In Budapest...

Thursday 16th January: I'm writing to you from room 501 of the Hilton Hotel in Budapest. This morning I was up at 0530hrs in order to catch the first train to Gatwick and an easyJet flight, which took two hours and 10 minutes and was pretty smooth all the way over. Heavy fog hung like a shroud over the airport, prompting some kin of instruments-only landing that mean all electronic devices had to be switched off and couldn't even be on flight-safe mode. I complied, but many people ignore such requests and that never fails to annoy me. I especially despise the know-it-all types who think they know better than those who work for the airlines. "You don't have to switch your phone off, it makes no difference," they say without a shred of knowledge.

Room 501, Hilton Budapest, the one in Buda

The journey by coach from the airport to the hotel was extended because of some kind of altercation between the coach driver and somebody in a rental car, but I eventually got here and checked in and now, at last, solitude. The room is very pleasant and peaceful; there's the usual twin beds pushed together to look like a double (they're not fooling anybody, least of all me) and the now obligatory flat-screen television plus a minibar and a round table, which doubled as the desk and dining table. Incidentally, I could have eaten a Kit Kat but chose a small tin of salted peanuts instead.

Because I was starving when I reached the room - and based on a texted photo I received from the International Man of Mystery of his burger and chips - I decided to order one myself along with an alcohol-free beer (well, 0.5% abv). It was a late lunch and much needed and took around half an hour to arrive at my door.

I was last in Budapest in late September when the weather was a little warmer, but while it is cold here, it's not as bad as I thought, even if the trees on the route from the airport were frosted in a very pleasant and festively decorative way.

Coffee and cake in Lipoti Bakery & Cafe

I'm here until tomorrow night and I'm looking forward to walking around the city after the work is completed. There's nothing better than mooching around and that is what I intend to do before boarding a return flight tomorrow night. A new pair of Doctor Marten's shoes need breaking in. I bought them in Street Talk, an amazing little store in Redhill in Surrey, having originally purchased a pair of Kickers boots that leaked - not good - so I exchanged them at no extra cost, which is also good because they were £30 more expensive and they never charged me the extra. People talk about the death of the high street, but if all shops were like Street Talk in Redhill, then perhaps there would be less boarded up shop fronts.

Was this the best cafe in town?

Friday 17th January
I didn't sleep well; I tend not to when I'm staying in a hotel, especially if I'm only there for one night. I must have hit the sack around 1130hrs having enjoyed a pleasant dinner in a restaurant close to the hotel, and while I did sleep, it was in short bursts, punctuated by fretful dreams. I remember dreaming and then waking up and the pattern persisting as the night progressed. As always, I was eventually woken up by my iphone at 0700hrs. I jumped out of bed to press the snooze button, but when it started again 10 minutes later I resigned myself to getting up, having a shower - and what a wonderful experience that was - and then getting ready for breakfast. I was in the restaurant by 0730 hrs and I decided to go mad, starting with a bowl of porridge and a couple of small pastries plus a strawberry yoghurt and a banana and then continuing with scrambled egg, mushrooms and sausages and following up with fresh fruit - slices of orange, tinned peaches and melon, not forgetting a banana, all washed down with a peach tea followed by lemon and lime tea. I half-inched a handful of teabags to take home, they won't miss them, and then I left without touching the orange juice I'd ordered.

The stunning view from Room 501...

Breakfast over, I'm back in the room...
I've had an Eartha and I'm ready for a day of walking around Budapest, a great city if ever there was one. I'm waiting for the International Man of Mystery to surface. It's 0838hrs, I've sent him three photos of my mammoth three-course breakfast and I've heard nothing back. Time, perhaps, to check out of the hotel ahead of everybody else. I thought there might a pool, but there wasn't and even if there had been I didn't bring my trunks.

I went downstairs with my book, 1971 by David Hepworth, and sat on a chair close to the elevators reading it until my companion surfaced. Having checked-in my overnight bag with the concierge we headed outside, turning left and slowly making our way down the hill to the river and, of course, the Chain Bridge. On the way we passed by the Hungarian President's work quarters, which was guarded by police and soldiers, and then crossed the Danube. Once off the bridge we carried on walking for a short while and then was about to make a left turn in the direction of the next bridge when we stopped at a cafe, Lipoti Bakery and Cafe, for a cake and a cappuccino, all very pleasant and it was good to rest our feet before resuming our journey. We were now on the Pest part of the city and heading towards the bridge that would take us back over the river to Buda. We passed small artisanal shops and old book stores where I found a Thomas Tryon novel, but not the one I'd been looking for, Harvest Home. I've been on the look-out for it for years, but have never found it and I'm left wondering why it's so rare.

The International Man of Mystery's burger

A little further along I stumbled upon a music shop and another potential passion of mine - or perhaps that should be an unfulfilled desire of mine, a need I've had since the age of six: to play the bass guitar. I say a 'desire', but not really; it's more that back then I wanted one, I didn't get one and, if I'm honest I forgot all about it, but occasionally kid myself that I want one, until I start questioning myself, asking myself, and then I think well, perhaps not. But occasionally I think I should get one and learn how to play it. For some reason my parents never bought me one; perhaps they thought I'd join a rock band - or form one myself - instead of wearing a suit and working in an office. The fantasy, the passion, the yearning (perhaps all three words are little exaggerated) have nagged at me, but I've never had the spare cash to buy one. You know the deal, there's always something else to buy. The reason I think I can play the bass is because my mum and dad were happy for me to learn how to play the violin; they saw it, perhaps, as a little more civilised (and not so 'common') and wouldn't have minded so much if I had become a concert violinist wearing tails and sporting a bow tie or whatever it is that concert violinists wear. I played the fiddle throughout my school life and even took a few private lessons with my music teacher, Frank Stapleton, who, for some reason, we all called Frog. But I changed when I reached the second year of high school, found that I was easily led and soon I became a bit of rebel who didn't really want to be in the school orchestra rehearsing. I wanted to be out on my bike down at River Gardens with my magapult breaking the windows of a derelict factory, not practising Gilbert & Sullivan's Ruddigore. When I left school I sold the violin and bought an air pistol as I figured I'd never make the London Symphony Orchestra, but perhaps I could shine in Wormwood Scrubs. Thoughts of learning the bass surfaced again around 2008 when I found myself in the New Forest over the Christmas period. Everybody there was playing guitar and I often picked one up in an idle moment, not really knowing what I was doing, but I somehow rekindled my old desire for a bass and found again that there was never enough spare cash floating about to buy one. Perhaps I should sell my useless Rolex and get one, which I eventually did, but that was to pay off a debt so the bass guitar never materialised. I'm annoyed about selling the watch too, although it never kept the correct time, needed to be serviced (at a cost of £400) and was far too ostentatious to wear out on the mean streets of London. But now I figure I could teach myself how to play the bass and besides, it would be a relaxing thing to do and a great achievement if I succeeded.

My burger! I was starving hungry, nowt went to waste...

We spent some time in the music shop. I felt like an imposter. I picked up a secondhand Fender Precision bass and then looked at a couple of acoustic bass guitars upstairs; and then we left and continued on our journey towards the funicular railway opposite the Chain Bridge. Perhaps if I'd really wanted a bass guitar I'd have bought one by now. Clearly it's not that much of a passion, even a potential passion. Perhaps I need to buy one to realise that I don't want one, who knows, although I think I'd give it a go (learning how to play) as I'm more grown up these days. The irony of the whole situation is that I have bought a book on how to play the bass guitar, but not the guitar.

Now that's what I call a church!

Our walk continued and eventually we reached the bridge that would take us back to Buda. The plan was to cross the bridge and turn left and then head for the funicular railway that would take us back to the hotel. It was cold (around -2 degrees) but thankfully we were both kitted out with the appropriate clothing and were glad of our woolly hats that we'd pulled down over our ears. I wasn't wearing gloves, but for some reason it wasn't that bad. I think my hands were numb to the cold.

Yours truly in hat and coat

The bridge back to Buda - which is the posh part of the city - had a kind of dog leg shape to it. Half way across it turned slightly left, but trams still thundered across it and so did cars and pedestrians. Once clear of the bridge we turned left and kept walking. Soon we were on board the funicular railway and heading up the hill and back to the grandiose buildings, the presidential palace and a small cafe that we'd found inside the Prima grocery store. The cafe didn't appear to have a name, but it was quaint and cosy and perfect for when the weather was cold. We followed some stairs at the back of the store that led up to a galleried walkway to the cafe. On Thursday, the day we arrived in Budapest, we'd gone in for a cappuccino and a small triangular pastry, an iced fancy as they're known in the UK. This time we ordered a late lunch of ham and eggs and a cup of tea. There were four fried eggs and they'd been cooked with the ham and laid on top of lettuce leaves. There was also sliced tomato and peppers and a soft bread roll into which the International Man of Mystery loaded some of his ham and eggs. I left my roll to last.

Ham and eggs with a roll and cappuccino

The cafe had a pleasant ambience. It was, in fact, the place of my dreams, the cafe I always look out for but never find. I knew that I could come back here and sit and read my book and that, of course, was the exactly what I did. Nobody would find me up here, I thought! Believe me these places are rare, but they do exist.

It's that church again...

After the International Man of Mystery had departed by coach to the airport and a flight back to the UK, I did go back, book in hand, and ordered another iced fancy and a cup of tea, it was around 1600hrs and dark outside, just how I like it. There's nothing better than being in a cosy cafe as the light fades, armed with a decent book, sipping from a cup of tea and nibbling a pastry of some sort. I was living the dream - at last! But before I revisited the in-store cafe I wandered around, checked out a another secondhand bookstore, peered into other cafes, wandered into an arty clothes shop, checked out the fridge magnets and bobble hats and bought nothing. I have everything I need except, perhaps for that bass guitar.

Inside Lipoti Bakery and Cafe...

After sitting there for quite a while I considered heading back to the hotel, but was joined by two colleagues and stayed for another cup of tea. We chatted and were joined by two more colleagues and then it was time to leave. I paid up and headed back to the hotel where a coach was waiting to whisk us off to the airport and a flight home. But the plane was delayed. I wandered off alone with my book to the far end of the airport and ordered a bottle of mineral water and banana from a Cafe Ritazza before finding a table and continuing to read David Hepworth's 1971. I checked out a few of the airport shops, sprayed myself with some expensive aftershave and then, eventually headed for the gate and the flight home. It was late when we touched down at Gatwick, just gone midnight, and it would be 0100hrs before I reached home, far too late so I aborted the ride and hit the sack.

Looking down on the Danube and the Chain Bridge from Buda

Sunday 12 January - to Westerham!

General Wolfe doing his stuff on Westerham Green

I didn't ride on Saturday 11 January, but Andy rode to Smallfield alone. I didn't get to bed until gone midnight and had to abort. On Sunday last weekend we rode to Westerham. It was fairly pleasant on the weather front and when we got there we had planned to visit the Tudor Rose, but the chairs were on the tables so we set up camp on the green and got out the tea. That was it, really. We chatted, we people-watched and then we headed home, up the hill which, as I've said many times before, was much easier and less daunting than we thought it would be. Andy said goodbye and we promised to meet on Saturday at the usual place. But we didn't. I'd forgotten that I'd be going to Budapest on Thursday and flying back on Friday, but I wasn't aware the flight would be delayed and as a result I'd not be home until 0100hrs. Hopefully the weather will hold out for Sunday 19 January, the birthday of an old pal, Paul Hooper who, sadly, is no longer with us. Anyway, tomorrow with a bit of luck.

Exotic window display in a Westerham shop

"You can be a king or a street sweeper..."

First of all, let's get the elephant in the room out of the way: Trump is a cock.

Okay, what's been happening? Well, I lolled about watching television on Friday night (watching the best of Graham Norton) and ended up hitting the sack late, around midnight. When I woke up on Saturday morning I was still thinking about a ride, but because Andy wasn't riding (he had a cold) I had no motivation, no motivator, nobody to meet at the green. So I continued to loll around, but still conning and deceiving myself that I WOULD go out. I didn't. Eventually I did go out, in the car, to a store selling fireplaces. The bloke in the shop was one of those guys who didn't seem bothered whether he made a sale or not. In fact, he kept asking 'what's the point'? He tried to steer us away from spending a load of money on a coal-effect gas fire, trying instead to sell us a £500 electric 'stove' with flame effect and a balloon to blow up in order to block the chimney. I had visions of our house lifting off the ground, like in the movie Up!

We left the store and I felt a little deflated. There's nothing worse, in my book, than getting fired up (see the joke there? 'Fired up'? Fireplaces?) and then leaving without having a concrete idea about how to proceed. Still, nothing a chicken, avocado and bacon sandwich with salad wouldn't cure. After that I felt fine and the rest of the day unfolded slowly, culminating in an early night, which was much needed. In a way I'm glad I didn't go out on Saturday morning, I needed the rest. I did manage a walk around the block, possibly 3-4 miles, not sure.

Sunday I was awake at 0600hrs listening to Something Understood with Mark Tully on Radio 4 talking about mementos. It was fine for 10 minutes, but then I simply had to get up, especially when Tully started talking about getting old. I simply don't need it. For some reason, people keep trying to remind me that I'm no spring chicken. A work colleague texted me, concerned that he (and me) didn't have that much time left on the planet. I felt inclined to remind him that it's all part of the human condition, it's inevitable and it's best not to think too hard about it. "Live in the here and now," I said and then quoted a 1990s death row inmate, Robert Alton Harris, who was executed on 21 April 1992. His last words, were: "You can be a king or street sweeper, but everybody dances with the grim reaper." It was a misquote of "You might be a king or a little street sweeper, but sooner or later you dance with the reaper," from the movie Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. It's a great quote because it puts in their place all those rich, fat bastards, the senior management who think they're a cut above the rest of us, driving around in their fancy cars, bragging about how successful they are when really they're shit scared. The truth is, it doesn't matter how wealthy you are or how big your house is, you still take a dump like the rest of us and, like the rest of us, you die alone even if you're in a crowded room.

On Sunday morning I was considering a ride to Redhill to visit the Pop Inn cafe, but I figured I eat there during the week and changed my mind. Perhaps I'd ride solo to Westerham for scrambled egg and toast in the Tudor Rose, but the thought of riding back up the hill alone without the motivation of Andy put me off. I was left with three options: do nothing, ride to mum's or ride to Woodmansterne Green to see Bon. I chose the latter because riding to mum's would have meant fruit cake and a Kitkat. Bon and I met around 0830hrs and chatted about this and that before heading home. I can't remember what time I got back, but when I did it was time to take out the Christmas tree, which this year had shed a lot of pine needles on the floor. Soon it was unceremoniously stripped of its baubles and slung in the front garden awaiting collection by the rubbish people and it looked a bit like the tree in the photograph below.

A tree in the grounds of Chartwell House, Westerham

Went to Chartwell for lunch - chicken pie, soup, coffee & walnut cake - had a brief walk across muddy ground and then headed home, ate an M&S samosa, engaged in another walk, this time a four-miler round the block. The tourist attraction that had been the local streets over the festive season had piped down their front-of-house festive displays. Some were still there, but the Christmas lights are flickering and soon they'll be extinguished for another year and I think everybody is quietly sighing with relief.

New Year's Eve and I bump into Bill Wyman in a caff on the King's Road...

There is a saying that goes something like 'never meet your heroes', but sometimes you simply can't help it. Having engaged in a spot of shopping in Peter Jones I found myself wandering down the King's Road in Chelsea, en route to a place called Gail's, a small, but perfectly formed, cafe. As I walked in, I stepped aside to let somebody out and that person just so happened to be the former Rolling Stone, Bill Wyman.

Bill Wyman, what a guy!

The trouble with meeting your heroes, of course, is that you never know what to say to them until it's too late. I said I'd been reading a book about the Rolling Stones, to which he replied 'which one?' and I mentioned this large coffee table book round at my sister's house in Carshalton. I forgot to mention the book 1971 by David Hepworth in which the Rolling Stones' move to France (to become 'tax exiles') was discussed alongside the band's decision to set up its own label, release Brown Sugar and, in Mick Jagger's case, get married to Bianca Jagger, but there was no time.

Wyman, now 83, and the oldest member of the Rolling Stones (he left in the early 90s) lives in Gedding Hall near Bury St Edmund's in Suffolk, but I'm guessing he has a place in central London too as I can't imagine him driving home to East Anglia tonight.

What a guy! "Pleasure meeting you, Bill," I said and we parted company.

New Year's Eve - to Woodmansterne Green!

Everything is damp and dripping. The roads are wet and I decided to ride to Woodmansterne Green to see Bon. I packed a flask of hot water, four teabags and two mugs and left around 0740hrs, riding through Purley, along Foxley Lane and towards Carshalton's lavender fields where I turned left and rode up the hill towards the green.

Library image of Woodmansterne Green as my iphone lost power (again)

Bon was cycling down the road to meet me and turned when he spotted me. We set up camp on Jean Merrington's wooden bench that surrounds a tree, which was probably planted to commemorate her life, I don't know, but there are lots of benches on Woodmansterne Green devoted to the memories of local residents, like Joyce Lowther (1914 to 1994). It's all a bit depressing, especially when you add the dampness of the grass and the grey sheen of the skies.

We drank tea and chatted and talked about a possible ride on New Year's Day and then said our goodbyes. I cycled back the way I came, although I could have cycled into Coulsdon and then along the Brighton Road into Croydon. I stuck with the more familiar route that eventually took me back into Foxley Lane.

There's a kind of expectancy about New Year's Eve that I'm not comfortable with. Everything is still in anticipation of what? New Year, of course! Later there will be countdowns and then it will dawn on everybody that nothing has changed and they've got to go to work and make New Year resolutions to cut out this and to start exercising and it goes without saying that the capitalists will be exploiting the situation. Don't be fooled into starting up a gym membership, buy a push bike instead, far better value in my humble opinion.

I'm sitting in my conservatory looking out on the back garden. There's a pile of old branches on the lawn that need to be burnt or put away somewhere, but it won't be done today. It's a job that is staring me in the face and will continue to do so until I get out there and fix it. The futility of gardening springs to mind, but I'm not going there, not today.

I rode around 12 miles today and I'm planning a six-mile walk this evening, so I'm keeping things moving. If I did make a New Year resolution it would be to cut out biscuits and chocolates, but I think the best policy is to keep any promises to myself as once people know they pile on the pressure in both directions: there will be cake offered by some while others will goad me for not sticking to my guns. Information is power and it's best kept away from those who don't have your best interests at heart. Who does have your best interests at heart? Not many.

New saddle fitted badly by Cycle King...

I can't say I'm happy with Cycle King in Croydon. This is, I have to say, unusual, as normally the service is very good, but not earlier this week. The reason I was paying a visit to the store was simple: I'd set about fixing on my new saddle, but messed up completely, sending bits of metal falling to the floor and then wondering how the hell to fix the new saddle on to the seat post. It wasn't going to happen, I knew that much, so I picked up all the bits, put them in 'Matt's Biscuit Tin' - a secret Santa present from work - and rolled down the road on the bike, which didn't have a saddle. For most of the short journey I stood up on the pedals, walking bits here and there, and eventually reached the store.

The guy behind the counter took the biscuit tin, I explained my dilemma and said I'd be back in around half an hour. I walked into central Croydon, took a brief look at the books in Waterstone's (to be honest, I needed a wazz and couldn't stand still for long) and then walked back towards South Croydon where Cycle King is based.

When I arrived at the store I found the bike resting against the wall and was, I has to be said, a little concerned. Normally, when I leave the bike with the repair guys, they give me a little slip of paper so that nobody else walks in and takes my bike. This time they didn't do that, the whole thing was done on trust, so it was odd to see my bike just resting against a wall. Literally anybody could have walked away with it. Closer inspection was even greater cause for concern. The saddle had been fitted at a strange 10 degree angle pointing downwards. Now, Cycle King in Croydon has a lot of bikes for sale and they're displayed in rows all around the place, it's a big store. None. I repeat. NONE!!!!! of the bikes have their saddles pointing downwards at an angle of about 10 degrees. None of them. So why mine? "Should it be pointing down like that?" It was a straightforward question from yours truly. The man who fixed it answered. "Yes, that's right," he said as I grabbed the bike and noticed that the saddle was also pointing slightly to the left and not exactly straight ahead in line with the crossbar. I loosened the seat post and straightened the saddle and then left the store. "Nice saddle," said the man, I thought a tad sarcastically.

Saddles shouldn't dip down like that, surely?

I rode home, but I wasn't happy. I knew something more needed to be done and that I'd have to do it. When Andy and I rode to Westerham yesterday he noticed it immediately and said I needed to make a simple adjustment. But there's no such thing as a simple adjustment in my world and I envisaged the plates and bolts securing the saddle falling apart and hiding from me in the garage. Andy assured me it was only a case of loosening the front and tightening the back so on Sunday's ride, Sunday being the 29th December, I brought the Alun keys with me and fixed it on the green, making sure I'd taken the above photograph to tweet on Twitter later. It's fine now.

We rode the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop where there was chat about luminous overshoes from Andy because he suffers from cold feet during the winter. I've found a simple cure: normal leather shoes. My Jeremy Corbyns are on their last legs and I'm now using them as walking shoes, gardening shoes and now cycling shoes and, by and large, my feet remain fairly warm.

The ride was painless, although I'm not a fan of Beddlestead Lane as you know. I think it's worse than the hill coming out of Westerham. After tea and teabag flicking (for a change, I put in a fairly decent performance) we headed for home, Andy branching off at The Ridge and me sailing down the 269, which wasn't that busy due to the Christmas holidays. Andy has no holiday left and is having to work all but the public holidays so we won't meet again until 2020 (weather permitting). I'm going to try to pluck up the enthusiasm to ride mid-week.

Saturday after Boxing Day - to Westerham!

It's the Saturday after Christmas and it's been a busy week as it was my turn to organise the so-called Boxing Day Bash, something that traditionally took place at mum and dad's house, but since dad's death (in 2011) and mum's old age (she's 91 in November) it's moved around a bit. Well, only over the last two years: last year at Bon's and this year at my place. It was a great success and now Christmas is over for another year, although we're now going through that lovely timeless period between the old and the new year and I love it. There's nothing better than a walk around the block at dusk when the Christmas lights adorning the front of people's houses are switched on and it's time to get a glimpse of other people's lives and to gain some kind of insight into the other players of the game of life.

Christmas tree in Westerham, 28/12/19

Yesterday (Friday) we followed the same route.

One of the only things I don't like about the festive season is the unnecessary eating, even if I do tend to do a lot of unnecessary scoffing at the office throughout the year, something I simply must stop doing - now there's a new year resolution. At Christmas time things come into the house that we don't see at other times: there's Garner's Pickled Onions, pate (I don't know how to put the accent over the 'e'), cheeses, biscuits, mince pies and other stuff that is essentially rubbish. Last night, while watching Worzel Gummidge (I never watched the Jon Pertwee series, but having watched Mackenzie Crook's Detectorists and enjoying it immensely I thought I'd sit down and see what transpired). Well, what transpired was a bread roll, some pate and a two pickled onions. I didn't really need any of it, but because it was there and because it was Christmas, I ate the lot, but I can't say I enjoyed the gluttony. So I've thought now's the time to stop this lunacy, although we have a large tin of Quality Street too and I keep saying no to myself and then breaking my promise. It has got to stop, but it didn't. As soon as I returned from the ride I helped myself to around half a dozen chocolates, although that was after a fried egg sandwich and two organic Weetabix.

We rode to Westerham, for a change. The weather was perfect, but there is a problem. Yesterday I went to Cycle King in Croydon to have my new saddle fitted. The reason I did this was because I dismantled the screws and plates securing the existing saddle in place and then forgot which way round it should all be reassembled. I left the bike in the shop and went for a walk into central Croydon (never a good idea at the best of times). After a brief wander around Waterstone's I headed back to the shop and noticed that the saddle had been fitted nose down rather than level. "Is that right?" I asked the man who fixed it and he said yes it was, but I noticed that none of the hundreds of bikes in the Cycle King showroom had their saddles pointing downwards. "Nice saddle," he said as a passing shot and Ieft feeling slightly disgruntled, but still holding on to the notion that he knew better than I. It wasn't until Andy and I stopped on Westerham Green that Andy said it was wrong and needed to be fixed. "Just untighten the front nut and then tighten up the back one," he said, that word 'just' was worrying. If I attempt to fix the saddle that's an 80% chance the bike will be in bits within seconds and I won't be riding; in fact, to avoid that, I'll take the alun keys with me and Andy can watch me make a pig's ear of the process while we're on the ride. At least that way we get a ride in. That said I might nip out there later and give it a try, it's just that I don't trust myself at all with any kind of DIY activity, anything that is deemed to be a 'fixing' exercise. I just lack the dexterity and the confidence to do anything in that ball park so count me out of fixing your car or putting up a picture frame, making shelves, doing any car mechanics, anything at all as the outcome will be negative in so many ways.

It was good to be in Westerham, although the thought of riding back up the hill was pretty terrible. Beddlestead was worst, said Andy as we headed out of town, passing a car that had somehow wedged itself in a roadside ditch. "It was there on Boxing Day," said Andy.

We parted at The Ridge and said we'd meet again on Sunday at the earlier time of 0730hrs. Today we met at 0800hrs.

Exactly four years ago to the day, this is what we were doing: click here!

Rained off...but here's hoping!

This weekend's cycling was rained off completely. It simply hasn't stopped raining. When I looked out at 0600hrs, the rain was hammering next door's rooftop puddle so I immediately sent out an abort text. It happened again on Sunday morning so I sent another abort text and ended up riding alone around the block - my short but hilly six-mile ride. The rain on Saturday was on and off, but mainly in the morning. On both days, I headed out mid-morning, around 1100hrs, and was back in the house 40 minutes later, managing to ride out during a lull in the rain.

This shot taken by Andy Smith on Church Lane, last week! Big puddle!

A brief comment on the above photograph from last weekend's ride: I was behind Andy and passed through the puddle when the car behind the one above reached the puddle. Fortunately he slowed right down and didn't make as big a splash, which was good. I remember cycling through the above puddle on the outward journey and my left foot was completely submerged in the water. All I needed was a clockwork motorboat and I could have spent the morning there messing around with a toy boat and having, quite literally, 'hours of fun'.

It is now Monday morning, 0842hrs, and I am planning to ride out every day until the new year. Might head off in a minute OR leave it until after we've completed our festive chores. It's important that I ride today and tomorrow and possibly even Christmas day too as my record for mid-week rides has been piss poor, something like 010 over the past three weeks. But right now I'm just sitting here and considering another cup of tea, possibly a fried egg sandwich, who knows?

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St Leonard's and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Sometimes I have trouble with cycling on a Saturday morning, especially during the winter months. I think it's got a lot to do with having worked all week and wanting a lie in; although, just a later start would sort things out. Still, I got up, looked out of the window (hoping it might be raining so I could crawl back in to bed) and then got dressed for the ride. I checked my phone (perhaps Andy had aborted) and then, all that was between me and the cold air was a puncture, but both tyres were as hard as rock.

I was running late. I couldn't find the balaclava. This could have been a big issue as I've been wearing it on every ride and couldn't face the cold without it. In fact, it was likely to be an 'abort' issue. After rummaging around in the cupboard, getting, it has to be said, a little annoyed, I found it and basically, bar that potential for a puncture, had to ride the bike. But the faffing around had cost me dear and I wasn't going to reach the green until 0745hrs. When I got there I was still weary and dreading a long ride. Andy was tired too so my suggestion of St Leonard's Church was welcomed and we headed off on the two-mile ride (it can't be much further). I reckon, in total, it was a 12-mile ride, but 'that'll do pig' I thought to myself.

The weather was fine. It had been raining heavily overnight and there were some massive puddles, in some places spanning the road. I rode slowly through the first one and, indeed, the second, and on the return ride there were two cars coming in the opposite direction. I slowed to avoid a soaking. Andy had already gone through. The second car slowed and I waited. Then I rode through the water, the bike slowing as I reached the middle. There were waves, caused by the car, which made the whole thing childishly exciting. Normally, when I see a large puddle, I wish I had a small clockwork motorboat, but, as always, I leave it at home.

There's a robin in there somewhere!

When we reached our destination we chatted about our early rides and our inability to grasp the fact that having a puncture repair kit in our rucksack would have been a good idea now and then. We reminisced on our long walks from Westerham to Oxted pushing our bikes along the street listening to the squelchy sound of a flat tyre. In those days we only rode to Westerham, 22 miles in total and we used to stand outside the Co-op eating a Danish pastry, but we didn't have any tea as we hadn't worked out that we could bring a flask with us and sit somewhere, like the small bench next to the Co-op, chilling out.

The churchyard at St Leonard's is pretty sparse and damp. There was a recently made grave that still needed its headstone and all we could hear was the sound of paper rustling, the paper the contained the flowers. Graveyards always bring it home to me, my mortality, and thinking back just 13 years made me realise how long Andy and I had been doing this, getting up at 0600hrs every Saturday and Sunday morning, rain or shine most of the time.

"When I look at some of the photos my hair was blacker," I said. "I suppose I could always dye it."

We joked about it, although it was never something I'd considered. What's best, I often wonder, being bald or being grey? I suppose it has to be the latter because I could always resort to dyeing my grey hair, but if I was bald I'd have to get a wig.

As we stood around sipping tea, a robin arrived and flitted nervously from branch to branch of the bushes behind our chosen bench. It was too wet to sit down so I set about trying to take a photograph of the robin with my iphone. Andy tried with his camera, but the bird kept its distance and eventually hopped off.

"It's strange the way it all happened. A curry in Whyteleafe, a suggestion that we go for a ride at the weekend and we haven't stopped since, it's been 13 years," I said.

It had been six years since Phil started riding with us and for the past two or three years we've not seen nor heard from him. I often wonder if he's still riding. "For Phil it was therapy," I said as we started to pack things away and consider the shortish ride home. It was nice not being far, far away and it was nice not to be contemplating the dangers of the 269.

Andy rode all the way to the green where we parted company, vowing to meet on Sunday, weather permitting.

As it turned out the weather was fine and as it was Sunday and the sun was shining we headed for the bus stop. The thought of Beddlestead Lane dragged me down as always, but not for long. Overnight there had been heavy rain and those puddles from yesterday were even bigger than before. The big puddle on Church Lane was deep and as I rode through it my left foot was completely submerged and remained wet throughout the rest of the ride.

Riding side-by-side along Beddlestead Lane Andy asked an interesting question. "I wonder what the media will find to talk about now that the election is over."

I couldn't think of anything and instead suggested that there would probably be a natural disaster, like a tsunami or something to focus their minds. "What about that volcano in New Zealand?" I said.

The conversation edged round to adrenaline junkies. "I've never been interested in anything like that," I said as we passed the totem pole, riding side-by-side, and made our way towards the mobile phone mast and the final straight towards Clarks Lane. And that's when Andy said he'd jumped out of a plane and had bungee-jumped half a dozen times. The parachute jump was a two-day affair over at Headcorn in Kent. Day one in training learning how to land and then the jump from around 2,000 feet. The bungee jumping was with a pal who bottled out at the last minute, but not Andy.

At the bus stop we engaged in less dangerous activities, like flicking teabags off the end of a teaspoon and watching the Lycra monkeys with their luminous overshoes as they passed by heading east on Clarks Lane or west towards Botley Hill.

On the return ride I joined Andy on the route through Woldingham. Sometimes I can't face the 269 and even the hill on Slines Oak Road seemed like a better bet. I reached home just before 1000hrs.

Tatsfield bus stop on Saturday and St Leonard's Church on Sunday...

I was feeling uncharacteristically chirpy this morning despite a relatively late night, hitting the sack around 2330hrs instead of an hour earlier and waking up and listening to the wind and rain on a couple of occasions during the night. I was, however, up at 0600hrs eating porridge with fresh fruit and checking out the web for cycling shorts and a decent saddle, there's so much choice. Later, when Andy and I reached our destination of St Leonard's church in Chelsham, I found that I had the Small Faces' Lazy Sunday Afternoon in my head. "Wouldn't it be nice to get on with yer neighbours!"

Christmas tree on Sanderstead's 'Gruffy'

Yesterday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, which is our usual way these days, and when we reached it we pondered many things including the essay question: "Everyone is a cunt." Discuss. I was going to have a crack at it - and still might - because the level of general cuntery in the UK at the moment is such that I feel such an essay is warranted and way overdue. Perhaps everybody should have a go.

It was good riding the short distance to St Leonard's. We'd been here before, of course, although I'd have to go through the archives to find out exactly when; it's one of those places we go to when we've got to get back early and it suited us both today. It meant that I reached home at 0915 having stopped off at the garage to give the bike a jet clean and buy a EuroMillions lottery ticket, just for the hell of it. That and a plain chocolate Bounty bar which I should have resisted. But there's my weak-will for you; I can't resist a chocolate bar now and then, although, at present it's a little more frequent that simply 'now and then'.

There's a Christmas tree on the green at Sanderstead, which was a pleasant sight as I rode through the churchyard on both Saturday and Sunday morning, although I didn't go through the churchyard on Sunday, preferring to stay on the road, making my angle of approach towards the tree slightly different today than yesterday.

Time for tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

We're thinking seriously about the Pop Inn in Redhill next weekend, mainly because we're getting bored of the same old routes. The slow way to the bus stop is fine, but we know it off by heart and there is a need for variety, which we're not getting at the moment. There's no point, for example, taking the same shots week in and week out of our bikes leaning against the bus stop, it's been done many times.

The problem with St Leonard's on a December morning is that the benches are going to be wet and we're going to have to stand up and not sit down like we do at the bus stop, but we didn't care.

I was dressed in my usual cycling attire: the rust-coloured jacket that has seen better days, a heavy jumper, multi-pocketed trousers from Millets and my rather menacing green balaclava. I was wearing my walking shoes, which are now fairly muddy and all-in-all, going back to that essay question, I looked like a right cunt, albeit a chirpy one.

The sun is shining brightly and right at me as I sit in the conservatory writing this blogpost. The trees are bare and silhouetted against ther sun's rays, there's a jet circling somewhere overhead prior to making its final approach into London Heathrow and there's dew on the grass. It's not cold either, which is a relief as last week I never managed to get a week-day ride in because of extreme cold (it was around minus one). I must go out tomorrow morning as it looks as if the rain will return on Tuesday.

My Christmas goes up a week early!

Andy rode to the green today and we parted at the garage where I stopped to give my bike a much-needed jet clean. All I need to do now is oil the chain and it should be alright. As avid readers will know, punctures have played a central role in my cycling life of late (see previous post) but other than that, all is well. There are birds chirping outside, the grass flutters in the breeze and the light is appealing, it was even better this morning as we rode those country lanes close to the church.

I've still got my trousers tucked in to my socks, but I'll soon rectify that. Time, I think, for a cup of tea.