographs of cakes and bowls of soup in cafés and then I'm more than happy to share those images with anybody who's interested.

How many times do you see people sitting on park benches, sitting in pubs or cafés showing their friends shots of whatever they got up to the previous night? And then, of course, there's the growing and perhaps unsavoury practice of 'sexting' where promiscuous images of boyfriends and girlfriends are shared on social media, normally as some kind or revenge. In other words, photography is no longer something we do on holiday, it's something we're doing all the time. Take me and this blog. I'm always taking images, however dull, of the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the churchyard, our bikes, you name it, anything that might in some way depict the weekend's cycling.

The downside of the digital photography revolution, of course, is that everybody thinks they are professional photographers, and that's because the technology behind digital devices allows us to think that way. It's possible to turn an image into a sepia tone or black and white, or God knows what, but suddenly, we're all David Bailey and this, of course, is playing havoc with the livelihood of the professional who suddenly finds he's not getting so many wedding assignments or magazine editorial shots. Why? Because old so and so has a digital SLR, he can take your wedding photographs. Or the editor has been given a cheap, brushed aluminium digital camera that he now takes on all assignments.

But that, I suppose, is the only real downside of digital photography and it's up to the professionals to regroup and come up with something that will keep them in business. I know a top photographer who can do things with a digital camera that I can only dream of – and he seems to be doing alright, although, to be fair, he's mainly doing advertising shoots these days as most publishers are far too stingy to allow their editors to spend money on photography.

So, there you have it, that's what Andy and I were discussing at the churchyard in the sunshine as we drank our tea and munched our biscuits. We then rode home and vowed to ride to Westerham the following day, which we did and I'll report on it later today.

Losing my religion...

One thing that's really getting to me these days, is the whole necessity for everyone to be PC about stuff – especially about religion.

You know what, I'm not really religious. I went to a Church of England school. I was christened in a Church of England church.

The Church of England was invented by King Henry Vlll so that he could get it on with Anne Boleyn and that just about about sums up my 'religion'. I rarely go to church and I have a great deal of trouble believing some of the stuff the bible expects me to believe. You know what I'm talking about: Jesus walking on water, the loaves and the fishes and so on. Even the ressurrection. I don't know anybody who has come back from the dead, I don't know about you.

Most people hold some kind of religious belief or faith, even if it's really basic. Me, for instance, I find myself praying to God when there's a bit of turbulence on a flight. I occasionally pray for continued good health. But you know what? Generally speaking, I just get on with my life. I hope for the best, like most people. One thing I don't do is go on and on about my religion. Mainly because I'm not that religious, I am quite skeptical about the whole thing. I find that wherever there's religion there are problems, often problems linked with war and violence (think Northern Ireland, think the Middle East, think anywhere there's unrest).

So I take a step back and I think, hold on a second, why even get involved with this stuff? And I don't get involved. I can't be bothered. I'm not interested in other people's religious beliefs and I don't care if they're interested in mine or not. You know what? The last thing I'd want to be involved with is 'Jihad' or 'Holy War'. What the hell's that all about? Who would want a holy war and why? There's nothing holy about war.

I have no ambitions whatsoever to convert anybody to follow my religion, that of the Church of England. Why would I want to convert anybody? Equally, I don't want to be converted to other people's religions because ultimately I believe they are all questionable.

Whenever I see the Pope I almost laugh out loud at the ridiculous outfit he has to wear to set him apart from 'lesser mortals'. Marx referred to religion as the 'opium of the people', a form of social control, keeping people in their place. Think of the 10 commandments, they're all rules we're supposed to follow through life and listen here, I'm not saying they're wrong. Thou Shalt Not Kill. Well, of course not. Why would you want to kill anybody? So, in a nutshell, I'm not particularly religious and while I accept that other people are, I don't expect anybody to try and force their beliefs on me. It's a free country over here in the UK and we're all allowed to preach what the hell we want (well, let's not get started on whether or not there's freedom of speech in a democratic country as there's plenty of evidence that says we're not as free as we think we are).

So, let's get back to the Muslims. I wish them all well as long as they don't expect me to convert to Islam. I don't want to convert, not because I think Islam is good or bad or whatever. To be honest I know little about it, other than there's a book called the Koran, like my Bible, they pray in Mosques, not churches and, thanks to the mass media, we're all told to beware, thanks to the work of Islamic State and the Taliban and so on.

The mass media has stirred up folk devils and created what sociologists call a 'moral panic'. We see a man with a beard and a Mediterranean tan and we all wonder what's in his rucksack. No wonder the Muslim world is a little pissed off with the west. They're not all extremists, are they? If you believe the right wing media, they ARE all extremists.

But for me, I say live and let live. But also, don't bother me with your religion because I won't be bombarding you with mine. I don't want to know. For me religion, if it exists at all, is a personal thing. It's something you keep to yourself. You don't bother others with it, you don't try to explain your religion to others. Why should you? And why should anybody listen?

People always say never discuss politics or religion with anybody. They have a point. It's so boring, especially when you remember that a lot of it is hard to believe in the first place. It's magic at the end of the day, and who believes in magic these days?

It's not that I find religion boring, that's not it at all. Religion is interesting, of course it is, but we all have things we engage with and things we don't and for me another man's beliefs are another man's beliefs. I'm not saying that I don't find them interesting, although invariably I don't, but I'm simply saying that he can keep his beliefs and he can forget any idea about trying to convert me to his way of thinking because it simply isn't going to happen. And the reason for that is simple: I don't believe. Politics, fine. That's real. It's not 'magic'.

There are merits in left and right, Republican and Democrat, Tory and Labour, and I can see the arguments and understand why they exist. But religion! No, I don't believe in what the Bible or the Koran has to say. Does God exist? Who knows? Somehow I think not. If God exists, it's something like Mother Nature. Now that's a great wonder of the world, the fact that we and the animals and the plants and the seasons are all built in a certain way. The human body is amazing. Why? Now that's the question. What's the plan? But is it an old man with a white beard and a stick? I doubt it; things just 'are'.

So I don't want some guy with a beard and a copy of the Koran, or the Pope with a St. Christopher, or whoever, telling me THIS is how it is, because in simple terms, it isn't. Nothing is like it is. It all comes down to freedom at the end of the day. We should all be free to think freely and in whichever way we want.

The Syrian conflict isn't about religion. Alright, there are a lot of religiously-motivated people involved in the conflict, more's the pity, but it's not a fight about who believes what; it's a fight about a regime that people don't particularly like and want to change. Those with religious motivations are getting involved and that's a shame, but it's not about one 'God' against another.

I'm not about to change my view unless, perhaps, I witness a miracle. I don't know. Freedom is the answer and not being forced to believe something against our will.

Rail strike – so I ride to work!

Riding to work, as I've said before, is not exactly a fun thing to do. Once I'm in the saddle I always feel as if somebody – probably me – has upturned one of those old fashioned hour glasses full of sand and then, as I make my way towards my destination, the sand is seeping through one end of the glass and collecting in a pile at the bottom of the one below. In other words, I'm riding against the clock. Not that I have any real sense of urgency. Oh no, I'd rather take things a little easy, ease myself in to the ride, take in my surroundings and generally enjoy what I'm doing.

Southern, a train operating company, are on strike. I think it's something to do with the introduction of new 12-car trains without guards, but I can't be certain. There hasn't been a train strike for a long time. It reminds me of the old days of Ted Heath in the 1970s when we had a three-day week. Fortunately, back then, I was a kid and train strikes didn't really bother me. They bothered my dad instead. I'll always remember him going on about Ray Buckton, the head of ASLEF, who was always causing industrial strife off the back of a rail strike.

The Henty Wingman – I used mine today

Anyway, there are no trains so I had two choices: ride to work or take the bus and I chose the former. Unfortunately, because it was a spur-of-the-moment decision, I didn't leave the house until late (just gone 0800hrs, probably around 0810hrs by the time I was actually on the bike and riding up Ellenbridge. In fact, for me, the worst bit of the entire ride was probably from leaving the house until I reached the top of Church Way, because it seems to take an age to get there. The rest of the outward journey was pretty much fine. I rode up the Limpsfield Road to Wentworth Way, rode the length of Wentworth Way, past Warlingham High School, down Tithepit Shaw Lane, up Whyteleafe Hill and then Whyteleafe Road, emerging God knows where, somewhere in Caterham, and then turning right at Stanstead Road and following it all the way through the rural badlands on the outskirts of Merstham before descending, along Warwick Wold Road, into the back end of Merstham, turning left just before School Hill and finding Battlebridge Lane or Road, I can't remember. Soon I was heading for the local leisure centre where I padlocked the bike to the rack and paid the extortionate sum of £5 for a shower, including a quid for a locker token.

Then the hassles started. For a moment I thought I'd left my glasses behind – but I hadn't – and generally it was all a bit irritable, mainly because time was moving on, I'd left later than I should have and it was heading towards 1000hrs. I discovered that the sandwiches I'd lovingly made (tuna, spring onion and tomato) had been squashed into a ball. I had to throw them out and later visit the M&S café for soup and rolls. But once I'd showered and changed into my suit I cycled the short ride to the office, padlocked the bike and embarked upon a day's work. I was feeling totally energised and chatty and, it has to be said, on top of the world. If anything I was too full of beans.

A few potential problems lurked. I was convinced on the ride down that my front tyre was going to explode on me. While I thought my front wheel was buckled, closer inspection led to me to discover that there was a strange bulge in the tyre. I figured it could blow any minute, but it didn't. Punctures are just what I don't need when I'm riding to and from work and, fortunately, nothing happened.

The last time I remembered snow in April was back in 2008 but we had some today. Just a burst followed by blue skies and sunshine. Fortunately I was safe and sound in the office and not on the bike. But sooner or later I'd be back on the bike. I decided to leave it until after 6pm when I figured the traffic would be calmer. Unfortunately the weather was looking decidedly dodgy. The skies had darkened and rain was threatened as I headed up a brief stretch of the A23 en route to Merstham via Frenches Road. It was spitting rain and I was constantly assessing in my mind where I could take shelter in a downpour, but it never came. I was so worried I would get drenched that I stopped off at Merstham railway station where I was told there were no trains. There was nothing for it, I'd have to ride all the way home, but which way?

I was tempted to ride the slow way, the rural route through Chaldon, similar, in fact, to my outward journey, but I was conscious of a possible downpour and decided instead to head up the A23 and through Coulsdon and Purley.While I thought it would be unpleasant, it wasn't. Probably because I'd left it later and the traffic was getting less and less. In fact, it wasn't until I reached Purley Cross that there were potential danger spots, although I managed to negotiate all the problems and soon found myself in the back streets beyond Purley Station and heading up the Purley Oaks Road or the Purley Downs Road, I can't remember which, although I think it was the latter.

It last snowed in April in 2008....

When I reached home I felt totally energised, but also very hungry and enjoyed every bit of my dinner, washed down with a pint of London Pride – not forgetting Weetabix and sliced banana and a slice of brown bread without any butter. I'm still hungry now, but also a little tired. The football is on. Manchester City versus Real Madrid, it's 0-0 and not a very exciting match.

I'm so glad I rode in today, but whether I feel like doing it tomorrow, I'm not sure. I took a few risks today. I cycled without a crash helmet, I didn't take a pump or any leeches with me to fix a puncture and I didn't wear any waterproof clothing. In other words, I left myself vulnerable to outside forces. Not a good idea, but fortunately the Gods were on my side and now, as I sit here writing this, I'm beginning to feel pleasantly tired.

The Henty Wingman
Today's ride relied upon the Henty Wingman, a kind of suit carrier and rucksack combined. I put my suit inside the . Wingman along with a pair of shoes, a towel, soap, glasses, sandwiches, a clean shirt, everything I needed was in the Wingman and it performed well on both outward and inward journeys. For more details on the Henty Wingman, click here.

For more on the Henty Wingman, visit the company's site, which is www.henty.cc

Those were the days of miracle and wonder...

Last weekend it was Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven. This week it's Paul Simon's Boy in the Bubble on my in-built sound system that seems to be playing something, constantly, like musical tinnitus, whenever I'm conscious. The reason for last week's tune was the fact that Zeppelin were in court over the opening chords to their mammoth anthem – a band called Spirit from America's west coast was claiming that the heavy rock band powered by Page and Plant had 'stolen' some chords from a song called Taurus.

I like Spirit. When I was a hopeless teenager – and in my equally hopeless early twenties – they were constantly playing in my head and I'd advise all readers to check out The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus and an album entitled Future Games. Very strange, but very good too. There's also an album called Spirit of 76, which is well worth listening to if you veer towards the strange, as I've always done.

The reason for Paul Simon's Boy in the Bubble was probably Jools Holland's BBC2 show, Later. Paul Simon was on the programme – I'd imagine he's been recording some new stuff – but all you have to do is mention the name Paul Simon and I immediately think of Graceland, an amazing album that I never bought, but one I heard a few times. Boy in the Bubble has a great, flatulent bass line that carries the song, so it was playing loud and clear as I rolled down West Hill on my way to mum's yesterday morning.

The blossoms are out at Purley Playing Fields

While the sun was out and the skies were blue, there was a chill in the air, albeit a mild one, as I headed towards mum's house, following the usual route and stopping, as always, when I reached the Purley Playing Fields, this time to take a shot of a blossom tree in full bloom. That's one of the great things about this time of year. When the blossom trees are out there's hope in the air and a mild scent of the summer to come.

The ride to mum's, as always, was uneventful, and while I was hoping to see my brother's Cannondale parked up outside mum's house, it wasn't there and he later texted me, following my text explaining that I was on my way, to say he woke up late.

A house full of Kit-Kats.

I had the usual fantastic breakfast: boiled egg with fingers, some soft, white bread, a few chunks of fresh orange and some tea. In fact I had two, possibly three mugs of tea and a small Kit-Kat from the Kit-Kat House (see photo right).

As always, mum has plenty to say about what's going on in the road.

"Next door's having another baby, Math! That'll be three little babies living next door and she's such a tiny thing [the woman who will be giving birth, not the babies]."

They're doing a lot of work to their house, knocking down walls, pulling down garages, adding this and adding that. "He's the project manager, Math, but he's a trained electrician, he's ever so good."

It's at times like these that I start to feel inadequate when I consider my complete lack of DIY skills and the fact that a little bit of painting – or anything for that matter – is a big deal for me.

"The curtains are drawn down the road. I think Elizabeth has died, Math."
"Elizabeth? Dead? But why?"
"Something to do with arthritis, I think."
"That's a shame, she was only young, " I said, remembering the family when I was kid and living at home. I can see them all clearly now as I can the whole street, back in the days when the sun was always shining and Billy Wheeler, who lived across from us, was building a boat – a big boat – on his front drive.

But just because the curtains are drawn doesn't mean somebody's died. Don't most people draw their curtains? Perhaps they simply forgot to draw them back. I can't believe she's dead just because she didn't draw back her curtains one morning.

Typical of the things you'll find in mum's garden...

We started to speak about other people in the road, now long gone or long dead, like the Bottomleys. I might have related to you the tale of the Best Wishes chocolates and it was odd that it didn't come up as it normally does, but it passed us both by. In a nutshell, when I was a child, probably under 10 years old, the aptly named Mrs Bottomley handed me a large box of chocolates and I, quite rightly, thought they were for me and me alone. The occasion was a trip to the cinema to watch Mary Poppins. Having decided that the chocolates were mine, I proceeded to scoff the lot of them, palming others off with some Opal Mints that I happened to possess. The end result? I was ill. My arse was on fire and I was pebbledashing anything in sight, including the inside of my uncle's mini van. It was a family story that ran and ran and even today, when the words 'Best' and 'Wishes' are uttered together on family occasions, eyes turn towards me and smiles break out on the faces of family members. I still feel I owe my uncle an apology for that day.

I started to wonder again whether drawn curtains necessarily mean that somebody has died, but mum was adamant. "The husband has come back from Canada," she said.
"What was he doing in Canada?"
"Elizabeth came back, she didn't like it there," mum explained.
"Perhaps he's over here for a holiday," I suggested.

Another breakfast at mum's...

We started talking about our old neighbours: Mrs Bottomley, Mr and Mrs Lee, the Morrisons – Mr Morrison looked like Boris Karloff – Mrs King, the Conquests (Bill and Betty), Mr and Mrs Elliot, the Tillmans (including Elizabeth), the Clarkes and, of course, Mike and Sonia, who moved into Mr Dale's old house. I'll always remember Mr Dale, an old chap who we always invited in for a drink on Christmas morning. He was sit quietly in the corner, smiling occasionally while sipping Harvey's Bristol Cream.

We never spoke about the people on the other side of the road – the bit leading down to Westmead Road to the right of mum's – as they were rarely part the mainstream goings on and were only occasionally part of the story. There was Mr Hooper the alcoholic – I recall him doddering around drunk at our Silver Jubilee street party – Mr Doyle, the former Mosquito pilot – who once shouted out 'too early!' in his west country accent when we were carol singing early in December – the Spaldings, the Barringtons and, of course, the Reeves, who threw the occasional flamboyant party.

"Would you like to look at my cherry tree?" asked mum.

Mum's garden – she spends a lot of time keeping it neat and tidy...

We went into the garden and then came in again as it was a bit chilly. I had another cup of tea and then put on my hat and gloves and said goodbye to mum. Halfway down the road I realised I'd left my mobile phone, glasses and camera behind and so turned around to retrieve them.

The traffic was heavy on the ride back, but not until I reached Wallington. It started to spit with rain too, but never got any worse and I escaped a soaking, arriving home around 1040hrs.

On Sunday morning there was rain so we aborted. It was dull and grey outside and I vowed to go on a short ride later. And by 'short' I mean the Woodland Trek. Then I set about finding Boy in the Bubble on Spotify, but in vain. Later, perhaps.