Bicycle dilemmas...

I always thought that bicycles were indestructible. For me, a bike is for life, not just for Christmas, but that said, in my life time, I've owned five bikes, including a Moulton Mini, and I only know the whereabouts of one of them, my Kona Scrap, which, right now, is in the garage, unpadlocked, having been on what might have been its last ride.

Shock! Horror! It's last ride? Well, it's like this...

First, like a lot of people, I tend to expect things to work without question, particularly my bike. I ride it, I finish riding it, I chuck it in the garage and then I repeat the process as and when. Occasionally I get a puncture, I fix it and get back on. Sometimes the bike takes a trip to the repair shop, but then I carry on riding it week in and week out.

Castello Aragonese, Ischia – just part of this wonderful Italian island...

What I fail to understand is this: bikes are like cars; they're like human beings. They must be taken care of or they will buckle under the strain of things and die and that, my friends is what might be happening to the old Kona Scrap.

Cycle Republic...
You might be wondering what I'm talking about, I know that I wonder sometimes; so I'll relate the tale to you. The week before I went on holiday – yes, I've been to Ischia for a relaxing week in the sun – I decided that I'd mosey on into Purley (a 15-minute ride from where I live) and put the old Kona in for a full service at Cycle Republic, which has just opened and now occupies the same large space once occupied by the great Motorcycle City, a place I used to go religiously on a Sunday morning to sit on the cruisers and fantasise about owning a motorcycle. Call it a mid-life crisis. I never did buy a motorbike and that's probably why I'm still alive, writing this blogpost; had I bought one I might be dead or limbless.

How much?
So I take the bike in for a service and tell the guy manning the workshop that I'll be away for a week. I went into work and then around lunchtime I get a call from the shop. "It's going to cost around £200," said Cycle Republic's Brian. "Personally, I'd buy a new bike," he added. A new bike? He started speaking in the same way a mechanic might disparagingly discuss a clapped out old banger of a car and to be quite honest, I couldn't believe it. Surely, I thought, bikes went on forever, they're basically a frame, two wheels, brakes and gears and if you replace bits that are faulty you're merely prolonging the bike's life. They're not write-offs like cars.

But oh how wrong I was! Apparently. For the rest of the day I worried and fretted and thought things through. A new bike? The thought has rarely crossed my mind to be honest. My bike is my bike, it's 10 years old, I can't just sling it on the scrap heap and buy a new one! Or can I? No! If it's £200 then so be it, I'll get it fixed. So I called back and told him to go ahead and then I went on holiday for a week, fretting a little bit and losing sleep here and there because I'd have to explain away the £200 bill, possibly more, that I'd be getting when I returned sun-tanned and relaxed from Ischia. It was a great holiday, thanks, I just wished I'd booked a fortnight and not just seven days, but you can't have everything.

Should it stay or should it go?

Getting back to the bike, for me, the 'big day' was Saturday, the one just gone, as I'd have to go and fetch my bike and hand over the money. I levelled the situation at home and headed off to pick up my 'new' Kona, but when I reached the shop, the bike hadn't been fixed at all. "I'm still trying to get the parts," said Brian. This, of course, was great news. He said he wouldn't push ahead until he'd told me the price, but that he'd need a few more days.

I ought to explain exactly what needed to be done on the old Scrap. It needs a new chain and block, the gears need servicing, it could do with a new bottom bracket, the brakes need a service, the crank needs replacing, the pedals are edging towards the day when they'll have to be replaced and the bearings in the front wheel are completely blown.

Is bicycle servicing a bit of a scam?
Up until this point I was quite happy with Cycle Republic. I was not committed to pay the aforementioned £200, they'd let me know the final cost once they'd sourced all the parts and then I could either go ahead with it or take back my bike unserviced. I left it with them, but then I remembered Cycle King, another bike shop about a mile or two down the road in South Croydon. They were an honest bunch of guys and would give me a quote while I waited, so I shot back into Cycle Republic and asked for my bike. I must point out that I was a little annoyed with Cycle Republic mainly because Brian said that for the money it would cost to repair my bike he could sell me a Carrera. Hmmm... is this whole bicycle servicing thing a bit of a scam, I thought? Fine if you bike doesn't really need a servicing, they can replace a few cables and charge you £40 or £50 and laugh all the way to the bank. But if your bike really does need to be serviced, then hey, why not try to sell the customer a new bike. "Not worth fixing, mate," they might say. Not worth fixing? A write-off? Surely not. But it's true – or so they say.

A courtesy bike?
So I took back the bike and asked them to let me know the cost of the servicing as and when they'd sourced all the parts. Something else that riled me was the whole notion of a 'courtesy bike'. Things really are beginning to sound pretty car-like. Soon we'll have to get our bikes insured and have number plates fitted. A courtesy bike? It's not a bad idea and the wheel of the Carrera Brian tried to sell me had a circular piece of card stuck to the front wheel saying something like, "why be without a bike while yours is being serviced? Take this courtesy bike." It was a blatant message. Basically you could have the Carrera as a courtesy bike while yours was being serviced. So I asked Brian if I could have it. "No," he said, not really explaining why, but he did say I could have a rather crappy old bike they kept round the back. This pissed me off. Why advertise the Carrera so blatantly as a courtesy bike when it actually wasn't? Unless, of course, he simply didn't like the cut of my jib.

The bigger deal for me, however, was the scam behind bike 'servicing' and the fact that people with bikes that really needed a service, like mine, were basically told that it's not worth it, but how about a new Carrera? When Brian presented the Carrera to me as a possible new bike, I was appalled. "But isn't the Carrera Halfords' own-brand bicycle and aren't they, well, a bit crap?"

The horror! The horror!
In many ways, it was the sort of statement that could 'rumble' the true identity of Cycle Republic. Fine, it comes across as a radical-sounding, left-leaning, Guardian-reading sort of establishment full of potential Jeremy Corbyns going everywhere by bike. That word 'Republic' brings a touch of Che Guevara to the proceedings, perhaps. But, hold on, it's owned by Halfords and possibly it's a kind of undercover Halfords ('nobody needs to know our true identity'). Perhaps mentioning the word 'Halfords' in a Cycle Republic store is a bit like bringing up Voldemort's name. Imagine horrified customers stopping dead in their tracks. "Halfords? We're really in Halfords?" they might exclaim in horror prior to running into the streets screaming. But when I mentioned the word there was nobody around so Cycle Republic lived to trade another day.

Cycle King
The old Scrap creaked its way along the A23 for a couple of miles and eventually reached Cycle King where I was met by the store manager, an amiable gentlemen who knows a thing or two about bikes. I've always trusted Cycle King because they're a no-nonsense outfit that always calls a spade a spade. He looked at the bike and very quickly told me it was going to cost me an arm and leg, more than £200, nearer to £250 – "you'd be better off buying a new bike," he said, pointing me in the direction of some Ammaco hybrids, the CR750, and the CR450 (the latter being the same as the former, but with block brakes).

Cycle King in South Croydon, a trustworthy place...

I wasn't convinced, but I was getting there. That whole argument about the old Scrap being totally inappropriate for what we do, the fact that a more conventional bike would do the trick, the reality that servicing the Scrap would cost roughly the same as buying a new bike. It all started to add up. Or was the argument really that servicing my bike would cost roughly the same as buying a crappy bike, like the Carrera? Yes, that is the answer and when I really think hard about it, I wonder whether the reason Cycle Republic didn't touch my bike while I was away on holiday was because they wanted to wait until my return to see if they could sell me a new bike? Put it this way, I took the bike away but asked them to call me Monday – when they said they would have a price for me – and it's now four days later and I've heard nothing. Why? Because they're not interested in servicing my bike when they could sell me a new one instead.

The best comparison, however, would probably be something like this: you own a classic Aston Martin DB7, it needs around £5,000 worth of work doing to it and somebody at the garage says, "Not worth it, mate. You could buy a brand new Kia Piccanto instead."

Today we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard, me on my beleaguered Scrap, which creaked its way up Church Way and along the Limpsfield Road. I hadn't seen Phil since the wedding and he said he'd enjoyed his honeymoon in Sardinia. We met Andy at the Green and rode off. Later, at the churchyard, we discussed the whole bicycle dilemma, running through everything that needed fixing: bottom bracket, gears, crank, wheel bearings...and we ended up deciding that a new bike was the best way to go.

The old Kona Scrap in happier times...

I'm going to be very sad to see the back of the Scrap, even if it is an inappropriate ride for me. I've had it for 10 years, but now, perhaps, it's time to get a more sensible bike, a hybrid, something with more gears, something lighter, with thinner tyres. But what? A Specialized Sirrus or one of the Ammaco bikes, the CR750 or CR450? It's what you might call a 'bicycle dilemma'.

Or is it? I've made the decision NOT to buy a bike from either Cycle King or Cycle Republic purely because they suggested I should buy a new bike – in other words, buy a new bike from them rather than service my Kona. How very dare they! There must be some kind of sales policy linked to bike servicing. "If the bill is more than X, try to sell the customer a new bike." And besides, Carrera and Ammaco are not exactly a match for a Kona, they're cheap bikes with cheap parts and they're not really designed to last. Furthermore, you really do get what you pay for in this world. I realised I'd be better off with a proper brand, a leading player in the field, be it another Kona, a Marin, Trek, Specialized or Giant.

The Specialized Crosstrail Sport Disc...

As luck would have it I found myself in a bike shop in Forest Row, near East Grinstead, and there it was: the Specialized Crosstrail Sport Disc. 27 gears! Lock-out forks for on- and off-road, available in matt black, just like my old Marin. The shop was offering 25% off the RRP so it was only to be £412.50. Not bad. In the end, however, thanks to Evans Cycles' Price Match policy I was able to buy the bike for the discounted price from an Evans store in Gatwick. I pick it up on Saturday and we're keeping the old Scrap in the garage until we can fix it. All's well that ends well, thanks to Evans Cycles where, incidentally, I bought the Kona Scrap 10 years ago.

Is it just me?

Sometimes, when I'm on my way home from work, feeling tired, weary and occasionally troubled, I look longingly at a green GWR train to Reading that always seems to be sitting on the platform awaiting a green light. Often I arrive in time to see the driver exit the rear of the train and make his way to the front and then I get the chance to take a peek into the driver's cab and imagine myself sitting there on the comfortable seat, driving the train.

As the train's diesel engine ticks over I find myself drawn to the First Class carriage – or rather the rear of the carriage that is given over to First Class ticket holders. I'm not a First Class ticket holder for one reason: I don't believe that the addition of a white napkin on the back of a seat warrants additional spend.

But putting class aside, all I'm seeking out is comfort and peace. Not First Class comfort and peace. I peer into the coach and imagine myself sitting in the seat at the rear of the carriage, having already purchased a half bottle of decent red wine, a plastic cup, a decent sandwich, possibly a cake or a pastry and an insulated paper cup of tea with the milk already added – and the teabag left in.

The rest is simple: the train embarks upon it's journey to Reading, once on the move I have a glass or two of wine and a nibble of the sandwich, a bite of the cake, and I just sit back, look out of the window and chill out. To be honest, I rather hope that the train never stops and just keeps going, but I know that sooner or later it will arrive at Reading and I will disembark, slightly bleary-eyed and wishing I was closer to home.

It could, of course, all go wrong. Should I ever take the train I'm likely to do so on impulse, meaning I won't have a valid ticket. Having consumed the wine I might be approached by an inspector who might threaten a penalty fare. I might get shirty. Alcohol is involved. I might find myself ejected from the train at an obscure station, like North Camp, where I might be met by the transport police. It could all get very nasty and I might end up spending the night at Her Majesty's Pleasure somewhere in the Reading area. Oh dear!

The last of the short rides to Botley Hill...

Botley Hill, Sunday morning. Photo: Andy Smith

Fortunately, today, Sunday, represents the last of the short rides to Botley Hill. Last week, as avid readers will know, I rode to Botley Hill twice, early, as I had stuff to do during the day that required me being back at the house before 0930hrs. Alright, once in a while it's fine, but it's nice to ride a little further – to the churchyard or the village or even Westerham, not to mention the lakes, although we haven't been along Pilgrim's Lane for a long while.

It was just Andy and I today – and for good reason. Phil was in Sardinia embarking upon day two of his honeymoon. On Friday just past (29th July) Phil married Jane and now, as husband and wife, they're probably soaking up a few rays of Sardinian sunshine.

Both Andy and I and our respective other halves attended the wedding at the splendid Wiston House near Steyning in West Sussex. It was a great day in so many ways – decent weather for a start, great food and, of course, great company.

Wiston House has to be seen to be believed. It's an amazing place surrounded by beautiful grounds and it even has it's own church, although the wedding was a civil ceremony, and I gave a reading at the beginning and managed to finish it without any hiccups, which is always good news and fortunately, is generally the case.

The Kona Scrap at Botley Hill

The weather wasn't supposed to be as good as it was. During the week Phil had been watching the forecast and was concerned that there might be rain, but there was nothing but hazy, English summer sunshine throughout the day and into the early evening.

There's accommodation at Wiston House some of us stayed over and had the pleasure of continued decent weather the following morning. After breakfast – and having said our goodbyes – we took a stroll around the grounds and then headed south to Shoreham, the plan being to take a look at the place before driving home, but there was a sudden (and prolonged) downpour of rain, which prompted us to find the A23 and drive home. The rain stopped as soon as we moved away from the coast and the good weather continued for the whole of Saturday.

Sunday was the same. I left the house for Botley Hill around 0635hrs and was quite surprised to find the temperature a bit nippy. So nippy that I considered returning to the house to pick up the rust-coloured jacket, but decided instead to push ahead along Ellenbridge, up Elmfield and, ultimately, up Church Way.

Like last week I was cycling alone, leaving the house earlier and meeting Andy at Botley Hill. This was to save time and to ensure that I was back home before 0930hrs (I got home around 0906hrs). Thinking about it, however, it was pointless leaving earlier as I met Andy, who left at the usual time and we both headed home at the same time, so why I pushed the envelope and left early I'll never know. I think it made me feel more comfortable in myself in the sense of getting there early, being there when Andy arrived and then seemingly have greater control over the time we headed back. Whatever the reason, I don't have to do it again.

A fine morning at Botley Hill...

The weather warmed up as I rode along the Limpsfield Road, past Warlingham Green, then Warlingham Sainsbury's and, of course, Knight's Garden Centre. From then onwards the 269 was very quiet and there was hardly anybody around as I rode towards Botley Hill. I arrived at just gone 0730hrs, quite early, and parked the bike. I took off my crash helmet and paced up and down, partly to warm up as my back was cold. That might sound odd, but having had my rucksack pressing against me for the duration of the ride, the sweat cooled and I found myself feeling a little chilly.

The sun was up and the skies were blue and, like last week, there was a paraglider in the skies. A motorised paraglider who had taken off from a nearby field and was now buzzing around above me taking in the same scenery he took in last week. Wasn't he bored? Soon Andy arrived, from a different direction than last week. Instead of following the tried and tested route, he came from The Ridge and was riding his racer. Today, he told me, was Ride London.

Out came the tea and biscuits and Andy and I talked about Friday's wedding and Wiston House, which had impressed us both. Then we moved on, for some reason, to winning the lottery. I said if I won millions I'd buy a house on the beach, nothing the size of Wiston House, but probably something with five or six bedrooms and a decent sea view. That said, I'm quite happy where I am and what about the cycling? If I lived on the South Coast I wouldn't be riding to the Tatsfield Bus Stop or the village or the churchyard. I wouldn't be riding to Westerham or the lakes, but I guess I'd find other places to visit on the bike, like Arundel and Littlehampton and Pagham beach, which is always a little desolate. I'd probably give up work and travel a lot. I might have a place in Italy and I'd let my pals visit rent-free and I'd probably spend a lot of time out of the country, on holiday.

It was soon time to ride home and there was still a mildy cool breeze as we headed down the 269. It made me wish I'd worn that rusty old jacket. Andy and I parted company at the green and I headed home on the Limpsfield Road, getting home, as I said, around 0906hrs.

Later I went to mum's and sat in the garden eating fruit cake and drinking tea. Being round at mum's always reminds me of when I was a kid and dad was alive, reading his newspaper and smoking his Three Castles cigarettes in the sunshine.

During the summer months mum's garden is completely secluded, which is great. But the sound of mowers and radios in adjacent gardens and the occasional train travelling from Carshalton to Sutton or vice versa can't be shut out – not that I've ever shunned the sounds of trains and radios and neighbours mowing their lawns.

To Botley Hill – twice!

The weather throughout the weekend was fantastic, requiring little more than a tee-shirt and trousers on both rides. We rode to Botley Hill, mainly because of time constraints for both of us. I had to drive to west London for a family event and Andy had to go shopping – Phil gets married on Friday and both Andy and I, plus our respective other halves, are invited.

Andy's Kona Blast at Botley Hill. Pic: Andy Smith.

On a good day, even Botley Hill looks like an inviting destination. We met at the green as usual and enjoyed a short but pleasant ride, the fast way along the 269, stopping outside the pub where there is a strip of grass on the roadside. It was then a simple matter of eating a few biscuits and drinking tea.

After a short while we headed home, parting at the green and vowing to ride again on Sunday, which we did, although this time it was only me with the time constraints. I texted Andy saying let's meet at Botley. I planned to leave around half an hour earlier than usual, get to the green and hang around for Andy, then drink the tea and munch the biscuits and then head home. I needed to be back by 0930hrs, hence the earlier start. It all worked fine. Having made the tea I left the house just before 0645hrs and reached Botley Hill at 0737.

It was such a wonderful day. The sun was out, the skies were blue and everything was still. All I could hear was the birds in the hedgerows and possibly the occasional sheep in a distant field. If it wasn't heaven on earth it was pretty close. You couldn't really get much better and once again I felt as if I should camp somewhere, in an adjoining field. It would have been great, I thought, to wake up here at sunrise with nothing but the cool air, the blue sky and the sound of the wild life waking up to a new day.

Andy arrived just before 0800hrs and, like yesterday, we chatted about stuff while drinking tea and eating those BelVita biscuits. The subject was the pointlessness of social media, a subject we have visited before. Once again I found myself saying how I'd been on Linkedin since early 2009 and have only ever been singled out for a job interview once – back in 2010. Facebook with paperclips is how I would describe Linkedin. Like most social media I could live without it. Likewise Twitter, although the blog, the one you're reading right now, is fine. Fine because I'm not doing it for any reason other than my own entertainment.

We could have spent the rest of the morning there chatting about this and that, although the tea had run out and so had the biscuits. There was, however, the Botley Hill Farmhouse pub and it's so-called Sheep Shed, which sold tea and cakes, so we wouldn't have starved. But it was time to head home.

The day remained warm and sunny and I spent most of it in the back garden mowing lawns and pulling out sycamore trees growing in the flowerbeds.

My next ride will be Sunday and it will probably be similar to this Sunday's ride as I have to take somebody somewhere early in the morning. Botley Hill will beckon again and if the weather holds, all will be fine with the world.

To the Tatsfield churchyard – the slow way (part two)

It was another fine morning. No direct sunshine as such, but it was warm. Very warm. Tee-shirt weather. I sat in the house, on the computer, writing a review of Tiffins, a teashop in Petworth, West Sussex – click here for more – and also for Trip Advisor. When I looked at the clock it was almost 0700hrs and I knew that Phil would be outside and raring to go so I switched off the computer, ran into the kitchen, made the tea, put on a pair of trainers and managed to be on the doorstep – actually in the garage unlocking the bike – at 0706hrs. Not bad going.

Yesterday, Phil and Steve had cycled a good 50km (he'd returned home around 11am) while as regular readers will know already, Andy and I headed for the Tatsfield churchyard where we stuffed our faces with biscuits before remounting our bikes and heading home.

Beddlestead Lane – it looks harmless, but it's one long uphill struggle...

When we reached the green we waited for Andy, pretending, when he arrived, that we'd been sitting there for ages. Then we decided that another visit to the Tatsfield churchyard would be good as there's nothing better on a hot day than an English churchyard. We also decided to go the slow way so that we could chat a little and not have to worry too much about cars on the 269, although there was plenty of loose gravel in the road, especially at the bottom of Hesiers Hill. "Gravel!" I shouted, and we all managed to stay on our bikes and continue up Beddlestead Lane, the long, inclining Beddlestead Lane that never seems to end.

Phil had bought himself a small saddle bag that amazingly managed to contain a large china cup and a puncture repair kit; he'd also been given, by Steve, a Garmin mileage monitor.

At the churchyard we discussed many things, even that philosophical argument about nothing really existing and how we all saw reality differently. We moved on to discuss how everything we see before us is made up as we go along so that, for example, nobody else exists except for us and we make up, create, our own reality as we move along. I started to mention a book by Philip K Dick, UBIK, and a character called Jory Miller and I think at that point Phil got a little bored. Perhaps rightly so.

We all loved the Englishness of the Tatsfield churchyard, we all loved its peace and tranquility and we all agreed that it was very the best place to be on a day like today – warm, hazy sunshine and a very slight breeze every now and then. The perfect setting.

The conversation turned towards how we could all sit there for most of the day doing nothing and this in turn morphed into a conversation about the traditional Bavarian breakfast of white sausage with sweet mustard washed down with a chilled German beer. This came about because we were discussing what would make a stay at the churchyard a little more appealing – what would keep us there for hours on end. In fact, it started by discussing down-and-outs and their penchant for churchyards. We talked about drinking cans of Special Brew, crushing them after use and generally making a mess of the place and how such behaviour would certainly be frowned upon by those in charge of the churchyard. I said we could move to an adjoining field, if things got nasty, and sling our used cans over our shoulders and into the churchyard – and this led towards the conversation about the Bavarian breakfast.

It was then decided that after Phil's wedding – and when he returns from his honeymoon – we would enjoy a Bavarian breakfast of our own making at the Tatsfield churchyard – weather permitting. Phil would make the sausage sandwiches and Andy and I would provide chilled beer (we opted for Stella, but we could always buy a German beer, there are plenty of different brands available). The idea, however, was Phil's sausage sandwiches washed down by two cans of Stella each. Here's hoping for continued good weather, in the sense of no rain or cold temperatures, when we eventually pick the day for the mad, early morning Bavarian breakfast.

We walked our bikes down the steps to the roadside laughing about the idea of the Bavarian breakfast caper – something that would now definitely be happening. Secretly, I think we're all looking forward to it.

Sunday was Phil's last ride this side of his forthcoming marriage on 29th July – NoVisibleLycra will be represented in the shape of Andy and yours truly.

The Sunday weather continued to be unbelievable – and, like yesterday, would remain so. In fact it improved and the sun came out. The rest of my day was fairly lazy. I cleaned up a tent in the back garden and let it dry in the sun before stuffing it back into its bag. I visited mum's for tea and cake. We all sat in mum's garden, which was in full bloom, and talked about this and that.

Dinner later was chicken risotto followed by an early evening lounging around in the garden as the sun went down. There was a full moon that later illuminated the entire garden like a spotlight. I talked about how we should camp out in the garden, but I think I'm alone on that one.

I went to bed early, opening the rear and front windows to let in some fresh summer air. I started to nod off but had to go downstairs to lock things up. This act, however, led to me watching Long Way Down, a movie starring Pierce Brosnan and Sam Neill, all about four people who, I think, make a suicide pact. It was a comedy, oddly, and I had to stick with it to the end, eventually retiring to bed around 11.30pm.

To the Tatsfield Churchyard... the slow way!

Phil was off Lycra-monkeying, leaving Andy and yours truly to nosh biscuits and drink tea at the Tatsfield Churchyard. "We might as well make the most of this weather," said Andy as we pulled out of Warlingham Green, heading south on the Limpsfield Road.

We decided to go the slow way via Beddlestead Lane – always a pain in the proverbial – and as Andy and I pedalled up the endless hill we started to wonder when it would all end, although we kind of knew that once we passed the dead tree and then the mobile phone mast, it would soon be over and we would be on Clarks Lane. From there it's all down hill and the only bad bit is the walk up some steps to the churchyard, with our bikes, where we park up, take a pew and eat the biscuits, BelVita Milk and Cereal, our favourites. On the tea front, the PG Tips has been used up and we're back on the Twining's English Breakfast – a much smoother and more flavoursome brew. Not as harsh.

We sat and chatted about Andy's photographic work and then we moved on to discuss how great life would be if we had around £100,000 in the bank. The conversation developed from the notion that, at any one time, a lot of people are just four weeks from out and out poverty and possibly homelessness. Four weeks! "What we need is a buffer of, say, £100,000," one of us said, and then we got on to the idea of having a mundane job, one we could leave behind at the end of the day and just switch off. Something like an Ocado delivery driver.

Is it a bird, is it a plane or is it a clothes catalogue pose?

The weather was perfect and it got better as the day progressed. Foolishly, I wore my rust-coloured jacket over a tee-shirt plus a pair of cords and some heavy walking boots – not ideal in hot weather, but it wasn't that bad.

The ride back was exhilarating. We stuck to the 269 and parted company at Warlingham Green. I reached home around 1000hrs, showered and shaved and then headed off into darkest West Sussex where later I would sample the delights of Tiffin's, a great little caff on one of Petworth's back streets, although, theoretically, it was the town's High Street.

Right now it's 1742hrs and it's still very muggy, if a little overcast, outside. We're on for a ride tomorrow and the weather's going to be warm but cloudy. There might be some overnight rain, which could mean wet roads, but hey, with a new rear mudguard, I can rest assured that my arse will remain dry or, as Andy might say, "nice and comfy". Andy, incidentally, bought me the aforementioned mudguard so thanks very much, Andy.

You may be wondering why – or perhaps what – Andy is pointing at in the shot accompanying this post. The answer is nothing at all. We'd been chatting about typical photographic poses adopted by models, specifically those found in clothes catalogues, involving men or women or both pointing at something, normally while wearing deck shoes and nautical-themed clothing. Well, that's what the photograph is all about. Silly, I know, but there you have it.

Here's hoping we get out tomorrow.

The First Euroflat Hotel, Brussels...fine, but no hot water in the shower

You can be staying in a fantastic hotel, in a great room, with a sofa, a balcony, a table, a minibar, wall-mounted television, a couple of cooking rings, a domestic-sized fridge, a decent enough view and even a few empty bookshelves to stack up should your stay be longer than a couple of days. But it's amazing how things can very quickly 'go wrong'.

First, the check-in: it was perfect. Quick is crucial and this involved a small form to be filled in and then being handed my key card. The elevator was quiet. Very quiet. So quiet I wondered if it was moving, but it was and soon I was on the fifth floor looking for room 510, which was on the left at the end of the corridor. The key card was good too: not a slot affair that doesn't work on the first two or three attempts, but like an Oyster card. The door never failed to open. Then the room. It was great and very spacious (see previous paragraph).

The European Commission – very close to the Euroflat

When I arrived at the First Euroflat I took note of the four stars that adorned the side of the building. Oddly, however, there was no restaurant, which, as I've said many times before, is not always a bad thing, although I'll admit that there's nothing like a decent hotel restaurant. It means you don't have to 'go out' and seek a decent meal and it means you can chill out and then jump in the elevator and head for bed.

The fact that there wasn't a restaurant, however, meant that I did have to go in search of a decent restaurant for dinner. It wasn't a problem as everything was close-by; sometimes taxis are involved and it's winter and that makes it all a little depressing, but it's the summer – it's July and there's still daylight, so all is well.

After dinner I returned to the hotel and went straight to my room. I watched TV and then, after using the spacious bathroom, I hit the sack. I got a reasonable night's sleep and headed down for breakfast around 0730hrs. The breakfast room on the ground floor was busy and it took me a while to find a table for myself. It looked as if I might have to ask, "Is this chair taken?" but fortunately I found an empty table. Five minutes later somebody asked me, "May I join you?" or something along those lines and of course it was fine.

The breakfast offering was fine as there was a wide selection of stuff: fresh fruit, cereal, cheeses, scrambled eggs, sausages, something else hot that I couldn't identify, pastries, bread, hard-boiled eggs, tea, coffee, fruit juices, the usual set-up and it was quite pleasant.

There was only one thing wrong with the hotel: the bathroom. Before breakfast I turned the tap of the shower and expected hot water, but all I got was cold. I let it run, but it was still cold. It took an age before things warmed up and where the shower was concerned I switched it off so that I could shave first, but when I turned it back on again, it was cold and I couldn't wait around so I went without. 

There wasn't much else negative about the First Euroflat – apart from the bar downstairs. There was never anybody there enjoying a drink or anything for that matter, and nobody manning the bar either. Not exactly welcoming. The only good thing about it was a tank full of tropical fish.

Check-out was as straightforward as check-in. I left my case in the storage room down the corridor from the front desk and went about my business, picking it up later when it was time to head home.

Excluding the bathroom issue, the First Euroflat hotel was fine: ideally located near to a handful of decent restaurants and about two minutes on foot to the Schuman railway station where a short journey took me to Brussels Midi and my Eurostar home. 

Would I stay here again? Probably, yes, but I'd be wary about the cold water issue. The rest was fine.

Still in Brussels...

After finishing writing my last post I headed out in search of some dinner. In a way I was spoilt for choice, but with such variety often comes disaster as what can only be described as culinary Russian roulette took place. I passed by a number of good places, one being a steak house, which I've never been keen on, plus a couple of bars, a German restaurant and an Indian restaurant (of which, more later). In the end I settled for an Italian restaurant, one of those places that offers a laminated menu. It was pretty standard Italian fayre: pizza, pasta, minestrone soup and so on, and would have been wonderful had I opted for something simple, like a pizza and a beer. But no, I went for the grilled salmon, which, to be fair, was pretty simple – the sort of thing I'd eat at home with mashed potato and green beans. I had a minestrone soup to start, which was very good, paving the way, perhaps, for a decent main course, but no, the salmon was undercooked and 'slushy' in the middle, just the way I hate it. The last time I ate salmon like this I think it may have contributed to my 100-yard sprint to the toilet along Pittsburgh's Penn Avenue back in May. That, my friends, could have been very embarrassing as there was no way I was going to get to my room. I had to hope there was nobody in the public toilets on the ground floor – there wasn't – but somebody did enter the room as I was in full flow, so to speak. Fortunately, they left before I emerged, meaning that I retained my anonymity.

But getting back to Brussels, and moving away from the subject of poo, the meal in the Italian restaurant – I won't name it simply because I've already given it a bad review on Trip Advisor and don't wish to rub salt into the wound – was, I suppose, disappointing. I finished off with Tiramisu, which was fine, but way too much. I ate half of it and then paid up, making the big mistake of leaving my jacket on the back of my seat and not realising until the following morning as I packed my suitcase. Fortunately, it was still there at lunch time (complete with my return Eurostar ticket) when I went back and retrieved it, feeling slightly guilty about that bad review, even if it was at least 48 hours away from being published. Look, I'll be honest, it wasn't a bad restaurant and had I not had that under-cooked salmon I would probably have given it a good review, but that salmon being under-cooked annoyed me, prompting my rather vitriolic prose.

Spicy Grill – the best Indian restaurant... in the world!

Because this was a whistle stop trip of just one night – the very worst kind of trip – there's not really a great deal to say about anything as I didn't really do a great deal. Normally, when there's a couple of days involved, I get around the town a bit, I use the bike share scheme, and I generally 'do stuff', but not on this trip. I spent the morning 'on business' and then, after picking up my jacket from the Italian restaurant around noon, I wandered around looking for somewhere to have lunch. I opted for a place called The Spicy Grill, an Indian restaurant where I sat and enjoyed poppadums, a naan bread, chicken jalfrezi and Bombay aloo, not forgetting pilau rice and a cold beer – perfect! I've reviewed The Spicy Grill on Trip Advisor (they have been given a glowing review for food, service and ambience of the highest order). In fact, I think I've found the best Indian restaurant... in the world!

Suitably refreshed I walked back to my hotel, which was no more than five minutes away on foot, retrieved my suitcase from the storage room on the ground floor, wrote the aforementioned Trip Advisor review for The Spicy Grill and then took the train from Schuman to Brussels Midi where I found time for a mug of English Breakfast tea and a Danish pastry. I could have done without the pastry. I met a man from Holland on his way to a Star Wars Convention in London. "I have the full Darth Vader costume in my case," he said proudly and I wished him well.

Soon I found myself en route to the UK in coach 3, seat 88. I had two seats to myself all the way back. We stopped at Lille and then Ashford in Kent and soon I was back on the platform at St Pancras International reading all about how Michael Gove finally got his come uppance for his treachery and was sacked alongside other 'villains' George 'we're all in this together' Osborne and Oliver 'I'm straight out of Dickens' Letwin, but sadly not Jeremy Hunt, who retains his incompetent ministerial role of Health Secretary.

Kwack beer at the Spicy Grill – wooferama!

I travelled across town on the tube and jumped on a direct train home from where I now write.

I know there's been issues with terrorism, but I like Brussels. The presence of soldiers at Brussels Midi was, as I said yesterday, reassuring. There's some pleasant little eateries around the European Commission area and you really can't beat Belgian beer. I enjoyed a Chimay Bleu last night at the Italian and at lunch time today a Kwack beer followed by another Chimay. Needless to say I was suitably chilled out for the rest of the afternoon.

On the Eurostar home a cup of tea and a bottle of mineral water sufficed. The rest of the time – it only takes two hours 'door-to-door' – I gazed out of the window at sunny green fields and cotton wool clouds.

For me the only disappointing element about my trip to Brussels was the fact that the UK voted to leave the European Union. I felt kind of guilty about it, even though I voted to remain and it wasn't my fault. Guilty and, of course, depressed. I felt even more depressed when I learned, late last night, that Boris Johnson had been appointed Foreign Secretary. That means that Johnson, an overweight, bumbling buffoon of a man, is a kind of PR man for the United Kingdom – he is being put forward as the face of the cuntry. Nicola Sturgeon and Alex Salmond must be seething, and rightly so. I wouldn't put it past the Scots to vote out in a second referendum to go it alone, and who could blame them?

What hope is there for the United Kingdom if the rest of the world thinks we're all like Boris. But let's not forget the chant of the Brexiteers: "Let's make Great Britain great again!" Somehow I don't think so.

In Brussels for the night...

I arrived at the Eurostar terminal in London with about 40 minutes to spare – or so I thought. My first problem was to obtain a ticket, albeit a free one. My fare had been paid by somebody (a rarity, but also a pleasant surprise) and all I had to do was key in the reference number and hey presto! But nothing is that simple. Or rather it is, but not today. It didn't work so I queued up to find out why and was quite prepared to simply go home if it all went pear-shaped.

Outside Bruxelles Midi station – the reassuring presence of the military

Fortunately, thanks to the very helpful woman on the information desk, all was well and soon I was through security with around 30 minutes, probably less, to grab something to eat before the train headed towards Brussels on roughly a two-hour journey. But that wasn't to be either and this time it kind of worked in my favour. There was a delay. The incoming train was late arriving and they put back the boarding time until 1530hrs. Fine by me! I ordered an egg and mayo sandwich and a millionaire's shortbread plus a cup of tea, but this was when I thought there were just minutes to spare. Once I knew I had time to relax and enjoy a leisurely snack (Caffé Nero's Millionaire's shortbreads, by the way, are to die for) I did just that, but it was pretty boring if the truth be known. I couldn't be bothered to read so I just sat there, munching the sandwich, chomping on the Millionaire's shortbread and sipping the tea. It meant, of course, that I could indulge in one of my favourite travelling pastimes – a glass of Merlot. Throw in a bag of sweet chilli potato chips (crisps) and, well, it was great, although still pretty boring.

The view from room 510...

The train boarded and I was in seat 73, coach 2. I thought, bearing in mind that somebody else was paying my fare, that I'd get a first class ticket, so it was pretty darn depressing when I noticed the figure 2 under the word 'class'. That's me, I thought, a second class citizen, but I wasn't really bothered. My aisle seat allowed me to stretch out a bit and en route I read a bit of Chomsky's Who Rules the World, it's a great book as it opens one's eyes to what's really going on, although, oddly, it's all stuff you kind of knew was true anyway.

Stuff like the so-called New Spirit of the Age, which is basically 'gain wealth forgetting all but self'. This led to what Chomsky describes as major industries devoted to the task of "'gaining wealth forgetting all but self' – PR companies, advertising, marketing, all of which contribute to what the political economist Thorstein Veblen called 'fabricating wants'. In other words, convincing us, the general public that we need and want things that we don't really want. It is, of course, all about putting the public in it's place – marginalising and controlling people who 'the establishment' (even to this day) regard as too stupid and ignorant to run their own affairs. "That task was left to the 'intelligent minority', who must be protected from "the trampling and the roar of [the] bewildered herd," the "ignorant and meddlesome outsiders" – the "rascal multitude, as they were termed by their seventeenth-century predecessors. The role of the general population was to be 'spectators', not 'participants in action, in a functioning democratic society."

The lush hotel garden below me...

What is amazing about Chomsky's book is the fact that, while 'the establishment' go on all the time about how great 'democracy' is and that's what we fought for in two world wars, the reality is that the further away from democracy we are, the better (for the establishment).

"A primary domestic task has always been to "keep [the public] from our throats," as essayist Ralph Walker Emerson described the concerns of political leaders when the threat of democracy was becoming harder to suppress in the mid-nineteenth century. More recently, the activism of the 1960s elicited elite concerns about "excessive democracy" and calls for measures to impose "more moderation" in democracy."

But enough of Chomsky (for now). After a pleasant journey in that lovely 'out of focus' state of mind easily captured by a large glass of Merlot, I stared out of the window, looking at wind turbines, which seemed to be rotating in slow motion and, in the process, slowing everything else down too. The train arrived at Bruxelles Midi around 1900hrs and I the first thing I noticed was the military presence – armed soldiers patrolling the station. It was strangely reassuring. I jumped into a taxi and the driver was a pleasant man in his early sixties who told me there were traffic jams around town and they were all to do with the erection of a fairground in the centre of town. After about 15 minutes we arrived at my hotel on the Boulevard Charlemagne, the First Euroflat, and all was wonderful from the word go.

My bed for the night...in room 510.

I noticed before entering the hotel lobby that I was literally a stone's throw from the headquarters of the EU – that familiar-looking building with loads of flags outside. It was a wonderful evening: blue skies and sunshine and things were made even better by an efficient check-in. I was directed to the elevator and was more than plesantly surprised by the room. It was huge. There were two electric cooking rings, a sink, a large fridge, a glass table (on which I guess I could enjoy dinner, cooked by myself if I so wished) and then there was a huge sofa, a desk, a double bed and a bathroom. And let's not forget a full minibar, free and easily accessible WiFi and a balcony. The view from the hotel was wonderful too and if I looked down there was a pleasant garden with a pond. I couldn't really ask for me if the truth be known.

My sofa and desk... a great room

To Tatsfield Village...

It's been a great day. From the very beginning to the very end. I woke in the middle of the night – well, I can't have it all, can I? I don't really know why, but I had a fretful dream of some sort and I awoke suddenly, heart racing. It might have been the heat so I opened the window to let in some fresh air. The other day we'd spoken about how sleeping in the open air was so, I don't know, so fresh and so relaxing.

As avid readers of this blog will already know, I'm obsessed – if that's the right word – with the idea of sleeping under the stars. I'm intrigued about finding the right spot in the woods, pitching my tent and then chilling out, perhaps burning a few logs, as the sun goes down before hitting the sack and getting a good night's sleep full of fresh air and the sounds of nature going on around me. I like the waking up when the sun rises, the smell of the dew and that refreshed feeling.

Phil fixes his puncture just past Botley Hill.

Yesterday evening, glass of beer in hand, the weather perfect, I strolled to the top of the garden where there's a large patch of ground that would be a perfect place to pitch a small tent. I could have sat there until dusk, drinking that beer, possibly having another one, before climbing into the tent and settling down for the night.

I'm not sure what the compunction is, but I think I'm seeking some kind of comfort, I can't figure it out. Walking around the block earlier in the day – or it might have been last week, I'm not sure – I found myself looking a patches of ground where, had I been homeless, but in possession of a tent, I might have considered spending the night. People close to me think I'm crazy. Perhaps they're right. In fact, I think they are right. And let's be honest, the reality would be different from the fantasy. I think initially I'd be listening out for potential enemies, but eventually, having found a secluded part of a wood, I'd settle down, I'd get used to the way things are and soon it would become second nature. But who am I kidding? Swapping a warm bed in a nice house for a Millets tent and a field? What am I on? Faced with the choice of a tent or a house, I know I'd choose the latter. What I really need to do is slap myself around the face with a large trout and then jump in pool of cold water for good measure.

So today it was going to be just Andy and I, but Phil joined us. He wanted a leisurely ride as he, like me, had been suffering from some kind of bug – the same bug that had given me a cold and a sore throat – in July.

The weather was good, in a cloudy, overcast sort of way, and completely different to yesterday, which was a hot, balmy day full of sunshine. It was warm today and there was greenery everywhere, cascading like fountains by the roadside. There's been a lot of rain lately and it's made everything grow and overflow.

Andy and Phil en route to Tatsfield village...

Phil and I had a short wait at the green, but soon Andy arrived and we all agreed to head for Tatsfield village. It was a good ride, the roads were relatively clear, the air was wonderful and the only downer was Phil getting a puncture just past Botley Hill. It took around 20 minutes to fix, probably less, say 15 minutes, and soon we were riding along Clarks Lane towards Approach Road where we hung a left and headed into the village.

The conversation was varied and we only discussed 'Brexit' for about five minutes – it's had enough air time on this blog and elsewhere. Most of the conversation revolved around electric bikes – for me, a bit like putting an outboard motor on a rowing machine – and how electric bikes have been used to cheat in major cycle races. And there was a bit of chat about Formula One and I said something about the Wimbledon Men's Final, which I later watched (Murray won in straight sets).

We drank tea and we munched biscuits and soon it was time to head for home. While it was warm it was also very foggy and there were odd spits of rain occasionally, but we didn't get a soaking. Once back at the green we said goodbye to Andy. Phil and I continued along the Limpsfield Road towards Sanderstead and home.

It's been a great day. The weather improved so I found myself mowing the front lawn – I did the rear lawn yesterday. Later, I sat in the garden with a chilled can of Stella, enjoying the moment. Right now I'm watching the news: the Dallas and Baton Rouge shootings, problems in Sudan and Kashmir and, as I write this, it's the final of Euro 2016 between France and Portugal*. At the time of writing, Ronaldo has been taken off the pitch due to injury and the score is still nil-nil. There's been some kind of trouble as tear gas has been used, but all seems well.

Heading back along Approach Road to Clarks Lane

It's 2128hrs and there's a wonderful light outside, almost like the Northern Lights. It's still warm out too, so I stepped into the garden and yes, you guessed it, I felt it was the perfect night to spend under the stars. It's warm enough to sleep out there in a bed with a decent duvet, let alone in a tent, and I can't think of anything better to do, except that I'm not prepared or anything. It would be great, lying on my back looking up at the stars (assuming its a clear night – tonight's pretty clear) and just chilling out. I know I'd get the best night's sleep ever, that's for sure.

* Portugual won 1-0 in extra time.