To the Tatsfield Churchyard...

While Saturday's weather was dull and overcast – and very depressing – Sunday was the complete opposite.

During the summer months I tend to wake up early as the sun pierces through the curtains and I find myself ready to rock around 0500hrs. This is both good and bad news. Good because if I get up around that time I have a long period 'downstairs' doing things like writing this blog, drinking tea and munching on toast; bad because sometimes it's good to get the extra hour's sleep.

In all honesty (as I'm writing this on Monday morning at 0654hrs, having eaten breakfast of strawberries, raspberries and blackberries with natural yoghurt, Shredded Wheat with hot milk and a mug of tea) I can't remember what I decided to do yesterday morning. In fact, I do remember. I woke up around 0600hrs, caught the news in a semi-conscious state and then the beginning of Something Understood (I've said it before and I'll say it again, they, Radio Four, should do another programme entitled Something Misunderstood). In other words, it was a 'normal' routine. I jumped out of bed around 0610hrs, made my way gingerly downstairs – don't forget we have no carpet on the stairs and there are exposed Gripperods – and made some tea, toast, Shredded Wheat and fruit, just like this morning in fact. Or similar.

Deer on Beddlestead Lane, Sunday morning...

On Saturday morning I had woken up to find two abort texts from Andy and Phil. Andy said he was knackered; Phil was off to buy wedding rings in London. I opted to ride over to mum's through Purley and Wallington, leaving at the normal time and later enjoying tea and fruit cake while chatting about the normal stuff we chat about. I also fixed two lamps (mum had put 3-amp fuses in the plugs when she needed 13-amp – not that I'm Mr Handy, it was just commonsense). I left around 1015hrs with a bottle of chilled London Pride.

So it was Sunday and I left the house roughly on time, pumped up my rear tyre – it wasn't flat, but I felt it could do with a bit more air – and headed up Ellenbridge, across Southcote and then up Elmfield Way before turning left on Morley and right on to Church Way.

I reached the green at just gone 0730hrs and Andy was waiting. We decided to head for the Churchyard. It was, after all, 'churchyard weather' (dry and sunny). As we reached the Warlingham 'mini roundabout', close to Knight's Garden Centre, I suggested we rode the 'slow way' so we did a quick circuit of the aforementioned roundabout and then rode towards the Bull and round to the right, riding kind of parallel to the 269 and avoiding the fast cars. The quieter 'slow way' is characterised by narrow country lanes hemmed in by hedges at this time of year. It means we can talk and worry less about traffic.

There is, of course, the punishing Beddlestead Lane, a slow and winding incline towards Clark's Lane that always seems to take ages and, invariably, is populated by Lycra Monkeys as it was today – not many Lycra Monkeys, but a few. To the right of the lane is a huge cornfield that shone in the sun. There was a lonely deer and its offspring making their way towards the road, although I doubt they would have crossed it. Not that it was busy. Andy dismounted and took the shot (above) accompanying this post and then we soldiered on, past the 'totem pole' – a dead tree – and the mobile phone mast and on to Clark's Lane where we turned left, rode past the Tatsfield Bus Stop (still in a state of disrepair) and on towards the churchyard where we sat on our bench, drank tea and munched on chocolate BelVita biscuits. The weather was perfect and we both admitted we could have sat there for much longer than we did, chatting, as we were, about photography and bikes and stuff. Andy would like to take it up photography professionally, but is only too aware how the advent of digital cameras has led most companies that used to need photographers to rely upon their own staff members 'taking a few shots'.

The ride back along Clark's Lane was pleasant enough and soon we reached the 269 and rode towards Warlingham where we parted company.

The sunny weather continued throughout the day and so did my hay fever. By the time Top Gear graced our television screen I was so blocked up I was forced to see if I could find some Olbas oil. I only tried the local Co-op and returned empty-handed and had to make do with a tissue. Horrible. And so was Top Gear, it's just not the same without Clarkson, May and Hammond. I feel as if they're all pretending to have fun rather than genuinely enjoying what they're doing. As for Eddie Jordan...

Something to do on June 24th...

I have an idea. After the vote on Thursday, if we all decide NOT to leave the European Union, I think it only right that those who supported the Remain vote should encourage that woman who looks like a pineapple – Camila Batmanghelidjh from Kid's Company – to travel with Alan Yentob, Sir Bob and Eddie Izzard to the UKIP stronghold of Ramsgate where they should be handed bass gazoos (if they exist) and then parade the seafront playing the theme tune to Desmond's.

Why I should have dreamt this up while riding to mum's yesterday morning I don't know, but now, having done so, I can't get the theme tune to Desmond's out of my head.

The continuing nightmare...

When the nightmare began, it arrived quietly. A text message while the phone was switched to 'silent'. It was probably there for half an hour or so before I noticed it. The message was simple: your flight to Stockholm with SAS has been cancelled.

Once I spotted and read the message, what had been a fairly relaxed, if mildly fraught weekend, was turned into a stressful, irritating one. I phoned my travel company to see what could be done and, as always, the end result wasn't favourable. I was told that to get there (to my destination) on time I'd have to pay £1,680 for a business class ticket. This was completely out of the question as the price quoted was almost double the original quote for the entire trip. Surely there must be something else?

Well, yes, there was, but it meant arriving Monday, not Sunday, at around 1630hrs. This was kind of fine, but not brilliant as it meant that I would miss Day One of the conference I was booked to attend. The alternative option was to abort the whole thing, and believe me I considered it. However, by taking the option of arriving on Monday afternoon, missing Day One's proceedings, I'd still get to be involved in the lion's share of the event, so I said 'fine, go ahead' – and within a few minutes I'd resigned myself to leaving the house around 5pm, getting to the airport around 6.30pm, having dinner at the airport (fish and chips in the Perfectionists' Café in Terminal Two at Heathrow, of which, more later) and then flying off towards the Arctic Circle city of Lulea (is it a city? I don't know).

So I reached the airport and went through the tedious process of security: taking the lap top out of the suitcase, placing a small container of shaving gel into a plastic bag, walking through the scanner and then re-packing the lap top and re-organising myself. Soon I was in the aforementioned Perfectionists' Café eating, arguably, the best fish and chips I've ever eaten. Fillet of cod, battered, with probably the best mushy peas ever and some excellent chips too.

So far, this has been the only good thing I've experienced

Then, more problems. The flight was due to leave at 2030hrs – sorry, by the way, for switching 'the normal clock' to the 24-hour clock in a matter of two paragraphs – but instead it was leaving half an hour later. And hey, I didn't mention that it wasn't going to Stockholm, did I? No, it was going to Copenhagen and I'd be spending the night in the First Hotel Mayfair in the centre of town. I'd then have to fly to Stockholm in the morning (Monday – today!) and then on to Lulea later in the afternoon, arriving at 1630hrs. Half an hour delay suited me fine, but it got worse. We all boarded the aircraft, me in seat 24A, armed with Noam Chomsky's Who Rules the World? Why not? It might be worth finding out, I thought. So I'm sitting there and I'm told, after listening to the same message in Swedish, which seemed to use far too many words to convey a simple message, that we'd be sitting on the tarmac for at least 45 minutes. It turned out to be more than an hour before we headed for the runway. I was getting very annoyed. You know what? I can understand air rage incidents.

So eventually off we go and the flight was fine. It took about an hour to reach Copenhagen, the flight was smooth and the paper cup of tea offered by the cabin crew was also fine after those fish and chips (and a couple of glasses of Cabernet – well, it was Sunday for heaven's sake. I should have been at home watching the cringeworthy Top Gear).

After a shortish cab ride from the airport I arrived at the First Hotel Mayfair only to discover that while I thought my travel company had reserved me a room, the guy on the front desk thought otherwise. By now I was tired. It was 0200hrs and I had to be up early and back at the airport to catch a flight to Stockholm. "How long is this going to take?" I asked him, almost falling asleep on two feet. "About fifteen minutes or so," he said, and I thought of those delays I'd already experienced back on the tarmac at Heathrow and, of course, the initial cancellation that had led to me standing here in the early hours, tired and in need of a good night's sleep.

He handed me a key card and directed me to my room on the second floor, room 2084 or 2042 I can't remember. Then, more hassles. Once I'd gained access to the room I discovered that I had to place the key card in a slot on the wall to get any power. This is commonplace,  but this one was difficult. I tried putting the card in one way and then the other, but no joy. It was 0200hrs and I was tired and irritable. I starting swearing under my breath and then eventually managed to get it working. I can't say I had a decent night's sleep.

I dreamt that, for some reason, I had foul-smelling breath and was upsetting a lot of very important people as a result. This must have developed because I didn't have any toothpaste and it must have played on my mind. It was one of those dreams when you wake up thinking it was real and then sigh with relief when you realise it wasn't.

So, I was lying fretfully in bed when I hear a noise. Like a small harp being played by a spider. It was my phone. I reached for it. "Cancellation: SK1420 Copenhagen to Stockholm." I couldn't believe it, although it meant I could lie there for a little longer, which I did. Then I got up and had breakfast: cereal, fresh fruit, scrambled egg, two mugs of tea and sat in a rather relaxed environment, from where I write this post. I'll need to call my travel company again and now I'm seriously weighing up whether it's worth pursuing this trip at all. Perhaps I'd be better off heading home and calling it a day. We'll see. If the new booking means losing another day I'm going to better off going home. More later.

More on Noam Chomsky later, but if you're in two minds about how to vote in the forthcoming EU referendum, bear this in mind:-

 "In Europe, the decline of democracy is no less striking, as decision making on crucial issues is shifted to the Brussels bureaucracy and the financial powers that it largely represents. Their contempt for democracy was revealed in the savage reaction in July 2015 to the very idea that the people of Greece might have a voice in determining the fate of their society, shattered by the brutal austerity polices of the troika – the European Commission, the European Central Bank, and the International Monetary Fund (specifically the IMF's political  actors, not its economists, who have been critical of the destructive policies). These austerity policies were imposed with the stated goal of reducing Greece's debt. Yet they have in fact increased the debt relative to GDP, while Greek social fabric has been torn to shreds, and Greece has served as a funnel to transmit bailouts to French and German banks that made risky loans."

For more on Christine Lagarde of the IMF, click here now.

To Westerham...

Yesterday (Saturday) Andy, Phil and myself rode to Westerham. Phil might have to face the NoVisibleLycra disciplinary committee, it was decided, following his admission that he was wearing those 'clickety-click' cycling shoes worn by Lycra monkeys. You know what I'm talking about: those shoes that lock the wearer to the pedals and require him or her to remember to twist their foot in order to get off the bike. He was also riding a dropped handlebar, racing bike, although we'll let him off on that rule violation. All he needs now, though, is the tight fittting, 'sponsored' clothing and, well, we'll have to reconsider his membership if he goes that far – or at least request that he rides 200 yards ahead or behind us.

There were plenty of Lycra monkeys en route – the hot weather brings them out in droves – and as they whizzed past us, talking about pension plans and corporate strategy, we winced and patted our trusty tractor-like machines on the crossbar, safe in the knowledge that we were not wearing Lycra and probably never will. Let me take out that word 'probably', we'll never wear Lycra.

The weather was perfect. Not sunny, but warm. As we passed the Tatsfield Bus Stop, however, we noticed that somebody (or something) had smashed it up. The bench – our beloved bench – was broken and it looked as if the back wall had been taken out too. We assumed that something had crashed into our favourite covered, wooden bus stop, probably a car, but it's not a good sign. We resolved to visit Tatsfield Village the next time we needed shelter from the rain as there's another covered bus stop there.

Andy rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop Sunday and took this shot of the damage.

Once at Westerham we 'set up shop' at the wooden table on the green and drank tea. Andy brought out the Milk & Cereal Belvita biscuits and then Phil decided to buy himself and Andy a bacon roll from the Tudor Rose (I ordered a slice of fruit cake instead).

Library picture of Winston Churchill's statue at Westerham

The conversation revolved around the forthcoming European Union referendum and all the usual stuff you'd expect to hear people going on about. Soon it was time to head home. We had to deal with the awful hill going out of Westerham, but we're used to it, and soon we were at Warlingham Green bidding Andy farewell and then heading home to Sanderstead along the Limpsfield Road. We got there around 1015hrs.

There was a plan to ride out today, but I woke up in the dead of night and couldn't get back to sleep so I aborted, which was just as well as it was raining. Right now, at 1124hrs, it's stopped, but the forecast is for more.

• The Tatsfield Bus Stop – Andy rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Sunday – today – (on his Lycra monkey bike!) and took this image of the damage done. He said it looks as if a car hit it. Well, there goes my 'sleeping rough at the bus stop fantasy'.

I'll be back in the saddle next week.

No cycling, but plenty of decorating

I don't like decorating. Back in the mid-eighties I bought a large, 1926-built semi-detached house in South London that needed to be decorated from top to toe and I did the lot, having first attended classes at the Alan Sharratt School of Wallpapering. My best pal, Alan, is good at decorating. In fact, he's good at most things. When we were at school, he taught me how to fix my own bike; we used to build bikes and I was fairly good at it. Right now, though, I can't for the life of me remember how to take apart and then rebuild a bike. If something goes wrong with the Kona, it goes straight to the shop. Similarly, decorating. Alright, I can paint a wall (who can't?) but when I bought the aforementioned house it needed wallpapering. I called Al, he showed me how and off I went.

But that was a while ago and once I'd finished the house I kind of vowed never to embark upon such a project again. When I moved again the place I bought didn't need immediate decorating. In fact, I've been saying that for the past 15 years and, well, things have been neglected. Either that or we've paid builders and painters and roofers and floor layers and carpet fitters to do the work for us, although I keep looking at my front driveway thinking 'I could do it, I really could', but I couldn't and I won't so I make do with Roundup for the weeds and once a year you will find me sitting on the driveway in the sunshine removing dandelions and other unwanted plants.

The time comes, however, when I realise that I've got to roll my sleeves up and do some decorating. Our staircase was looking a right mess and the carpet running up the stairs was threadbare. We bought a new carpet at John Lewis recently and this weekend was earmarked for a spot of painting. Gloss on the woodwork, an intricate, time-consuming job, and now the house reeks of paint, there are exposed Gripperods to watch out for and, well, I'm glad it's over. It's taken me the whole weekend.

First I had to rip up the old carpet and the underlay. Then I had to take the carpet and the underlay to the local dump, along with an old duvet. When I returned I had to extract staples from the stairs and then sand the woodwork in preparation for the big job: painting. I went to bed last night with the daunting thought of painting in the morning. Both rides were aborted, which was a shame as the weather was wonderful. I took a trip the local DIY store to buy a few things (dust sheet, sanding block, light bulbs, wood varnish, white spirit) and then, having been to mum's en route for tea and cake, I returned to the house and got started.

Apart from a brief break at lunch time, I soldiered on until around 5pm when I retired to the garden with a cold beer and a bowl of amazing chilli con carne with rice and salad. Then I sat and watched a movie, Case 39 with that woman from Bridget Jones' Diary (Zellwegger). It was quite good and had me on the edge of the sofa once or twice. Right now I'm watchind Duran Duran live at the Eden Project – all in aid of BBC Music Day.

The smell of paint is everywhere. Paint and white spirit, but there's also a sense of achievement, which always feels good.

May Bank Holiday – more Monday ramblings...

The weather took a downward turn today when compared with the rest of the Bank Holiday weekend. It would be fair to say that Saturday was, by far, the best day, then Sunday and then today.

The skies were grey today and there was a definite breeze. The cow parsley and the hawthorn along the 269 were suitably ruffled and it wasn't a particularly warm day. I wore gloves and had my coat buttoned up and, as we headed for Westerham, things didn't get any better on the weather front.

Yours truly in Westerham

On reaching our destination, we found a wooden chair and table, probably owned by the Grasshopper pub, and set up camp on the green. I say 'camp', we merely took out a flask of hot water, teabags, cups and milk and made tea. Andy produced chocolate chip Belvita biscuits and we then engaged in small talk, mainly about the fact that my bike was 10 years old, we'd been cycling regularly for 10 years next year and all was good with the world – our world, that is. We talked about servicing my bike and whether it's best to get a gear and brake service and call it a day OR get a bike 'rebuild', which all bike shops seem to offer at varying prices.

Andy's pint and bacon sarnie...

Andy had some time to kill this morning and was planning to head for the lakes. I had things to do at home (more gardening) so I couldn't join him. We both headed towards Pilgrims Lane where we parted company. I carried on up the hill while Andy headed east towards Chipstead village in Kent, home of Longford Lake and the Bricklayers Arms, a Harvey's of Lewes pub where he later enjoyed a pint and a bacon sandwich.

Westerham has been firmly back on the agenda of late. This weekend we covered 44 miles with two consecutive rides to the northern Kent market town, home of Winston Churchill.

As I headed north along the Limpsfield Road it tried to rain, but I managed to get home without a soaking and then got on with the rest of my day. Andy later reported that he enjoyed a pint and a bacon sandwich at the Bricklayers.

May Bank Holiday – Monday ramblings...

It's Bank Holiday Monday, a day normally characterised by bad weather, but not this morning. The whole weekend has been brilliant so far and, as usual, it's coming to an end miles too quickly for my liking.

I spent most of yesterday in the back garden, mowing the lawn and then cutting back the edges, which I'd allowed to get a little overgrown – a bit like the top of the garden where I need to cut down the long grass and get rid of the branches and twigs that are lying around. The day involved basking in the sunshine, drinking tea and then, after dinner, settling down to the new Top Gear, the long-awaited continuation of the programme not so long ago vacated by the great Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May, who, sadly, have moved on to Amazon Prime.

Le Blanc, Evans and the Stig – the jury's out...

Well, they say that nobody is indispensable and they're right, but there are times when the task ahead for the person challenged to carry something successful on to greater heights is a little tricky. Chris Evans has found himself in that position and yesterday was judgement day.

When the programme started it was, in my opinion, a little shaky, with Evans and Le Blanc delivering phrases immortalised by Clarkson, but without the great man's gravitas and panache. I felt that they should have moved away from the old format, but they'd stuck with The Stig and they'd kept the 'some say...' jokes, which I thought was a mistake as they're so closely associated with Clarkson. They kept the Star in a Reasonably Priced Car too, which is when I thought the programme picked up a bit, Evans being good at the celebrity interview, and then I realised that the real star of the show was Matt Le Blanc. He will, I'd imagine, carry the show forward and I feel confident that future shows, as we go through the series, will improve.

I think the best way to describe the first of the new Top Gear shows is by way of an analogy with the movie Liar Liar, starring Jim Carrey. I felt that keeping the show's Clarkson format was a mistake and that the 'some say' jokes about the Stig, told by somebody other than Clarkson, was uncomfortable to watch in the same way that, in Liar Liar, when Carrey's screen wife's new boyfriend tries to do 'the claw' for the little boy, it's just cringeworthy.

I felt that the challenges – something Clarkson and Co did so well – need to be vastly improved as they too lacked a certain gravitas. We need some good 'car versus other modes of transport' stuff and I felt that travelling to Blackpool in a couple of Reliant Robins didn't really cut the mustard. That said, it was watchable and I hope it will continue to improve. Evans is good, I've always liked him, but I admit I was a little sceptical about him filling Clarkson's shoes. Perhaps that's an impossible task, who knows, but he's doing a reasonable job as it's not an envious task.

It's all to do with chemistry at the end of the day and, let's face it, Clarkson, Hammond and May had that chemistry. Whether it exists between Evans and Le Blanc is up for debate, but I'm glad Top Gear's back and let's hope they pull it out of the hat. I get a strange feeling that they will.

May bank holiday – more Sunday ramblings...

Comparing yesterday's weather with today's is a fairly easy thing to do; yesterday was like a hot summer day, whereas today was slightly cooler. When I left the house this morning I considered putting on my gloves and there was no way I was going out in just a tee shirt.

It was weird being back on the bike after the my two rides in the USA, mainly because the hybrid I rented was much more in tune with the type of riding I was doing and, to make things even better, everything worked. Now, as I wound my way along Ellenbridge Road I could hear the old Scrap creaking and shaking as I changed gear, not risking standing up on the pedals as I rode up Elmfield Way just in case the gears slipped and I damaged the old Jacobs.

I left the house around 0730hrs and reached the green around 0800hrs. Andy arrived shortly after me and we both knew where we were headed: Westerham for tea and toast at the Tudor Rose Café – as always, just what the doctor ordered.

Sanderstead pond, Sunday morning around 1030hrs

The ride to Westerham was punctuated with chat about the forthcoming European Union referendum. Andy is 100% for Brexit, but I'm not 100% sure. I find it difficult to be certain that I will tick the right box and I really am convinced that most people haven't a clue about what they're doing.

There are plenty of Brexit voters who want out mainly because of immigration and the fact that if we remain in the EU – they say – we won't be able to do anything about EU citizens simply turning up on our doorstep and 'taking our jobs and reducing our wages in the process'. Before I start taking the piss, this is a serious concern. Many areas of the UK have physically changed as a result and wages have come down too. And if we really can't do anything about it if we stay in the EU, then, for a lot of people, uncontrolled immigration is one good reason to vote out.

The 'remain' camp, of course, will say that immigration  is a positive thing. The immigrants, they say, are doing the jobs we, the British, are not prepared to do, like picking strawberries and, they say, what's wrong with that? While they can come over here and work, we can go over there too! So what's the problem? Well, there's one huge problem. Who wants to go and live in Romania or Bulgaria? They are poor countries by comparison where, I'm guessing, the state isn't going to find anybody a home or pay for it with state benefits. While a lot of 'remain' voters will try to accuse Brexiters using immigration as a reason to vote out as racists, this angle no longer holds water. Being concerned about immigrants, be they fleeing war zones or simply opportunists looking for a better life, is not racism. For a lot of people it's a genuine worry.

There has, of course, been a lot of rubbish spoken by those in the 'remain' camp and most of it has come out of David Cameron's mouth. He's threatened World War lll, falling house prices, recession, more austerity, you name it, and the people are getting tired – sick and tired – of Cameron and his cronies trying to frighten people into staying put. In my view it makes me wonder why he's so desperate that we should stay in the EU. Perhaps there's something sinister afoot. I mean, take TTIP  – the proposed Transaltantic Trade & Investment Partnership between the EU and the USA. This has been largely negotiated behind closed doors by unelected officials who have been quoted as saying that they do not take their mandate from the European people. In fact 'they' is one person, a lady called Cecilia Malmstrom. She was interviewed some weeks ago by the Independent newspaper here in the UK and was quoted as saying just that, that she, an unelected official, does not take her mandate from the European people, meaning she doesn't really care European people think, they've got to like it or lump it. Malmstrom, incidentally, takes her mandate from corporate lobbyists.

My 10-year-old Kona Scrap on Sanderstead Green this morning

TTIP is supposedly on the ropes. Greenpeace has managed to get hold of the negotiation documents and has discovered some awful things about the agreement, like the fact that big US corporations will be capable, under the agreement, of suing the national government of a sovereign nation if they feel that certain legislation in any way negatively impacts their business. If this is true, then Philip Morris, the big cigarette manufacturer, will be able to sue, say, the UK Government for it's decision to keep cigarettes out of sight in supermarkets and newsagents and garage forecourts. They might argue that such a practice is restricting cigarette sales and therefore damaging their profitability. There are plenty of other worrying elements too, and I'll generalise a little bit here: first, you must remember that within in the EU there are some pretty stringent rules and regulations governing the quality of foodstuffs and also the use of pesticides. In the USA they are not so stringent. They, for instance, pump growth hormone into their beef products – we don't. But the big issue here is whether we trade down to meet their shoddy standards or do they trade up to meet ours? Now, I don't know about you, but what's the betting that we'll be trading down to meet them? In many ways it's really quite shocking. The fact that the EU has spent so much time and money developing rigid standards for food manufacturing and farming and the use of pesticides and so on, but when the USA says they want a deal, greed sets in, the EU sees the colour of their money and is quite prepared to sacrifice the health of the nation – or rather the health of the EU nations – in order to make a fast buck.

But guess what? The EU has been rumbled. There has been growing anxiety over TTIP for many months and now, thanks to Greenpeace, we know the truth: the EU is quite prepared to make deals with the USA that will have a negative effect on the European people in order to make money. And the don't necessarily care about the European people. Perhaps they'll say to the USA, "Fine, we'll accept your beef with it's cancer-causing growth hormone and we're quite happy to have your pesticides used on our farmland and consume your GM crops, we'll do anything, we'll compromise our rigid standards on food quality that we have developed over many years, whatever you say, Mr. President."

It is argued that if we come out of the EU on 23 June Dodgy Dave (that's David Cameron, our Prime Minister) will be eager to sign up for TTIP as he'll be desperate for any deal he can get with the USA, especially after Obama told us all recently that if we vote to leave the EU we'll have to go to the back of the queue when it comes to business deals. So much for that 'special relationship'.

I think one of the problems with the EU referendum is that people will probably vote on the personalities involved. On the Brexit side we have Boris Johnson, that phoney buffoon, and Michael 'call me Orville' Gove, not to mention the rather sinister Iain Duncan Smith (IDS) and, of course, Chris Grayling. The only one on the Brexit side who makes me think leaving the EU is possibly a good thing is Lord Owen. He's always struck me as one of those 'proper politicians' along with people like Kenneth Clarke and the late Tony Benn. I've always had a lot of respect for David Owen and was, until recently, unaware that he'd be on the side of Brexit. But he is, so there's hope for those who want out of Europe – it might not be that stupid an idea after all.

Sticking with the personalities, my view on Dodgy Dave and George Osborne is that if they want us all to stay in, then surely we should all vote out.

There is something sinister about the EU. We already know that it hasn't got our best interests at heart, just look at the way TTIP has been negotiated. So, I find myself thinking: Dodgy Dave, he of the Panama Papers fiasco, and George Osborne and, wait for it, Tony Blair, they all want in. Three good reasons to leave, perhaps?

EU immigration, however, won't stop unless we leave the EU – or so it is argued – and that, for most people, is a big issue.

As for me, I'm still undecided. I tend to lean towards staying in Europe along the lines of 'better the devil you know',  but also because I like to consider myself a European, I agree with our new London mayor when he says we should embrace the rest of the world, and in particular our place within Europe, rather than being insular and nationalistic and old fashioned and, some would argue, bigoted. I'm definitely not a 'Little Englander' and for these reasons I think I'll vote 'remain', but I won't say that I'm not concerned about the issues put forward by the Brexit campaigners.

The single market, says Cameron on Countryfile as I write this, is crucial for our future, but the Brexit campaigners complain about the mass of regulations involved. The farming community relies upon migrant workers from the EU, but nine out of 10 people working in agriculture are British.

There's a lot more to the argument, but the above is, roughly, what Andy and I discussed as we sat outside the Tudor Rose Café munching buttered toast and drinking tea from a dark brown teapot. Well, we had cups, it wasn't as if we were drinking Sangria in Spain. We poured the tea into China cups rather than suck it out through the spout.

Soon it was time to face our worst nightmare – the hill out of Westerham heading towards Botley Hill Farmhouse. It didn't phase us one bit and soon we were racing down the 269. We parted company at Warlingham Green and plan a ride to the lakes tomorrow (Bank Holiday Monday), although we might just go to Westerham again.

May bank holiday – Sunday morning ramblings...

It's 0630hrs and, in all honesty, I never thought I'd be sitting here at this hour. Having planned an early night – or rather, having planned to go to bed 'on time' (around 2230hrs) – I then discovered that I'd be in the car at gone midnight picking somebody up at the railway station. Admittedly this meant that I could sit and watch a couple of episodes of the X-Files so I embraced the situation.

You might recall that yesterday I didn't go out on the bike because I had a 'drive' in mind. Well, that drive took me to Petworth (in West Sussex) and then the beach at Littlehampton. The weather, as I'm sure you'll recall, was wonderful. The reason for no bike ride was to conserve energy and not risk falling asleep at the wheel, which can happen if tiredness sets in; I know somebody who lost his arm having fallen asleep at the wheel. And, as the Greyhound bus driver told me in Pittsburgh last week, the key to any form of long distance driving is rest.

Rest is crucial, say Greyhound bus drivers. This dated shot I found online.

Now let's not make any wild claims here: the difference between the English and Americans when it comes to driving distances is vast. Americans are known to drive in excess of 10hours to get somewhere, often much more, working occasionally in shifts or simply stopping for cups of coffee en route and really going for it. In the UK, if you drive for more than about six hours you'll end up in the sea – and that's if you were driving from Lands End to John O' Groats. So my piddly journey of around 130 miles all-in was nothing to shout about, but I know one thing and that is 'tiredness kills' and I've had many an occasion where I've felt heavy-lidded while clasping the wheel and it's not good.

So, having got to bed, eventually, at gone midnight, I thought I'd check if Andy fancied a later start – meeting at the green around 0800hrs instead of the normal 0730hrs. Alright, just a 30-minute delay, but it makes all the difference. And then, when the alarm sounded – or rather the radio sprang to life at 0600hrs – I was up and out of bed. If the truth be known, I was awake at 0530hrs as the sun had already penetrated the curtains; and while I did get back to sleep, when the radio came on I listened to the first news headline – something about Michael Gove and Boris Johnson and all the back-biting going on within the Tory ranks over the EU debate – and then jumped out of bed.

It was another wonderful morning outside. The sun was shining and, well, that's all I know to be honest, it's another great day and perfect for cycling. I put on a tee-shirt, found my socks (one was on the floor, the other hiding in one of the legs of my trousers) and then headed downstairs for Shredded Wheat, strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, not forgetting a cup of tea (with milk!). You may be wondering why I've included 'with milk', well, it's all to do with my recent trip to the USA and a tea company called Bigelow's.

Bigelow's makes some wonderful tea, and I discovered it by accident. Over by the tea station in my hotel – which, annoyingly, was closer to the front desk than the breakfast room (unlike the coffee) – I found a little red sachet of black tea but failed to notice that it contained orange rind and sweet spices. Initially, I thought there was something wrong with the water until I picked up a sachet of the tea the following morning and noted that it was a black tea with orange rind and sweet spices, something, perhaps, that I should drink with milk. For the rest of my stay in the USA I had the tea straight without milk and then, before checking out and flying home I half-inched a few sachets to take home (around 20!). All last week here in the UK I've been enjoying this wonderful tea, without milk, and I ran out yesterday, so now I'm back on normal black tea with milk and it's not the same. I'm planning to get some of Bigelow's tea delivered to me here in the UK.

So I'm sitting here at 0653hrs, having enjoyed my breakfast – and looking forward to another one in Westerham later this morning – and I'm feeling alive and ready to ride, which is odd when you consider I was expecting to feel tired and heavy-lidded and in 'abort' territory. There was a text from Andy saying yes to a later start and while I considered texting back and saying 'stick with our usual time' I remembered the wise words of the Greyhound bus driver and decided to chill out and leave at 0730hrs for an 0800hrs rendezvous at Warlingham Green. For a minute I thought I'd spelt 'rendezvous' incorrectly, but it's fine. "The key is rest," my Greyhound bus driver said and he was right. Remember that when I met the guy he'd driven a bus from New York City to Pittsburgh via Philadelphia and was heading back in the opposite direction the following morning. That's a long drive and with the added responsibility of having passengers on board.

Riding a Greyhound bus in America is probably one of those things we should all do at some stage in our lives. Perhaps the next time I'm out there, I'll ride one somewhere, but the distances are so huge and time at such a premium, it's something I'll have to think long and hard about before climbing aboard.

On the rest front, I haven't been doing too well. The worst thing about jet lag is often its subtlety. By that I mean it hangs around long after you think it's gone home. I got back last Saturday morning, not  yesterday, but the week before and I decided that day to stay up until it was time to hit the sack. This I managed quite well. During the day I had a few periods of nodding off for a split second or two, but I managed it all the way through to gone midnight and then, during the week just past, I found that while the jet lag proper had gone, I noticed that I had a new lease of life around 2300hrs and sat up watching late night television shows before hitting the sack around the witching hour. This has persisted all week and what with yesterday's late night I'm still not getting the early night my body deserves. I know that one of these days I'll feel need to crash early and that I'll simply stagger up to bed and fall asleep.

Right, it's time for a ride. See you later...

May Bank Holiday – Saturday morning ramblings...

What amazes me is the pointless decision that I made yesterday not to go cycling this morning. The idea was to be out early to drive somewhere and have lunch and then return home, but it's gone 10am and nobody's doing anything. Alright, nor I'm I. Here I sit on the computer writing this post when, perhaps, I should be 'doing things', although, to be fair, I have done things: I've put out the rubbish. Paper in the blue box and plastics in the green. Or is it the other way around? Either way I've done stuff. I've eaten breakfast, but I need a shower too, so I'm estimating we'll not be out of the house until at least 1100hrs. Beyond that and it's pointless going anywhere far.

My rental bike in Pittsburgh – everything in working order!

I've just discovered something interesting. Cycle Republic is basically Halford's in disguise! I went on to the Cycle Republic website and when it came to checking out new bikes – no, I'm not looking for a new bike – the website redirected me to Halford's. Now, there I was considering putting my bike into Cycle Republic for a service, but now that I know it's Halford's in disguise, I'm having second thoughts. You may ask why and it's because whenever I have taken my bike into Halford's for a service it's always come out slightly worse than when it went in. The last time I took it there they adjusted the forks (without even being asked to do so) and the net result was that the ride was spongy and like being in a boat in a rough sea. Also, I find with Halford's that whenever I take the bike in for whatever's wrong (gears, brakes etc) it's not long before the bike needs to make a return journey. I made a point of not going to Halford's after the last time. In fact, I've been using Cycle King in South Croydon. Now there's a bike shop I trust. It's £99 for a rebuild – which I need to have done on my machine – and, I don't know, but I trust the people who work there, they're not rip-off merchants either, which is good.

I've really got to get my bike serviced. It's currently running on eight of its 16 gears and has no front brake to speak of, and after last week's rides in Pittsburgh on a hybrid with working brakes and gears and tyres as hard as rock AND a decent saddle – I'm seriously thinking about losing the Spongy Wonder – I think it's about time I slapped myself around the face and took my bike in for a service. I like the idea of a rebuild. Basically they strip back the bike and rebuild it, making it (apparently) like new. It's something my bike clearly needs and deserves. I simply must treat it right and not just sling it in the garage every weekend and expect it to work. Nine times out of 10 it does work, but it's getting a little creaky, it's unsafe and I need to rectify matters.

I'm planning to ride on Sunday and Monday and we'll probably go to Westerham for breakfast at the Tudor Rose on one of the days, possibly Sunday, as who knows what their plans are for Bank Holiday Monday? They might be closed and we'd be stuck in Westerham without tea or biscuits. Now that would truly be a disaster, especially knowing that next on the agenda would be the hill towards Botley. I think I'd probably resign myself to sleeping rough in and around Westerham until I plucked up the motivation to head hom, although riding up the Westerham hill on an empty stomach? No way!