Biscuit Love – brilliant for breakfast when the hotel fails you...

Biscuit Love, Nashville, Tennessee, USA – it's great!

It doesn't matter which way you look at it, the best part of the hotel experience has to be the breakfast, it's the most important meal of the day and, done properly, it sets you up for the day ahead and makes you love the hotel you're staying in. That's why, when you suddenly find that the hotel you're staying in DOESN'T offer a decent breakfast you get a little depressed. Not suicidal, far from it, but a little down in the dumps, and it's important to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

Biscuit Love, it's the best!

The thing is, these days, a lot of hotels have dispensed with the idea of breakfast – a major faux pas if you ask me and as much of a sin as dispening with wardrobes, desks and tea & coffee making facilities. How very dare they! Well, they do so you'd better get used to it.

All is not lost, though. Perhaps the first port of call for hotel residents on the look-out for a decent breakfast outside of their chosen place to stay is the coffee retailers. I'm sure that Starbuck's, Costa, Caffé Nero and all the independents out there offer something, even if it's just a Danish and a cup of tea or coffee.

Last year, in Columbus, Ohio, I was staying in a wonderful hotel, the Aloft, on the outskirts of town. It was a great place with plenty of quirky things going on, but they thought (wrongly) that it would be really quirky to dispense with breakfast. Big mistake, but it didn't put me off the hotel because, while quirky in some respects it was comfortable and, crucially, it was across the street (make that the parking lot) from an excellent Starbuck's where I would find myself every morning having a pretty decent breakfast. Naturally it became a routine, every morning.

So, here I am in the Moxy Vanderbilt, Nashville, downstairs writing this because there's no desk in my room, but let's say no more about that (I've said enough), let's instead talk about the seriously sub-standard food and beverage operation here; I know, I've mentioned it before, many times, but let's discuss it again but this time in the context of the hotel breakfast. The limited menu, which seems to be mainly pizza-like food items that can go in the bar top grill oven I've been talking about, makes the whole idea of waking up and looking forward to breakfast a bit of a no-no, that excitement simply isn't there – or is it?

Across the street from the Moxy Vanderbilt is a place called Biscuit Love. Yes, Biscuit Love, it's wonderful and it serves an amazing breakfast that's a cut above what you'll get in a coffee retailer like Starbuck's or whatever. The vibe is good too, there's decent music (probably because we're in the Music City) and the staff are bright and breezy and always have a smile for anybody who walks in; there's merch too, which gives the place a little added cred in my book. I've been going there since I arrived, by-passing the Moxy's poxy menu and crossing the street, confident that I'm going to get a warm welcome and, of course, a decent breakfast.

This morning, having been going there since Sunday morning, I was offered a free breakfast for my loyalty. I was bowled over by their generosity and ordered my usual: an omelette and an English breakfast tea, but not something you'd find in your average British greasy spoon, something far, far better, the omelette being served with roasted potatoes. Perfect! And the tea is out of this world, served in a glass teapot with an infuser, it's just the best and it knocks the Moxy's offering into a cocked hat.

I think hotels need to be careful. If they don't watch out they will become the fly in the ointment of their own existence and will have to sit back and watch their slow but inevitable decline. People won't put up with hotels that don't have desks or wardrobes or breakfast purely for the sake of being 'quirky' and instead they'll head for the nearest Air B&B. I was earwigging a conversation yesterday when I discovered that one company had put its representatives in a house for the duration of a big industry event, they all got their own rooms, they could cook their own food if they wanted to and when it came to breakfast, well, they'd just have to ensure they had cereal and fruit enough bread for toast and what have you. Who needs a hotel breakfast? Nobody, especially if it's very poor like the Moxy offering.

But there are now dedicated breakfast operators outside of the coffee retailers. Biscuit Love is one of these operators, it has a few stores in the Nashville area; and then there's The Brekkie Shack in Columbus, Ohio, a short walk from the Aloft hotel. Alright, not as close as the Starbuck's across the parking lot, but worth the extra few yards.

I think we'll be seeing more dedicated breakfast operators over the next few years as foodservice operators twig on to the trend for hotels that don't offer what they're supposed to. What's next, I wonder? Hotels with half a dozen sleeping bags in the room and nothing else. "Hey, they can watch TV on their iPads, they've got iPhones so we don't need to give them a landline and just shove a few pegs in the wall, there's no need for a wardrobe or, for that matter, a desk. They have laptops don't they? Well, they don't need a desk, they can use their laps, and if they want tea and coffee we'll shove a couple of bean-to-up systems downstairs in the reception area."

I wonder how far it will go? It's a bit like when you go to the airport and are expected to check yourself in. I hate that because the price doesn't drop, you're just doing the work of the airline and they're quids in as a result. Perhaps one day you'll arrive at what looks like a field laid to lawn with a sign providing the name of the hotel and a man in uniform handing out tents and camping equipment. "Pitch up anywhere, and if you want breakfast there's a nice little joint down the road. There's no desks either, or wardrobes or anything. Oh, and that's £200 for the night."

The Gibson Garage

After the work was over today I took a stroll up Demonbreun Street in the direction of the Gibson Garage. There are two such establishments in the world: one is here in Nashville, USA, and the other is in London. The Nashville store was the first (and is only around 15 minutes from the Gibson factory) and the London outlet is smaller but on two floors, unlike the one in the Music City.

A Gibson Les Paul.

I guess you have to be a bit of rock lover to appreciate the Gibson Garage and, of course, it helps if you can play the guitar. I can't play a note and sometimes that makes me feel like an imposter, which I am, but, like Harley Davidson motorcycles - I can't ride a motorcycle either - Gibson guitars are something to behold. I decided a few years ago that passing my bike test and buying a Hog, as they're known, would result in an early death, so I stopped the idea dead in its tracks and haven't thought about it ever since. Guitars, however, are a little safer, so I am one of those people who promise themselves that one day they'll buy and learn how to play a guitar. It's become real and in so many ways I'm only days, hours, perhaps even minutes, from simply buying one and then watching countless videos on YouTube to teach myself how to play. They reckon that self-taught people in any sphere of life are normally the best at what they do; there are countless rock stars who taught themselves how to play and there are countless chefs who taught themselves how to cook.

So, I crossed the car park just past the old blue pick-up truck that is advertising the Gibson Garage to passers-by and soon I'm there, in the thick of it, Gibson guitars on an overhead conveyor belt threading their way around the store, rock music blaring out and books by Slash, or about Slash's guitars, on display for all to see. This is the sort of place where you can find rock stars, but the staff say little about who they are and when they're in town and, therefore, likely to come visit. Last Saturday, or was it Friday?, Metallica played here so there was probably a good chance that James Hetfield would drop by and, you know what? If he did, he'd probably be invisible, you wouldn't see him and then somebody would announce that Hetfield had left the building and everybody would be slightly miffed that they missed him.

Gibson guitars are not cheap. At the low end you can probably pick one up for around a couple of grand, but they can cost thousands of pounds. Go to Denmark Street in London's Soho and you'll see what I mean. Gibson Les Pauls dating back to the sixties or even earlier can cost huge sums of money, like £30,000 or even more, but these are special guitars and they certainly look the business.

I actually considered buying my bass guitar while I was in Nashville purely because I figured it would be a good story, a good piece of provenance, if the guitar I owned originated from the Gibson Garage in Nashville. What a story! But it's funny how things work out or how there's no way you can escape the con of capitalism. The Epiphone Grabber bass looked like the perfect instrument for me, it was $999 and that translated to something like £750 in UK money, a considerable saving in other words if I did buy it there and then – and I could have – but there are many catches, the first being would I be happy to place my newly purchased Grabber bass in the hold of an aircraft for a nine-hour flight home? Matt, one of the sales guys in the store, who I spent hours chatting to about rock musicians, spoke of many horror stories. He said the best thing would be to buy one of those ultra-rigid cases, but they're not always the answer. There are stories about guitars in cases being ruined, being run over by those electric carts that pull the small trucks of suitcases behind them en route to the plane, and then there's the cost. How much would it cost I wonder? Small display units can set people back around £80 so a guitar might cost double that: already that difference in cost is narrowing despite the fact that the pound is running well against the dollar at present (the chief reason for buying the guitar here and not in the UK). I checked out the UK-based Amazon site and the Anderton's website listed the Grabber bass as selling for £929 – remember, brand new in the US it's worth $999 and that money converted to pounds is only (as I said) around £750. So a guitar that's only worth £750 or so retails in the UK at £929, almost £200 more than it's actually worth. But, the risk is trying to get it across the Atlantic in the hold of a Boeing 777 (or whatever the plane might be) is huge. Apparently, you can buy a seat for the bass guitar and treat it as a passenger! Imagine that! You buy an extra ticket. How much would that cost I wonder, and suddenly the guitar is costing me much much more than it's worth. You can also ask to take the guitar to the gate rather than place it on the conveyor at check-in. In short it's a nightmare and, as I say, you can't beat the system. I found that rather annoying and even more so as it seems that it's difficult to win in this world. Wouldn't it be good to be able to buy the guitar in the USA for £750, in Nashville, the Music City of all places and, for once, beat the system? But no, it's not to be; I'll be honest, the injustice of it all has been bugging me and I'm feeling the grief just a little more than normal purely because I caught a cold on the plane coming over here. I was sitting next an old bag who wouldn't stop coughing, she kept putting a mask on and then taking it off and I sat next to her for nine hours straight, probably a bit longer. I wish I hadn't been so nice to her now as I'm coughing and spluttering and my nose is running and I'm not sleeping well, all because I drew the short straw and found myself sitting next to the old bat. I'm feeling a little better but not by much so all I need is the realisation that, if I wanted the Grabber bass from Nashville I'd have to pay over £200 more than it's worth. I considered buying it online from an American website, but I'm sure there would have been shipping charges that again would fuck me over. So, my dream (like so many of my dreams) has been shattered. I won't be buying a bass guitar in Nashville, the fucking Music City, because the system is against me – and everyone else. Perhaps if I bought the guitar, hired a car, drove to New York, booked myself on a cruise to the UK, then I might get away with it, but they'd probably think of something, like customs, to get me paying that additional £200 and I can't afford to be out of the country for another week sailing the Atlantic with a new bass guitar. I'll shut up now, I'll say no more other than to say I'm disappointed.

With my work done I took a stroll to the CVS along 21st Avenue to buy some Sleepy Time Bear tea, a bit of a hike for a few teabags, but I like them so I did it, then I found myself in Badass Coffee again, armed with an Eric Ambler novel. I ordered a tea, sat down on a leather sofa and read a chapter in between nodding off (put a jet-lagged me on a comfortable sofa and I will fall asleep). Well, I didn't fall asleep as such I just nodded off for a split second, it was nothing to do with the book, it was me. I've spent the week walking around a lot and, I hasten to add, eating a lot of junk food, chips with everything – apart from one Japanese meal in a restaurant next door to the Gibson Garage. I've also been going to bed really early, like before 8pm because there's nowt to do and nobody to talk to. My colleague and I have been having early dinners and then parting company, me taking an Uber back to my hotel, which is around a 45-minute walk from the downtown. 

My sleep regime has been interesting: hitting the sack around eight and then waking up around 0200hrs, calling home and then hitting the sack again after about an hour. I thought it was working well until, one day – the day before today – I never got back to sleep. Anyway, sleep patterns aside, all has been well.

As for the Moxy Hotel, something else I needed today was a kettle to make tea in the room, plus, of course, a few teabags and some 'dairy creamer' (I don't expect semi-skimmed milk). But no, if I wanted a cup of tea I'd have to come downstairs to the upbeat 'common room' from where I write this and pay for it, although noise is good when I'm writing. I know some people need silence but for me it's the complete opposite most of the time unless I'm writing an article that's a little more complicated, which I'm not at the moment. So, another lost point for the Moxy. On the plus side, though, like all hotels on trips of longer than a couple of nights, I'm starting to regard it as 'home' and look forward to the moment I get back here and head for my room, my sanctuary if you like, and I'm beginning to feel a little guilty about slagging it off, even if my comments about no wardrobe, no desk and no tea and coffee-making facilities all stand. A word on the staff, they're great (that's two words) but they are, they're helpful and friendly and what more could you ask from a hotel? Well, a wardrobe and a desk would be nice. Alright, alright, sorry, I won't mention them again!

It's 1930 or 7.30pm, I'm sorry about this post's house style inconsistencies on time. Normally I use the 24-hour clock but for some reason that's gone awry, not that it matters, let's embrace the inconsistency!

The music continues, there are the games, the travel Scrabble, the chess board, the tethered table skittles, the giant Jenga and the giant Connect Four and there are people enjoying it. I feel like an outsider, an imposter and while I'm thinking that perhaps I should eat something, one thing the Moxy is NOT good at is F&B, the food and beverage operation leaves a lot to be desired and it's a shame. I wish there was a restaurant, table service, a bit of variety on the menu, but there isn't, just the square bar offering pizza-based products like 'chicken, bacon and ranch'. I don't want that, I get enough of that sort of cuisine downtown, even in the decent hotels. 

Why are so many Americans the size of dust carts? Because of all the pizza and burgers and chips they eat, that's why. But listen, I like the Americans, always have, I just wish, for their own sakes, that they lost a bit of weight. I doubt I'll eat or drink anything now until tomorrow and then I'll visit Biscuit Love again. I'm on my own, there's nobody to talk to and nothing much to do, I've visited the local shops at the end of Belcourt and they're not that good, even Badass Coffee ain't brilliant, it lacks something, like atmosphere, and the rest of the shops up there are boutiques or those places that sell scented candles and other tat. 

Heading downtown...

Today, as I planned to walk from my hotel to the Music City Convention Centre in downtown Nashville, I heard there had been a homicide on Friday in the early hours of the morning. An international traveller had been stabbed in the head and was robbed of his iphone. The police did take a man into custody, according to a news report. I'm guessing that, in the UK, the newspapers would probably have used that well-worn phrase "no arrests have been made" but this isn't the UK, it's the USA and, credit where credit's due, there's always a strong police presence, which is reassuring to the general public, especially after a murder has taken place.

My hotel, the Moxy (see previous article) is a fair way from the convention centre where I was due to meet my colleague and, sadly, for the Moxy, more disparaging stories from the hotel without wardrobes. I was advised to take a cab or an Uber and avoid any possible incident with Nashville ne'er do wells. Unfortunately, my Uber app, which is rarely used, didn't seem to work so I asked the receptionist if she could call me a cab. "You're a cab," she said...alright, she didn't say anything of the sort, that was my little joke. But what she did say was, "We have a cab company, sir, but they never turn up if we call them." It's not what you want to hear, is it? The hotel has a cab company, but when anybody calls them they don't bother turning up. What kind of a cab company does that and what sort of hotel allows the situation to fester and become so commonplace that the receptionist on the 'front desk' openly tells customers that it's really not worth booking a cab as they never bother to turn up. 

Well, I'd better face up to facts and hit the mean streets of Nashville and just hope I'm not accosted by an axe-wielding nutter. I started to walk along a street that would become (if it wasn't already) Broadway. A few yards into my journey I thought I'd download the Uber app as my one wasn't working properly. Perhaps I'd find somewhere with free wifi as I don't want to be charged a fortune by the phone company. So I darted into a coffee shop called something like Badass Coffee, ordered a tea (I don't like availing myself of the services of a foodservice operator without in some way giving them business) and sat down with a view to getting the app installed on my phone. There's a little notice on the service counter with the wifi password on it so I keyed it into my phone only to discover that it didn't work and I really couldn't face any kind of engagement with the counter assistant so I decided (again) to continue with my walk. "Just checking, but is it safe to walk into downtown from here?" I finally asked. "Yes, it is. All is fine during the daylight hours, but I wouldn't do it at night," she said and I realised that Nashville is just like anywhere else. Walk around late at night or in the early hours and basically you're asking for trouble. So I resolved to continue with my journey, but first, as I'd been drinking tea all morning – I had around three cups in Biscuit Love and another one here in this Badass coffee joint – I thought it best to answer the call of nature and not later find myself trying to walk cross-legged or, worse still, having to dart behind a tree or bush to take a leak.

I walked towards the passageway that would lead me to the restrooms (as they say politely here in North America – in the UK it would be 'the bogs'). When I reached the door there was a keypad affixed to it, meaning I would have to go back to the service counter and ask for the password (how humiliating!). When I got there the girl behind the counter recited a list of numbers and added 'plus pound'. Plus pound? She didn't really elaborate and when I got back to the door of the restroom I couldn't see any £ sign and had to return to the counter. "You mean the hash tag?" And that was just what she meant, the door opened, I answered the call of nature and I was ready to continue my walk through the mean streets of Nashville. Except that they weren't at all mean. I had no troublesome encounters whatsoever and reached my ultimate destination (the convention centre) without incident.

I was, however, simply amazed that stuff wasn't working: my Uber app (which I later successfully uploaded) then the password for the Badass coffee shop's wifi and then the toilet door confusion over whether the push-button code had a £ sign or a hashtag. 

What was great about today (Sunday) was Nashville's Gibson Garage, a shop full of expensive Gibson and Epiphone electric (and acoustic) guitars. I can't play a note and nor can my colleague so we decided not to be imposters by buying a Gibson tee-shirt and instead walked to an area of Nashville called The Gulch where we found a fantastic English pub. I ordered a burger and fries, my colleague opted for a shepherd's pie, both very tasty, and then we continued to swan around the downtown, merging with the merry folk of Nashville. I remembered a cartoon I used to watch as a kid and a horse called Quick Draw McGraw who used to hit his enemies over the head with an acoustic guitar. That's it, I thought. I don't need to pack a piece, all I need is buy an expensive Gibson Les Paul and if anybody should dare to steal my iphone I could shout "El Kabong!" and land my guitar squarely on the head of the robber. The problem, of course, is that I might end up seriously hurting the bad guy – or perhaps the 'badass' – and then find myself in the slammer or, even worse, on Death Row, my feet shackled as I make my way to the visitor window where, with the help of a Bakelite telephone receiver, I can talk to my family from the other side of some heavy duty plexiglass or whatever it is they use to separate prisoner and visitor.

For Moxy read Poxy – in Nashville, Tennessee...

Well, it's day one, perhaps I'm a little lagged, who knows, although I managed to get a fair amount of sleep last night, waking around 0200hrs but getting off to sleep a couple hours later so I feel pretty okay. The problem with the Moxy, let's make that plural, the PROBLEMS with the Moxy are as follows: first, it's trying its best to be 'quirky' – never a good thing to try being quirky, you either are or you're not in my opinion, a bit like 'cult'movies, and I think the best example of quirky is the Ace Hotel in Portland, Oregon, a great place that I don't think has been equalled by any 'boutique' hotel that has followed.

On arrival at Nashville airport...

The Moxy is playing the role of 'student digs' with pool table and foose ball and darts and a square bar where everything goes on, it's an area that you encounter on entering the hotel because, yes, you've guessed it, the bar is also the reception area (wow! that's off the wall!) and the person who checks you in is likely to be making up your pizza later in the evening. And while we're on the subject of food, it ain't good here. The menu is limted, there's a bar top grill machine of sorts that really only makes pizza-like products, nothing at all healthy about it. In fact, last night I had "chicken, bacon and ranch" and, while it was sort of okay, it was nothing to write home about. I didn't particularly want a pizza for dinner but that was effectively all there was and what I got, that and a bottle of Perrier (and I had to ask for the glass).

Room 406, Moxy Vanderbilt hotel...no desk or wardrobe!

So, this morning (it's now Sunday, I flew in here last night on a direct BA flight from London, it was great and because of that there's little to write about, there was no turbulence, it was smooth all the way and took around nine hours, that flew by) I even considered breakfast this morning until I realised that the aforementioned limited menu is basically anything that can be cooked in this kind of grill over on the bar top. Also, when I tried to order the woman behind the bar ignored me completely so I used that as a reason not to have breakfast at the hotel but instead to go to Biscuit Love across the street. Avid readers will remember the Brekkie Shack in Columbus, Ohio, one year ago today. Well, it's kind of like that. I ordered an amazing omelette plus a large mug of tea AND one of their famed 'biscuits' which ain't a biscuit at all, more a kind of pastry, a cross between a scone and something a little more fragile, like filo pastry, served with butter and strawberry jam. The whole thing was great and as I walked in they were playing Stevie Wonder's Living for the City, arguably one of the best songs in the world, but it wasn't the longer album version, which is by far the best, "New Yarrrrrk! Just like I pictured it, skyscrapers an' everythang!"

The shower in room 406...very good!

After breakfast I was feeling elated and wandered down to a row of local shops, boutiques and more breakfast establishments. Clearly everybody knows there's no point in having breakfast at The Moxy because, in a nutshell, it's POXY! I think I'll be back in Biscuit Love tomorrow morning for another huge breakfast.

So, back to the hotel: there's no wardrobe and, wait for it, no desk! No desk! In a hotel room! I'm guessing that when the guys at Marriott Bonvoy sat down to work out the Moxy concept they thought, "Hey, let's get a student vibe going here, how about no wardrobes in the rooms and no desks, and hey, that'll bring the true meaning of the word 'laptop' into play." Well, it's not great I can tell you. I've got (as always in American hotels) two huge double beds and a load of unused space where they could quite easily have put a desk. It's really annoying to discover that my hotel for the next SIX nights has no desk or wardrobe. Instead of the latter they have hangers on the wall on wooden hooks that protrude from the wall and now, if you were in my room (or anybody else's for that matter) you'd see a row of shirts and trousers and a suit hanging from the wall. I'm sure that I'm going to wake up in the middle of the night and think there are other people in the room, like I did once in a 'boutique' hotel in Didsbury near Manchester in the UK, some years ago. On that occasion I forgot all about the mannequin in the room, on which I draped my coat. I then woke up in the middle of the night thinking there was somebody standing at the foot of my bed. Frightening...until I remembered.

Inside Biscuit Love...the best breakfasts in town

So right now I'm downstairs in what we should refer to as the 'common room' – my nam, not there's – there's music blaring, which is absolutely fine and, to be fair, the vibe is good, but a hotel with crap food, no wardrobes and no desk...no DESK! is unforgiveable. It means that I have to trampse down here just to use my laptop OR take full advance of the fact that it's a 'laptop' and balance it on my (ahem) lap. It's not cricket, put it that way.

The best breakfast in town...

The weather here in Nashville is a bit poor. It's cloudy and damp and my iphone weather app says 'no results found for Nashville'. I don't believe that for a start, but who am I to argue with a phone that's supposed to be 'smart'?

I can hear the clack of pool balls over on the other side of the common room, people seem pretty relaxed and on one level it's fine, but on others it's not fine at all. You know that thing about survival and people saying that if they're down on their luck, homeless or without money for food they'll end up stealing it if they have to? Well, that's how I felt this morning. Okay, it would be hard to steal a wardrobe, but coathangers maybe. So I stole some, from the 'stash' area. All floors here have a stash area where guests can use an ironing board and do stuff of that nature. I suddenly envisaged somebody standing there in there underpants pressing a pair of trousers and oblivious people around them taking no notice or perhaps complaining and the police being called and, well, that would be the end of the 'stash' area, I thought.

I'm guessing people buy into this Moxy concept. I mean it's a bed for the night. I asked two guys travelling down in the lift with me what they thought of the no wardrobe/no desk scenario and they didn't have a problem with it. One of them even said he liked the coathangers on the wall set-up, but then he was a young guy of around 20 who is probably used to finding slices of pizza on the carpet and other 'student lifestyle' statements. The older guy seemed baffled by my question and also didn't appear to have a problem. So it's just me. Well, what can I say? It normally is just me.

View from room 406, Moxy Vanderbilt Hotel, Nashville

Is anything good about Moxy? How about the shower, that's okay. A rain shower and loads of space inside the rectangular cubicle, meaning I can switch the thing on without getting wet and, therefore, get the temperate right before jumping in. Not that I 'jump' into showers, I normally walk, I step in. So that's good. What other positives? Actually, none.

To Sevenoaks!

Only three miles to Sevenoaks, it always seems longer.

I remember once riding to the sign that read "Sevenoaks" and then turning back. The thing is, it's always bugged me, not riding into town, so at the weekend just past I decided, kind of on the hop, that I would ride all the way and stop for lunch. When I say 'kind of on the hop' I mean that when I set off, while a longer ride was sort of on the cards I was still thinking along the lines of riding into Oxted and chilling with a book at Caffe Nero, accompanied by an apricot croissant. It was, however, later than usual, gone 1030hrs when I left the house so when I reached the crucial point, just past Botley Hill (do I ride down the hill to Oxted or head in the direction of Westerham?) I hesitated for all of a few seconds and then headed towards Westerham; and as I sailed down Clarks Lane I remembered the Velobarn, so I hung a left on to Pilgrims Lane and rode straight there. Miraculously it was open, much to my surprise, so I decided to chill with a cup of tea and an almond croissant before continuing my journey, but where to? I couldn't very well ride into Westerham (all of 10 minutes) and then have ANOTHER tea. So I pondered my situation briefly and crossed the road into the continuation of Pilgrims Lane. It's rare, I have to admit, that I venture this way, normally to visit Longford Lake, and it did cross my mind to go there and possibly have lunch in the Harvey's pub facing the famous lake. But no, there was always Malabar in Dunton Green or perhaps I could ride all the way into Sevenoaks, past the sign and into town. After a while, as I rode along Pilgrims Lane and followed the country lanes that paralleled the motorway I knew I had to give Sevenoaks a chance. The ride from the sign into town wasn't at all bad, a hill, yes, but not a bad one and soon I found myself in the bustle of a fairly busy town, so busy that I'd have to dismount and walk myself and the bike to my destination, which was Soprano's, a cafe I know and love and a place I have visited many a time. I was a little worried about leaving the bike unattended, even if I did have a padlock, but fortunately there was a table outside and the weather was fine so I left the bike leaning, unpadlocked, against a wall opposite the cafe and enjoyed the sunshine. I ordered a glass of sparkling mineral water and something called a Jerzy Piadina (at Soprano's most things involve cheese and this was no exception, it was chicken and cheese between two flatbreads with a pleasant little salad. People passed by, young couples, older couples, humanity of all sorts and I decided to push the boat out until I realised that Soprano's doesn't do desserts, it offers cake in a few varieties and instead I ordered another sparkling mineral water and took in my surroundings. The sun was shining brightly, this was a summer's day in late April if ever there was one and I found myself remembering swimming in the sea at Lyme Regis back in April 1984. I also remember snow in April 2008, which I think is documented somewhere on this blog, it's certainly been mentioned before, but remember, the blog didn't start until September 2009, over a year later.

A Jerzy Piadina at Soprano's.

Now, for some, cycling a 35-mile round trip to Sevenoaks for lunch is excessive, although it was a decision I made on the hop; for others (like Andy) 35 miles is a piss in the ocean (he rode over 100 miles on the same day I was basking in the sunshine outside of Soprano's). For me, 35 miles was a good distance and the worst bit, of course, was the sudden realisation that I'd have to cycle home. I can't say I was looking forward to it and there was no way I would be taking the train home. I set off with a happy heart and rode downhill towards Riverhead and it was there that I decided to take the A25 rather than the country lanes on the other side of Dunton Green. It was certainly busier in terms of cars, but fairly straightforward and it wasn't long before I found myself in Westerham where people were sunning themselves on the green. I was thinking of making a stop to take on board water and possibly another cup of tea and I thought I'd head for the Velobarn as it was only around 1500hrs so I figured it had to be open: it wasn't. Next stop, Botley Hill and the Sheep Shed, but when I got there I thought it best to push on and get home and so I did, along the 269 all the way to Sanderstead and when I reached home nobody was there. I sat and watched television drinking tea and a large glass of water but I felt good and I'll certainly be doing it again soon.

The Velobarn around 1500hrs – closed! 

My left foot (revisited)

Things just happen, that's the way of the world, and often there's no way of telling if there might have been a reason, cause and effect and all that jazz. Sometimes, like back in October 2017, I awoke with my head spinning as soon as I jumped out of bed. That threw me, I can tell you. I gave up drinking and now, eight years later, I'm still on the wagon and have no intention of going back, even if it was simply an inner ear infection. In many ways, good things come out of bad.

My left foot is not a newcomer to this blog. If you go to the search bar at the top left of the page and key in 'my left foot' you'll get a few posts about it. I can't think of what triggered it. Last Thursday, after a swim, I went to a gym induction and was shown various pieces of gym equipment including a piece of machinery that looked as if it could dislocate my shoulder, now there's something I don't want, a dislocated shoulder. My brother suffered from one after using my Bullworker back in the seventies and, if I recall, he was dogged with problems for years and, I think, he had an operation to fix it. Once, I remember, he disclocated his shoulder whilst swimming in the sea and was a long way off the coast. Fortunately, all was fine. But listen, I don't want these problems. If I suffer any kind of injury linked to doing a specific sport, then I'm stopping immediately. I don't want to be put under for anything and would rather switch my sport to something a little safer.

Now I know there's no such thing as safe and that problems can arise from anything, like cycling, but that's not what I mean. I don't want to indulge in any sport that inherently has a specific injury attached to it. With cycling, yes, you can fall off, yes, you can be hit by a car and yes you can get injured, but there's nothing inherently problematic with cycling, your joints are supported, like they are with swimming (by the water) and by rowing and those are the sports I'd rather engage with; yes, I might be hit by a car, I might fall off, but such incidents are not directly the fault of the activity. Cycling, in other words, if you keep your wits about you, is pretty safe even if you cannot legislate against the activities of other road users or, indeed, your own negligence (like when I came off through nobody's fault but my own, ie I was riding too fast into a left turn. Not the bike's fault, not cycling's fault but my fault. I don't want to be engaged in a sport where the slightest wrong turn or twist will mean surgery. Count me out. I'm not a professional sportsman, I don't earn money from my exercise because that's all it is, exercise. I get paid for doing something unconnected with keeping fit, like most people.

So how the hell did I find myself unable to walk for most of the week? Your guess is as good as mine. Was it swimming? I doubt it. No, I put it down to foolishly 'trying out' the leg press and, as I say, fortunately, I haven't damaged my shoulders; again, I'm not a professional athlete, I don't earn my money from keeping fit, it's purely me doing my best to maintain a reasonable level of fitness, but the parameters seemed to have changed a little bit, forcing me and countless others to fret about not getting enough exercise.

While I have always rode a bike throughout my life, as a kid and an adult, my sport of choice used to be swimming and back in the day I was always told that 20 minutes of exercise, three times a week, was all I needed to keep fit. I swam between two and three times a week, normally with two half-milers and then a mile on a Saturday morning (God, I felt good after the Saturday swim), but that was it. Outside of my two to three swims I was happy and I didn't think of exercise in a fretful way. But over the years, in the same way that marketing people convinced us all that we ought to be drinking litre upon litre of water daily and people started buying those plastic or steel water bottles - I knew people who bought huge canisters and probably drank well over what they should have been drinking - the same has happened with exercise. In fact, I can almost remember the day that somebody upped the ante on exercise, claiming that it's a daily thing, at least 20 minutes, not just three times a week (which was more than enough) but seven days a week, no let-up and so 'going to the gym' became something that people started doing and of course people, businessmen, got rich out of people's obsession with being ripped or whatever it might be, but the gyms were full, people were making money and now if we take a day off we fret and worry about it and vow to double up the following week.

It's the same with a lot of things and we can draw many parallels. So let's see if we can break a few myths. First, I'm going to stick my neck out and say exercise three times a week is absolutely fine. At present I manage one swim and two rides per week. I'm thinking of adding a second swim or a third ride, but that's all. I don't need (and don't want) to be in the gym every morning, on a treadmill watching breakfast television, don't want it, don't need it. I'm happy with my two rides and yes, if I don't do them (like this week) then I get a little irritable as I don't like breaking the routine and missing out. I do believe in exercise and I enjoy it. I'd hate to be one of those people who go everywhere by car, even down to the corner shop to get a newspaper.

But let's get back, briefly, to those parallels. Phones. I used to have a Nokia 3310. I did it's job perfectly and the battery lasted forever. It was a phone, people called me, I answered, we talked, we hung up. I don't need a smartphone. I never use half of the apps and, if I'm honest, I hardly use the phone element of it. There was a time when people were always calling me, now not so much. I've often thought about buying another 3310 and ditching the iphone but I probably won't because I like to record my rides on Strava, I can do so much with it to be fair. That said, data is another one. Who needs it? Do I need to record my distances? Who for? Who's counting? Nobody. In the old days I used to go cycling and that was it. Keeping data on the rides is pointless and, of course, it leads to fretting, unless I can get paid for the number of rides I'm doing, in which case I'd better monitor them. There was a time recently when, if my phone was low on power I'd delay the ride so I could record my distance even though I knew my distance, my destination and roughly how long it took me without switching on the app. Now, if my phone is low on gas and I'm not meeting anybody who might call me en route, I don't bother charging it, I just go and come back on time and get on with my day. The key is to reduce the amount of fretting that takes place constantly. I've got enough of that with work.

There's no real knowing what I did to my foot. I went online and started reading up on what it could have been; tendonitis? Well, that's what I went to the doctor with and there's nothing a doctor likes more than having the words put in his or her mouth. "Yes, it looks like it," he said, and that's it I was labelled as somebody with tendonitis. Except that I wasn't happy with that. The last time I had something similar (a swollen and discoloured foot and a lot of pain and unable to walk) I found out later that I had cellulitis and was given a load of antibiotics to take for around a fortnight. So I booked another appointment with a different doctor. I told him about the many different times that my left foot had caused problems and he wanted to know why. So he sent me to my local GP hub for blood tests and an X-ray. On the former, no problems. In fact he later said it wasn't an infection but an inflammation. Fine, that was good to know. I'm awaiting the X-ray results. It has got better. I haven't taken any Nurofen since Thursday (today's Sunday) and I'm kind of walking again, albeit with a hobble in my step. I'll probably take the bike round the block (six miles) just to get some exercise, which I've missed this week, but it's good to take it easy once in a while and I've been sitting here all morning writing this, drinking tea and listening to Stomu Yamash'ta (currently In Zen Music Vol.1 and a track called Drizzly Step – kind of appropriate don't you think?). Yamash'ta is where it's at. I would recommend that you listen to him urgently. I plan to listen to him a lot more. I heard him first on Night Tracks on BBC Radio 3 and it's the most chilled you'll ever get.

I need to get back to writing and riding and swimming. This enforced break through injury is a little annoying especially when I look out the window and realise that spring is here. I've just noticed that the clocks have gone forward and that means that summer is once again upon us. Hopefully it will be bring plenty of bike rides and happy times. 

Swimming, cycling, improved weather...

 I went down with a bit of a cold and as a result I had to forfeit the ride on Sunday to meet Andy; that was the week before last, but last week Andy couldn't make it so I had to motivate myself. Fortunately, the poor weather seems to have left the building so I rode to Westerham last Sunday despite the fact that my original plan had been to visit the Velobarn, which seems to open when it pleases. I rode along Pilgrim's Lane and found the place to be closed, leaving me no option than to ride into Westerham, which I did, stopping at Costa, padlocking the bike outside and enjoying a very pleasant cup of English Breakfast tea in the sunshine.

The ride back, was as expected and when I passed the Velobarn it was still closed. Their loss, I was thinking, their loss. It wasn't long before I reached Botley Hill and then before too long I was home. In a complete break with tradition I quickly went out again to do the Norfolk Nobbler, a six-miler round the local streets, which can be quite a work-out. In total I rode 28 miles last Sunday and felt better for it. 

What arsewipes did this?

Last Thursday, the one just gone (6 March) I went for a swim at my local pool. Half a mile is a good distance, takes around 30 minutes, 32 lengths, and on a Thursday the pool is pretty much empty. A pleasant hot shower followed and because I'd parked my car in the supermarket across the road, there was no parking charges, meaning I could relax a little and enjoy my shower, which I did. 

I've been having a few problems with the pool membership. I was originally on a plan that was restricted to just one pool and this was causing issues because if I wanted to go more than once a week (I have to go twice a week to make it pay) it was difficult in terms of available times to go. So, I upgraded my membership, which meant I could use a pool slightly further away, but when I got there last Friday evening I wasn't too happy with the pool. All the changing rooms were damp, the locker system was different and basically, all the faffing around made me leave the place in a mild huff without a swim, although if I dig dip I'd probably discover that I wasn't really up for a swim and needed instead to simply relax. I'll now have to degrade my membership to what it was before and try and work out a different solution. I'm planning on one swim per week twice a month and two swims per week on the remaining two weeks. Again, not a problem.

During the week I had the bike serviced. I was initially having problems with the inner tube valve, which I simply couldn't undo in order to inflate the inner tube. I took it to the bike shop and he fixed it. I now have a new tyre and inner tube on the back. While I was there I asked him to fix the bottom bracket, which had well and truly gone, and he said I might as well get a service, so I booked the bike in. The brakes are now fixed, there's a new chain and block and the bottom bracket is fixed too but, as always, the price was almost that of a new bike, albeit a very low spec machine. For an extra forty quid I could have walked out of there with a new one. But hey ho. I didn't buy a new bike, I had my Rockhopper fixed and it's running smoothly as a result and that's all that matters.

I had a haircut during the week and asked for a number three. "That's a skinhead," said the barber. "I know," I said, and he got on with it. I feel much better after a short haircut and I look better too. Nothing worse than straggly hair, it looks so untidy, especially when it's greying. That set me back around £15, which was fine. Afterwards I went to Costa Coffee for an English Breakfast tea and a Bakewell tart. But I wasn't relaxed and after around 10 minutes I left and drove home.

Today, Saturday 8th March, I did a Washpond Weeble, just over 12 miles. The weather is great today, not cold, but I left the house late and decided to shorten the ride; I was going to head for Oxted or Westerham or, if it was open, the Velobarn but decided instead on a non-stop ride which took just over an hour. Riding through Washpond Lane I noticed that some arse wipes had set fire to a car and left it in a pile by the side of the road. I mean, what kind of arseholes do that sort of thing? It was, however, a pleasant ride and now I'm back home writing the blog, which I haven't been doing as frequently as I should. Oddly, when I checked the weekly stats for this past week, the number was well over 10,000 visitors, it's now around 6,000. I love it when reader numbers go up or whatever it is the figures relate to.

Outside the sun is shining and the skies are fairly blue, it's 8th March and the bees are out, the snowdrops and the crocuses are on the lawns and there are signs of daffodils too. In short, the summer is on the way and I love it. It means more cycling and that's what I like.

Tomorrow (Sunday 9th March) I'm hoping to see Andy at Sheree's Tearooms, that's around 17 miles, so 29 miles in total, I might even ride into Westerham afterwards if the weather holds and knock the mileage over the 30-mile marker. Who knows? I might not!

Jammed tyre valve aborts the ride...

There's nothing much to say about today's ride because it simply didn't happen. We were due to meet at Tatsfield village, as we do on a Sunday, and I was up and ready to rock at 0600hrs. Breakfast over, I dressed for the ride and then headed into the garage to jump on the bike. The outside temperature was just three degrees so I was wrapped up warm and looking forward to the ride as this week events conspired against me and I had to cancel my swim. Not a problem as I'm currently planning to upgrade (or even cancel) my membership because it simply doesn't work for me. I'm a little annoyed at the fact that it's no longer possible to just 'go for a swim' like I used to pre-pandemic. It was simply a case of walking up to the reception desk, asking for a swim, paying the money and then heading for the changing room, but not any more. Today you need to 'download the app' and book your session that way, which, to be fair is fine, but currently I'm limited to two days per week (Thursdays and Fridays, preferably around 1700hrs). This, however, is only possible on one day per week (Thursday) and for some reason I can't go on Fridays. So I want to change my membership so that I can use other pools in the area, one on Thursday, the other on Friday. But the people in charge of the leisure facilities are dragging their feet and I'm now considering cancelling my membership and starting again somewhere else, but that will mean a six-mile drive or ride to another leisure centre in another town. At the moment, however, I'm simply wasting my money so if I don't get any joy I'll have to cancel my membership and look elsewhere, it is what it is... click here for more.

So my ride today has been cancelled. I'm going to take the bike to a nearby shop and use the opportunity to have a new tyre and inner tube on the bike, the current tyres (front and back) are both looking a little worn so the whole situation is a positive one as I can also cycle from the shop to mum's and back, which is roughly 15 miles and that will do me a lot of good.

Christmas comes and goes...

Christmas has come and gone and it's been good. I wish it had lasted a little longer. I've enjoyed chilling out, reading books, going for a swim in a virtually empty pool, riding the bike, once through a blizzard and once in thick fog. I lost track of what day it was, and that was good, that's how it should be. I started writing this on New Year's Eve as the whole thing was coming to a close, one more day and then it was back to work and everybody had to knuckle down and get on with the new year, which, for most people, will be exactly the same as the old one. "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

During the holidays I spent time in darkened streets, visiting cosy places like the Sevenoaks Bookshop, where I bought Over the Rainbow by Alex James, bassist of Blur and, of course, a cheese aficionado and farmer. I sat and watched Outdoor Boy on YouTube and other non-terrestrial stuff. These days there's nothing on 'normal' television that appeals. Who wants to watch Gavin & Stacey?

And yeah, it did all end and I did find myself back at work and it has been more of the same. An element of cosy remained in the shape of the fireplace, which I'm looking at now. The weather has been cold and the fire has made all the difference. We continued watching Outdoor Boy as it's one of those shows that makes us look forward to bedtime. I've been wearing pyjamas, that's how cold it's been, but wearing something warm and getting cosy has its drawbacks: I over-sleep and don't particularly want to get out of bed and go to work! I always struggle the week I return to the office after the Christmas break, but eventually everything clicks into place and normality reigns once again.

The swimming has been good and I've enjoyed it. I'm still hitting a length a minute, which is good, although the pool is a 25-metre affair and in the past, the pools were longer, ie instead of 32 lengths to the half mile, they were 24 lengths or, in Cheam, Surrey, 27 lengths, so I'm not sure exactly what it all means, but let's say I'm doing the half mile in around 30 minutes and I'm sure I'll improve as the journey continues. You have to be organised when you go swimming, you need to remember stuff, like shower gel and having a one pound coin for the lockers although, for £1.50, I purchased as false one pound coin that I have permanently on my key ring. Then there's the car park. Perhaps I should walk to the pool, now that would be something, and it might take around 35-40 minutes, but at least I wouldn't have the worry of paying for the car park. It used to be straightforward, you paid 50p to park, a one-off fee, and then the leisure centre would refund it, but now you have to call a number and register your number plate and key in the number of hours you'll need. I always do one hour and it seems to be fine. After the swim I have a refreshing shower and then, after drying and dressing, I head out into the cold air to the car park and drive home. 

My plan is to combine swimming and cycling: two rides per week, two swims per week. That's four days out of seven getting exercise. I've yet to factor in the gym, but if I can do a couple of days at the gym I will, let's see how that progresses. The whole deal is £34 per month, which means I need to use the place at least twice a week to make it all pay. I'm still in the process of getting that bit right and the best way to play it (at present) is to swim Thursday and Friday and then cycle on Saturday and Sunday morning. The gym will come later.

This morning I fixed up the lights on my bike. I'm currently charging my rear light. The front light has already been charged and is now on the bike. I had to take off two handlebar attachments that had previously held front lights that have since been lost. One fell off during the ride and I couldn't find it. I'm amazed, thinking back, that I didn't hear it falling off, but I didn't; and I can't remember the fate of the other light, but it was similar. I think it fell off the bike and smashed into smithereens somewhere near Redhill in Surrey, but that's a foggy memory.

There has been bad news this year. I was round at mum's house trying to get her central heating working and suddenly I received a text from an old friend who informed me her husband, one of my best mates died. He'd been suffering from cancer for the past two years. We had drifted apart and hadn't seen each other for at least 30 years, but it was still a huge shock. There are certain people I regard as immortal and he was one of them. He inspired me to read more than I would have done had I not met him, he had a great sense of humour and we got on really well, but suddenly that weekly phone call went to every fortnight, then we might have spoken once a month, soon it was longer and longer and then it seemed odd even to think about calling him. I did, for a few years, call him once a year as we shared a birthday and on one or two occasions we spoke on the phone, but nothing came of it. Perhaps we'd both left it too long and there didn't seem any point, but that's life. Just to avoid any confusion, it's not my cycling pal Andy but somebody I first met back in the mid-seventies at college. After that text from his wife I spent a lot of time thinking about Andy, and I'm finding the whole thing unbelievable. I think I'll always find it unbelievable on some level, but it's happened, it's true and there's little more to say. I have referenced Andy on this blog once or twice. I remember him saying that had they cut out all the sound effects from Quadrophenia by The Who,it would have been a very tight single album. Perhaps, but I guess that  album is a story and the story needs embellishment. We all have opinions on stuff like that and who's to say that there's only one answer?

I'm hoping for a ride with Andy Smith tomorrow (Sunday). I know there might be fog and that's why I've put the lights on the bike as it's bloody dangerous without them. We'll be going to Sheree's Tearooms in Tatsfield, our first joint ride of 2025, and I'm looking forward to it. I'll have to set my alarm as I've been getting up late. Today I didn't get out of bed until 0800hrs so the alarm is important. I've just set it on my iphone so all is fine.

While I was hoping for a ride with Andy and it did happen, it was the first ride for me since Boxing Day and it was only 2 degrees Centigrade, meaning it was a little on the cold side. Being my first ride for such a long time and bearing in mind that I had new lights, the rear one needing securing to the saddle post, and adding in the fact that I left the house without my crash helmet and had to go back for it as well as having to look around for stuff to keep me warm, I didn't get moving until 0810hrs, which made me later than expected, late enough for Andy to have finished his coffee when I arrived. Yes, I should have left earlier as it seems to be taking me around an hour to get to Tatsfield. I was feeling a little out of condition and I struggled a little up Church Way and whenever there was a hill, like the one on the 269. As always, of course, having kitted myself out with lights, it worked out that I didn't need them, there was no fog, which was a shame as I was hoping I'd put them to good use. I'm sure the opportunity will arise, possibly even next weekend.

We chatted about writing, which was good. Andy's writing his autobiography, which is great. It's something that I should consider too. I bought Andy another coffee and we chatted on, leaving at around 1030hrs, possibly a little later. The ride back was just as cold as the ride out, and I kept the bike on the top cog at the front, which I hadn't noticed at first on the outward ride. I must have reached home at gone 1100hrs and then sat around drinking tea before heading off to Tunbridge Wells in the car, one of my favourite weekend destinations.

Vueling Flight VY6307 1350hrs Bilbao to London Gatwick Airport

I've been having strange dreams these past two nights, dreams I can't really remember a great deal about. One involved Mulder from the X Files appearing from inside one of those office water coolers, that was a bit weird, I can tell you. There were others, but I can't recall them exactly. None of them were fretful. It must have something to do with being ultra-chilled out last night in the hotel (see previous post). I really must make a point of reading more often instead of watching television. In fact, I haven't looked at any television or, for that matter, newspapers, since Sunday last week. In that sense, you could say that I've been minding my own business and simply getting on with the business of getting through the days, travelling from city-to-city by train, checking into hotels and engaging with various people along the way. That's probably why I'm so chilled out. I haven't been subjected to media crap, be it television news bulletins, talk radio shows like LBC or chat shows or awful programmes like The One Show with it's horrible presenters and guests. Already, you can see that by just thinking of them all, I'm getting a little ratty. That said, my current chilled out state of mind saw me sail through security without getting irritated and now, at 1100hrs I'm sitting in Giraffe on the air side of Bilbao airport sipping tea and eating, yes, I know, a chocolate croissant. I didn't want any of it, but I needed somewhere to sit down so that I could pass the time of day for a little bit. There's not much here to be honest, only Giraffe as far as I can see and couple of high-stooled bar operations. 

I awoke early and then fell asleep, waking again at 0724 or something along those lines. I showered and headed downstairs for another great breakfast and then I returned to my room to start packing away. This didn't take me long and then I headed for the airport in Taxi number 232. It was only around 20 minutes.

Outside, the skies are blue, which is nice to see and, oddly, I'm sitting in roughly the same place I was sitting the last time I flew out of Bilbao. How do I know that? Because there are four conifers that were there when I was last here a few years ago. On that occasion, I'd been further west along the coast at Aviles, green Spain they call it and it is green, not sun-scorched and barren like down in the south.

I'm flying back with Vueling and I have a window seat, seat 17F, that's on the right hand side of the plane. They're a good airline, I've flown with them once, possibly twice before. I do need to find out what gate I should flying out from, that should be on the notice boards soon I hope, in fact, I might go and look now just to see if I'm in the right place, I'm likely not to be. Hold on... I can't find anything that gives the flight details, it's not even on my boarding pass, although it might be Gate B10. I'm in Boarding Group Two and we start boarding at 1310hrs, that's a good two hours from now.

It's amazing how there are blue skies on one side of the airport and grey cloud on the other side. And guess which is which. Yes, you guessed it, the air side where the planes take off is the cloudy side. Of course it is! 

That Bilbao airport has a Giraffe restaurant is great news, but I won't be using it for more than that tea and croissant and I won't be having any in-flight snacks either. The fact that I'm flying into Gatwick means (hopefully) no circling over the airport for hours until a slot to land becomes available. It also means I'm down the road from where I live. Well, not down the road, but it's much easier than Heathrow. I'll probably get the train to East Croydon and cab it from there.

I might come back here once I've established that my plane will take off from a "B" gate. There's a crappy 'jazz' version of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen playing and it's not at all festive. I want my Christmas carols sung properly by a choir, not some second rate jazz band.

Christmas beckons. One more week at work, which should be pretty chilled, then I'm off and I can relax and not think about work stuff. I'll certainly be reading, as I've found a new author, although he's not that new, his name is Eric Ambler. He's old school, his novels feature people who sport a pince-nez and the last time I enjoyed a book of this ilk it was way back and it was Graham Greene. I love Greene, Our Man in Havana, A Burnt-Out Case, Ministry of Fear, The Quiet American, Stamboul Train, The Heart of the Matter, there's many of them and I've read most of them. Ambler writes along similar lines but without the obsession with Catholicism.

I'm going to take a wander, but might well come back here later to either add more to this blog post or to have something to eat, although I very much doubt the latter; more likely I'll be back here updating this post, but in all honesty I can't think of what I would add, I was clutching at straws anyway.

The flight home was fine, no turbulence and, once above the clouds, clears skies and even clearer skies as we approached the UK. We flew over Brighton and I could see the pier clearly and then, within a few minutes we landed. I was so engrossed with Eric Ambler's Epitaph for a Spy that I was the last person to get off the plane, well, almost. I found a Pret a Manger, ordered tea and an avocado and egg mayo baguette (my lunch) and finished it before catching the train to East Croydon and a cab home.

For all of my Spain posts I'll sort out photographs on my return to England as for some reason I had a technology meltdown in the hotel room and now I have to 'browse as guest' to be able to access the blog.