London to Dusseldorf by train...

The day, Wednesday 31st May 2023, started with a negative edge in the shape of a train strike. I don't even know why there was a strike. I thought things had been sorted out weeks ago. But no, they clearly haven't been, and as far as I knew when I woke up, the strike was total and there was no way I was going to get a straightforward ride into town from my local station, a mere seven minutes' walk from where I live. I don't like taking taxis at the best of times: first, I think they're a rip-off and should only be used if absolutely necessary, like last month's trip to Detroit, which started with a cab ride because I had too much 'stuff' to carry. But when it's just a suitcase, depending on its weight, I prefer public transport, not that it was on offer. 

"I haven't got a cab for at least an hour," said the man at the other end of the telephone when I called my local cab company. Fine, I'll have to work something out. Another reason not to like taking a cab is the racist small talk. I don't want to listen to some Brexiteer moaning about the Mayor of London or referring to the capital as 'Londonistan'.

31/5/23 leaving London at 1104hrs.

I managed to get a lift to East Croydon (from where there were no trains) but I had already figured on using the Tramlink service to Wimbledon and then jumping on a tube train from there, all the way to St. Pancras International. I was supposed to 'tap in' with my debit card before I boarded the tram (I later discovered) but had been told otherwise by a woman on the platform; and I'm now starting to wonder whether she deliberately fed me with duff information, she was, after all, a seasoned tram user herself (or so I initially thought) and should have told me to tap in on the platform, like she had probably done. Anyway, it was all academic as the inspectors rarely jump on the tram (a friendly postman told me) and it turned out he was right. In other words I managed to dodge the fare all the way to Wimbledon and that was simply because I didn't want to risk getting up, running to the tap-in point on the platform and then missing the train and watching it pull out of the station with my suitcase full of clothes and a laptop. I think I would have preferred a fine to that awful fate. Still, it never happened and I jumped on to the platform at Wimbledon to discover (much to my surprise) that there were trains from Wimbledon into town. Good old South West Trains, I thought. I was advised to alight at Vauxhall, change to the Victoria Line and ride all the way to King's Cross, which is what I did. Perfect! 

I had arrived with loads of time to spare, but then again, not really. They were already beckoning people travelling on the 1104 to Amsterdam to 'go through security' so in I went and soon I emerged on the other side. I was up very early, something crazy like 0500hrs, so five hours later I was in need of sustenance and a cup of tea. I also invested in an almond croissant, but I started to wish I hadn't. Sometimes I wonder if I need to eat or whether it's a comfort thing. My sister called. We talked about mum who had fallen over again, she's fine though. I then sat there awaiting the time for boarding and soon I was travelling up to platform 9 on the moving walkway and looking forward to taking my seat in coach four (seat 98). Everything was smooth-running. Eurostar, incidentally, was not on strike. I was travelling to Brussels Midi and the plan was to pick up another train to Dusseldorf from Köln (Cologne). 

A beer in Brussels

As I emerged from the tunnel and found myself on the European side of the English Channel I noted, as always, that the roads were empty. We whistled through Calais Frethun, a station I remember from a trip I took some time ago when editing another magazine. I remember sitting there on the lonely, quiet and virtually empty station drinking a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664. I can't remember where I was going or why, but I'll always remember the desolation of the platform and a strange sense of being stranded in the middle of nowhere. 

It's been four years since I was last in Brussels just ahead of the lockdown. I think it was November 2019. I remember looking at watches in a Swatch shop and eventually buying one (in London) that I'd seen while in Belgium's capital city (at least I think it's the capital city). 

I decided not to get the 1425 train, which ultimately stopped at Frankfurt and was about to depart for Dusseldorf from platform 3. Instead I waited for the 1622, which would get me into Dusseldorf at 1900hrs. My decision was influenced by the fact that I couldn't book a seat, it was too late for that, and I didn't fancy all the potential grief of standing up and not being able to sit down. A seven o'clock arrival time was still early in my book. It was, therefore, time for lunch in La Brasserie de la Gare across the road from Brussels Midi station. I'd been there before, although I know not when, but certainly pre-pandemic. I ordered a pasta dish, which was very pleasant, and two small bottles of Leffe 00, which turned out to be very nice indeed. The sun was shining down, there were blue skies and, as it was only hours away from being June, I guess it was the perfect summer's day.

Waiting for the Koln train...

I needed to buy an adaptor but couldn't find a shop that sold them and almost risked missing my train, so I pulled myself together and vowed to check out the electronics shops in Dusseldorf if there was time. There wasn't. There never is. The journey was pleasant, mainly because nobody was sitting next to me, although I didn't have a full window, which was annoying. I sat there reading Murakami, eating a Twix and drinking English Breakfast tea from a paper mug. Having experienced the journey before by train I immediately remembered Liege when the train arrived. I remembered Aachen station from a trip I took ages and ages ago; I think I was en route to Dortmund and then a place called Ludenscheid (that was a drunken trip if I recall. I was 19 years old). I stayed in the Hotel Zum Adler and probably still have the receipt as I think it was my first ever trip abroad way, way back in the mists of time.

The train took me as far as Köln and I had a 15-minute wait for a local train to Dusseldorf, arriving around 1900hrs.

It was good to be back in my favourite German city and I wasted no time in walking to the Novum Madison Hotel from where I write this post. It's not a flash hotel by any means, but I've stayed here before (during a very hot summer's week in June 2019) and it was all I needed. I'm not one for flash hotels, can't stand them, especially those huge corporate places full of suits. Don't get me wrong, the Madison is not dirty or down at heel in any way, it's just an average hotel close to the central station and it offers proper room keys, none of that key card crapola. The check-in was easy and I took the small and silent lift to the third floor and room 304, which was literally on my right as I stepped out. I felt a bit miffed at the fact that my room was so close to the elevator as it meant that I would hear everybody who passed my door, even if they arrived late or were coming back from some drunken revelry in the early hours. Again, I wasn't really bothered as it's quite pleasant lying there in the dark listening to the comings and goings of strangers. I remember once, in a Quality Inn on the wrong side of town in Pittsburgh, listening to a couple arguing in the next room. I wondered whether one or both of them were packing pieces and whether the sound of gunfire might have disturbed the peace of the early morning. Nothing happened. 

Room 304, Novum Madison

My room at the Madison was very similar to the room I had here four years ago – in fact it was identical – and for a while I thought it was the same room, but it wasn't as the room I had in 2019 (room 416) overlooked Karlstrasse, the road on which my favourite restaurant, Da Bruno, resides. Check out how similar the two rooms are by clicking here.

After sorting myself out – and by that I mean putting all my clothes in the wardrobe and kind of 'setting up shop' – I was ready to go out and have dinner. Da Bruno hasn't changed a bit. In fact it's the same people running it and they remembered me, which is always good. They do have more competition than when I was here last. For a start, the sex supermarket across the road has gone and has thankfully been replaced by a restaurant, and there were two or three new eateries virtually next door. I had the strange feeling that they wouldn't be as good as Da Bruno so I didn't bother investigating. I certainly had no intention of 'pulling up a chair' as I was intent on enjoying 'my favourite restaurant'. By and large, it hasn't really changed, although I did wonder about the portion sizes. I ordered Parma ham and melon – yes, I know, a very dated dish if ever there was one, and I swear it was smaller and less impressive than the same dish I ordered four years earlier. It wasn't worth complaining about. In fact, less ham is far better for me, so I accepted it, not that I would have said anything. For mains I chose pappardelle with mushrooms and I didn't bother with dessert. I took the liberty of booking a table (for one) for the following night (tonight) at 2000hrs as I really can't be bothered to go trawling around the city looking for somewhere decent to eat. Perhaps I should do that, I've done it many times before but have always ended up settling for second best and then feeling disappointed and eager to pay up and get back to the hotel. It's currently 1921hrs, so in around 40 minutes from now I'll be heading on over there. Perhaps Da Bruno had simply lost the pizzazz of presentation, perhaps there had been a change of chef, I don't know, but it was still my favourite restaurant whichever way I looked at it even if the mushrooms in my pasta dish were just bog standard, nothing special, which, perhaps, they might have been four years earlier. In truth I don't know.

View from room 304

Today is Thursday. I spent most of Wednesday travelling and I'll be honest, I prefer it to flying. Cost-wise there's not much in it. The 188 Euros I spent on a return ticket to Dusseldorf from Brussels was less than the two £80 + taxis I would have needed to ferry me to and from the airport – and I would definitely have taken a taxi to the airport yesterday rather than endure public transport during a strike (the ride to St Pancras sans strike is a doddle depending on how much luggage I have and how heavy it is).

A sleepless night awaited me. I awoke around 0200hrs – I didn't know what time it was until I turned on the television as my iphone had run out of power and I didn't have a watch. I remember looking at my watch before I left home and thinking 'do I need it?' No, I must have thought. Note to self: always wear a watch on foreign trips.

Having woken up in the very early hours, I spent a fretful time hoping that if I did fall asleep I would wake up in time to get a train to Mönchengladbach. I was worried about the journey because I couldn't find a thing on Trainline and started to think there might be some kind of problem. So I drifted in and out of sleep, having strange dreams I can barely remember in great detail. I was out of bed by around 0530hrs, but then I simply lay there until around 0600hrs when I had a shower, shaved and got ready for the day ahead.

Starter at Da Bruno

Breakfast was fine: a bowl of cereal with added strawberry yoghurt plus two mini pastries and a mug of green tea. As I sat there, in a kind of sleepy daze, a bespectacled old crab appeared in front of me and started to berate me for leaving the water tap on when I made my tea. In all honesty I'm not sure this is 100% true as it's a natural reaction to turn the tap off, ie stop the flow of water, before removing the cup, which is what I did; so whether it somehow came on without my knowledge after I'd gone back to my table, I'll never know. But basically I took the bollocking, if that's what it was. Well, it wasn't so much a bollocking, just her telling me I did it and me sitting there looking dazed and confused and dressed like a clown with huge red shoes and a red nose (not really). Rather than continue sitting there on a kind of metaphorical 'naughty step' I got up and left.

Breakfast over I headed for Dusseldorf Central Station, mere minutes from the Madison, and jumped aboard the 0848 train to Mönchengladbach after spending a considerable amount of time messing around with the ticket vending machine. I spent most of the day in a meeting before walking a good 7km from the meeting place back to the railway station in the afternoon heat, hoping for the joy of a friendly gust of wind, always most welcomed in the summer heat. I took a suburban train back to Dusseldorf and then, after a little bit of work, I went out for my second sitting at Da Bruno. Today I ordered Mozzarella with tomato followed by a rather staid-looking spaghetti bolognaise and finished off with tiramisu. Yes, I wish I hadn't bothered with dessert, and because I was feeling so guilty about it I decided to walk to the Alt Stadt (old town). I reached the Rhine, took a photograph and then walked back and now I am in my hotel room, tired and ready for bed. I hope I burned off a few calories to compensate for that dessert. I'd better hit the sack. I need to be out of the hotel before noon as that's when my train for Köln departs. It's 2245 as I write this and I have my phone working again so I can set an alarm, although I don't really need to as there's no work tomorrow. I'll probably take a wander around town but in a different direction, check out a few shops, possibly have a coffee somewhere (I've been drinking a lot of English Breakfast tea) and then head for the station which, as I said, is but a five-minute walk from the hotel. It'll be a long day tomorrow but not half as stressful as flying. I'll sit on board the train, I've got a book to read, I don't need to be preoccupied with a flight and what's going on outside the window, I can just relax and chill, which is all I really want to do.

On my way to the old town after dinner, burning calories...

It's now Friday morning, 2nd June 2023 and it's 0602hrs. I'm going to throw some warm water over my face and then head down for breakfast. After that it's anyone's guess what I'll do next. I'll definitely pack things away and then check out and I'll probably leave my luggage with the concierge, not that there is a concierge at the Madison, it'll be whoever is on the front desk. Lots of hotels don't have a concierge and the word is often used in connection with leaving bags to be picked up later. I'm looking forward to the journey home because trains are involved. I don't have to be there two hours before take-off, I don't have to take the Sky Train to the airport, go through security, keep an eye on the weather, there's nothing fretful apart from the trains being late, which I hope they won't be. Germany's pretty good on stuff like punctuality, but let's not count chickens.

Maxplatz...

I often ask myself why I like Dusseldorf and why I refer to it as my 'favourite city'. One reason is its closeness to the UK. A flight from London varies from 55 to 70 minutes and once you land it's only a short journey to the centre of town, unlike the deal in London when you've got an expensive taxi ride into town. Then there's the fact that it's relatively safe here, that's why I wandered alone towards the old town last night. People are out enjoying themselves in the bars and restaurants that line the streets. Last night my stroll started on Bismarckstrasse – now that's an interesting road – and I walked in roughly a straight line all the way down to the Rhine and then back again. I've stayed in a few hotels here too, the Burns Art Hotel, the Friends hotel and the Mercure, and probably others too, and they've all been pleasant. Then there's my favourite restaurant and, of course, the generally friendly vibe of the city. I used to say my favourite city was Portland, Oregon, because of Powell's Books, the world's biggest bookstore and for other reasons, such as the Ace Hotel on First Avenue, but I haven't had cause to return and things, sadly, have taken a turn for the worse, thanks to Fentanyl addiction and possibly other forms of dereliction. I've been watching a few reports on YouTube and it's sad to see a city fall from grace in such a big way, but that won't stop me returning there one day, if only to spend the night in the Ace Hotel. I'd better get ready for breakfast.

I reached the Rhine as the sun started to set...

Delta Flight DL16 Detroit to London Heathrow, 13th May 2023...

We took off virtually on time at 1835hrs and our flight time is six hours and 56 minutes, so virtually seven hours. Currently, there are six hours and 38 minutes until we land at London Heathrow - we've just taken off in other words - and right now it is light outside. There is cloud below us and wispy clouds above and the plane in which we are travelling is an Airbus A330-200, ship number N861NW. You might be wondering how I know all this information, and it's simple: it's all written down for me on the flight information screen. Just so you know, the cloud has disappeared and below me I can seen land. I'm guessing it's Canada but I might be wrong and I've yet to find a flight map. Wherever it is, it's very green and relatively flat outside. I've just pressed the button that says 'flight tracker' and a map has appeared. I think we might be still in North America but we're certainly heading east at present although soon we'll be heading North East and out across the North Atlantic Ocean towards the UK. Land is once again obscured by cloud. It looks as if we'll be travelling over Newfoundland before we reach the sea. Land has appeared again and I've been handed a bottle of mineral water and some cutlery - the two items aren't related in any way. We are 3,575 miles from home and there's six hours and 24 minutes to go. We are travelling at 35,001 feet and it's looking a little mountainous out there right now. Temperature wise it's minus 60 deg F. Now that's cold.

Just to let you know, I'm sitting in seat 37J and have nobody sitting next to me; this is great news, really great news, as it means I can stretch out a little bit. The map has frozen for some reason, but we'll ignore that. Below the land has disappeared again although I can just about make it out here and there.

The words 'please wait' have appeared on my screen. Well, there's not much else I can do other than read or eat. Land has made a brief appearance again and now it is gone. Things change fast when you're flying.

Gate A36, Detroit airport, USA.

There are six hours and 12 minutes until I arrive in London.

[Time has elapsed]: There's now four hours and 52 minutes to go and I'm watching No Country for Old Men. I've seen it a lot, well, at least three times, so it's on in the background so to speak. Dinner was amazing and I'm glad to say that Delta really is an amazing airline. The outward flight was wonderful and now I'm on the return journey and the food was great, chicken again and this time with rice and needless to say I ate the lot and the accompanying rice salad and the dessert, the whole shebang. I also had a glass of Pellegrino (my favourite mineral water) and finished off that bottle of still water I was given earlier on in the flight.

On the ground at Detroit...

It's dark outside now, pitch black. I'm guessing we're over the Atlantic, no more lights below. The cabin lights have been dimmed and the fasten seat belt notice is on. People are sleeping, watching movies and I'm multi-tasking, watching a film and writing too. There's almost four and a half hours to go and I'm wondering when it will start gettting light. At home it's just gone 2am, meaning it will get lighter in about two hours from now, possibly a little longer and I guess we'll be near Ireland by then, not sure. I just want to be home and over the jet lag.

When No Country for Old Men finished I watched Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, but never saw it to the end. Not that I haven't seen it before. I switched all my screens off, opened up one of the pillows and tried to get some sleep, which, as always, proved impossible. Getting that pillow out was so optimistic. As the clock continued its countdown I noticed that, with 90 minutes to go, there were signs of daylight. It's now fully light outside now and below us is a bed of white cloud. There are now 19 minutes to go and as always I find it hard to believe that we'll be on the ground in that time.

People are still watching movies and trying to sleep.There are 16 minutes to go of six hours and 59 minutes (I swear it said 56 minutes earlier). As I write this we have travelled 3,914.95 miles.

My plan once we've landed is to call a cab and then find somewhere to drink tea and chill a little, then, when I get home, I'll relax, probably with another cup of tea.

In the air en route to London Heathrow airport...

The pilot - or somebody on the flight deck - says we will be landing shortly, but I still can't believe we'll be on the ground in 11 minutes. Somehow, they always manage it so I won't be too cocky. Mind you, this is London Heathrow and planes have been known to circle a few times before landing. That said, the pilot did use the phrase 'final approach'. Seven minutes. Surely they will have to reset the clock. I just know that when we come through the thick cloud that is currently below us we will still be a long way from the ground, we always are. Six minutes to landing, says the clock, the cloud is getting closer, the flaps are up and the sun is out. It's far colder than it was in Detroit (at least I think it is).

My iphone still says it's 0148hrs, Detroit time, but that will change when we're on the ground. We're in the cloud now but no sign of land. One minute to touchdown. Really? Hold on, land ahoy - they were right -and we ARE about to land. Touchdown! I've switched off airplane mode on the iphone and the time now reads 0655hrs as the plane makes its way to terminal building. It's misty outside and I can see a lot of British Airways planes on the tarmac. I'm not keen on British Airways.

On the tarmac at London Heathrow airport...misty and cold

I decided not to get a cab. Why waste money? Instead I got home for absolutely nothing - thanks to my Oyster Card - and I didn't bother stopping for a coffee either. I took the Elizabeth Line to Farringdon then took a train to Moorgate and then onwards to London Bridge where I picked up a Thameslink train to East Croydon. From there I took a cab, but it was a fraction of the cost it might have cost me had I booked one from the airport. I reached home around 1000hrs and spent the day sitting around, nodding off here and there but I was fine, I even stayed up until gone 2300hrs watching television. All week I felt a little weary as did my colleague, who had been on the same trip, but slowly life returned back to normal and now I need to try my best to ditch all the bad foods and drum up some motivation to get fit.

Mooching around Detroit Airport...

When I arrived at the airport I went straight through security – there's not really any other option – and then I decided, almost immediately, to walk the entire length – in both directions – of Concourse A. It was long, but I'll never know how long unless I do it again, making sure that Strava is working properly. I would say it's around three miles. Easily. I'll probably do it again after lunch at a place called Mezza. The walk set me up for a cappuccino and I'll probably have the roasted salmon with greens and potatoes afterwards. I prefer to eat healthily and in all honesty I've done pretty well, but I've let myself down with the odd bun, the occasional cookie and so forth. But let's not fret about that, not now at any rate.

Salmon at Mezza

As I travelled the length of Concourse A I passed by many a store selling shoes and electronics and books and dresses and luggage, you name it, and I knew as I passed each store that I didn't need anything. I was darn certain I wouldn't fall foul of 'the society of the spectacle' and I was going to write 'so far, so good', but that would imply that I was having difficulty holding back, resisting. I'm having no trouble at all.

The last time I was in Detroit was 2013, roughly 10 years ago, and I still remember it, or bits of it. The weird thing is that on my last visit I was advised to stay in the airport, which I did, and here I am a decade on, doing exactly the same thing. Detroit is the only airport I can think of where I have spent the best part of an entire day at the terminal building. I think it's undergone a little facelift since I was last here, but the two-car overhead train is still going strong although I can't for the life of me remember if any of the restaurant brands are the same, possibly not.

So, I'm sitting in Mezza Mediterranean Grille and I'm about to order the salmon. I just needed that coffee, I don't know why. I'm still smarting over my own stupid decision to stay in Detroit another night, it still hurts somewhat but I guess I'm going to be rewarded.

Outside, the weather looks grey and pale, but it's still warm. It's impossible to tell where the sky starts. 

Pan Seared Salmon with carrots, green beans and garlic mashed potatoes ($29) and a cappuccino, which I'm guessing is around $5. So around the $34 mark at a guess. 

Back at Gate A36 and nearly time to board.

Mezza is opposite gate A53, there's a Forbes Travel Store a little further up and then it's gate A55.

I feel myself getting a little tired, which is a good thing. Another circuit of the concourse after lunch should do the trick and soon it'll be time to board the plane. This time I won't accept any offers to take another flight. Walking can really whack me out as I was doing a fair pace earlier.

About to depart Detroit...

The salmon was good and now I'm trying to get the bill, but I think it might take a little while. I'll just sit here on the laptop for a while as I've got a good table and, guess what, in the background, somewhere, I can hear Slade, Cum and Feel the Noize – I can't remember how they mis-spelt it, but I know they did as I used to have the single, on the Polydor label. "And I don't know why!" Great song.

There's under four hours until I fly home and I must stock up on mineral water.

I killed the time, I walked, I drank mineral water (by the gallon) I was constantly visiting the restrooms as a result, I passed gates where people I didn't know were flying to places near and far, familiar destinations and unfamiliar ones, and I tried to imagine their houses, whether they were wooden structures like those I'd seen in sleepy Walkerville, I imagined station wagons and pick-up trucks, sprinklers on green lawns and lazy summer days.

The hours passed slowly but surely. Soon it was time to board and it was good to discover that my window seat (37J) was next to a vacant seat so the journey home was as good, if not better than the outgoing flight. It was smooth running all the way, I watched a couple of movies (No Country for Old Men and Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban) and I read a little and wrote a little too. We landed on time, passport control and baggage reclaim were a doddle and I decided to take public transportation all the way home: the Elizabeth Line to Farringdon, Farringdon to Moorgate, Moorgate to London Bridge, London Bridge to East Croydon and a cab home.

At London Heathrow – home at last!

Doubletree by Hilton, Windsor, Ontario, Canada – loved it!

I was attending a conference in Detroit, Michigan, but had it on good authority that the hotel I was booked into wasn't that good. My travel company emailed to say they'd find a better hotel and I suggested staying on the Windsor, Ontario, side of the Detroit River. It proved to be a good move. The great thing about staying on the Canadian side of the river is that you can escape Detroit and then wander around freely, safe in the knowledge that you're not going to be jumped by some miscreant or other. Although, that said, and to be fair to Detroit, I was there for a week and never had any problems so I'll go with the notion that the city has cleaned up its act considerably (as many people say). Staying close to the riverfront you shouldn't experience any problems, it's only when you wander out into the suburbs that you might encounter problems.

View from room 526, Doubletree by Hilton, Windsor, Ontario.

So, the hotel. I've stayed at DoubleTree by Hilton before – you get given free cookies on arrival, which is fine unless you're trying to eat healthily. But putting cookies aside the hotel is perfectly located. Room 526 is great mainly because it's facing the river so you can see the skyscrapers of Detroit on the other side of the river, which is very pleasant.

Check-in was easy and while I had to wait a few minutes before my room was ready for occupation, all was well. The room itself was, for want of a better expression, 'roomy'. It was big and sported one huge double bed, which was very comfortable. There was a massive flatscreen LG television, plenty of desk space, a decent wardrobe, safe, all the usual stuff and a nice enough bathroom too. The shower was excellent although they'd run out of shower gel so I had to use shampoo, which wasn't a problem, although I suppose I could have asked, I just didn't. 

I'd forgotten to bring any toothpaste with me, but fortunately the hotel had some and it lasted my entire time there.

I never tried the restaurant for dinner as there were quite a few interesting places to visit outside of the hotel. However, I did have breakfast every day and for Saturday and Sunday morning and Thursday and Friday mornings there was a buffet style offering which I much preferred. Monday to Wednesday there was a menu service and I can't say I liked it. The main problem was the waitress who insisted I could only have one cup of tea when, with the self-service breakfast, I could go up and get as many teas as I wanted. I won't say it didn't annoy me, it was taking 'portion control' to a ridiculous extreme. On the Thursday I went to the lobby and purchased a large green tea and took it to breakfast with me only to discover that the offering had reverted to self-service.

There was a pool and a gym that I didn't use, mainly because I didn't have any trainers, and while I had brought my swimming gear, the idea never really appealed so I relied instead upon walking.

The hotel staff were friendly, which means a lot and I can honestly say that I looked forward to riding the bus into the Detroit-Windsor tunnel and was relieved to be in Canada where everything seemed a little less fraught, it was like coming home every day. 

So, hats off to the Doubletree by Hilton, I'll forgive them their rigid attention to breakfast portion control mainly because breakfast was always really top notch: pastries, toast, porridge, a hot breakfast of scrambled egg, sausage and 'breakfast potatoes', yoghurts and fresh fruit. Wonderful.

My advice to anybody visiting Detroit is this: stay on the Canadian side of the border and check in to the Doubletree by Hilton. The tunnel bus takes roughly 30 minutes from one side to the other. Yes, you'll need your passport and yes you'll have to answer a few questions, but it's really not a hassle and you'll get to stay on the calmer side of the river.

Hating the sound of my own 'voice' and other observations...

I awoke to the realisation that I hate the sound of my own 'voice'. And the reason for those inverted commas is simple: I hate the sound of my written 'voice'. I'm annoyed with myself for putting myself in this predicament just for a bit of cash and now, of course, I have to pay the price: sitting in a Marriott Courtyard Hotel alone with nothing to do and nowhere to go. It's an airport hotel, there's not really anywhere to walk and if there was, it would probably be too dangerous. Don't forget, I'm in Detroit. 

The depths of depression

They have a pool but I have no swimming gear. There's a gym, but my shorts are packed and I don't possess any trainers, just the business shoes I'm wearing. And the last thing I'm going to do is head on down there in my underpants and shoes, it's a ridiculous look and would remind me of that guy in Grand Theft Auto who seems to be running around half naked for some reason.

What to say about the hotel? Well, it's an airport hotel so I don't expect too much in terms of luxury, but it does offer a fairly decent room and a comfortable bed, but then there's a loud air-con unit that I can't switch off for love nor money. The bathroom is fine and, because everything I own is packed and checked in, I had to buy some more toothpaste and a toothbrush. I took a shower earlier and all that remains is to clean my teeth.

Outside, the roar of jets taking off. Inside the noise of the air-con. Everything else is silence. There are a few people here doing exactly what I'm doing, hanging around waiting for a flight. Why else would anybody stay here? The shuttle leaves for the airport every 30 minutes and sooner or later boredom will get the better of me and I'll check out and get on board.

I'm sitting here drinking Pellegrino mineral water, swigging from the bottle every five minutes or so. I was thinking earlier how big the room is; there are two double beds for a start and I figured that, if you took one of them out, the room would be big enough to be an apartment (with the exception of a kitchen). Not that I'd want to stay here. I'm feeling homesick as it is, and it's at times like these that I realise the importance of having a family. Hold on a second while I go to the bathroom...right, I'm back. What was I saying? Oh yes, family. I miss being home and it's even worse when you consider that not being there right this minute was based on a decision I deliberately took yesterday evening, but let's not fret about that any more, it's happened, an extra night in Detroit has also happened, it's now morning (1021hrs) and I've got to kill time before my flight at 1835hrs. In fact, hold on again while I double check my ticket...yes, that's right, it's 1835 take-off, boarding commences at 1742 and I'm sitting in a window seat, seat 37J. Admittedly there's no leg room like there was on the flight out here, but beggars can't be choosers.

Breakfast at the Courtyard by Marriott...

And there's a moot point. 'Beggars can't be choosers'. Suddenly, through my own doing, I've gained myself 'beggar' status. I'm on a back foot, but at least I've learned a lesson. Money ain't everything. Ok, it helps, and that's why I did this (takes another swig of Pellegrino) but ultimately life isn't a case of 'time is money'. We all have a finite time on this planet of ours and we should be spending it with our loved ones. My plan next week is to take some days off. I need to if I'm honest with myself. I work day-in and day-out and pay little attention to the fact that the weeks go by and I've got to take some annual leave. I think I've only taken one day off so far this year and normally what happens is I end up taking loads of time off in December just before Christmas, which is nice, but we really ought to be having holidays as a family and the plan is to do that this year, go somewhere close-by, like France or Spain, but either way just chill by a pool.

Room 116, Courtyard by Marriott Detroit Airport

I travel a lot in my job as you can probably tell by looking at this blog – check out the column on the right and you'll see all the places I've been to. Talking of yesterday and the flight home that I never took, I remember checking in; it was a hassle (when isn't it?). First there's the auto check-in consoles that never seem to work and then there's the fact that there's nobody around to help. Then there's other people. I hate other people, they're always getting in the way with their massive suitcases and I find myself wondering what the hell are they carrying, sometimes four or five, huge cases being lugged on to the baggage conveyor. There were three people ahead of me in the queue and they each had a big suitcase plus around three to four slightly smaller ones. Why? What the hell is in there? I'm sorry, but it annoys the hell out of me. It's like when I approach a ticket counter – anywhere in the world – and there's somebody there asking a question that seems to be extremely complicated, so much so that the guy behind the glass keeps walking off and consulting the i-ching and voluminous volumes of ancient sanskrit, laying out tarot cards. I don't know, it just bugs me a lot. And then, when finally it's my turn, I say something like "Return to Victoria", they press a few buttons and hey presto! I've got my ticket. Why is it that everybody makes life complicated when they travel?

Mineral water, I need more...

And don't you despise those people who really get into air travel? You know who I mean, they cover themselves in blankets and have one of those stupid L-shaped cushions and can be found walking around in their socks as if they're at home in their living room, they even enjoy being in the middle seat of the middle row. Unlike me. I need a window or the trip is a nightmare. I have to know what's going on outside. I need leg room, which, incidentally, I don't have on my flight tonight. I'm just hoping they'll be an exit seat available, but I'm not counting my chickens. [Takes a swig of Pellegrino].

My problem is I don't like flying long haul (if you can call a flight across the Atlantic 'long haul'). My flight tonight is around seven and a half hours and I can't wait to land at London Heathrow early on Sunday morning. I know how I'm going to feel. I'm going to feel like shit, but at least I'll be home and that's the main thing. Very often on my travels I've had to stay over another night due to flights being cancelled and so on. On this trip, however, it was me who delayed things (see previous post) and now I sit here, in room 116 of the Courtyard by Marriott just outside of Detroit airport and I'm wishing I was home, even if it is a bit grey and cloudy in the UK. Now don't get me wrong. Avid readers (I know I have some!) will recall my general stance on the UK and how much I hate it at this present time, thanks to the incumbent government, but it's where I live and, in that sense, where I want to be.

It's 1050 and there's nothing to do but sit here writing this blogpost. I have just one bottle of mineral water left to drink, I don't need to check out until noon and, for some reason, the final bottle of water (Aquafina – 'perfect water, perfect taste') is not sparkling but still. There's something disappointing about that. I am told to recycle the bottle with the cap on, which is fair enough as I've put the cap back on to both of the empty bottles of Pellegrino.

What to do next I wonder? I could take a walk around the hotel again, head down to where the pool is, or I could go take a look at the rather uninspiring gym or the gas log-effect fireplace in the lobby or even take a walk around the courtyard, the actual courtyard, that I can see from my room. I'm guessing that all Courtyard by Marriott hotels have courtyards, but I can't see anybody out there (excuse me while I open my bottle of still mineral water and take a swig)  – ah! that's better! – the thing I like about mineral water, actually, hold on, I need to use the bathroom, it's all the water I'm drinking...I'm back, but so is that noisy (and cold) air-con fan. Where was I? Oh, the courtyards. Yes, there's nobody out there and all I can see on the balconies of other rooms are vacant metal chairs. Are they made from steel or aluminium I wonder? I'd need a magnet to answer that question and I have one in my case, a fridge magnet. Perhaps I'll check that out and report back later. Perhaps not.

I guess another reason for doing this is my dislike of flying back, especially on a night flight as that means I can't see out, and I like to see out, I like to know what's going on. So – ah, that's good, the air-con fan has shut off, which is good as I've only got a shirt and jeans on – everything else is packed, so when the fan is on I get colder by the second. Now it's off and that's good. Yeah, I mean, I hate the flight back, I've probably already said this and if I have repeated myself then I'm sorry. So I look for ways of putting it off – the flight – but there's no point as sooner or later I've got to do it, fly across the Atlantic to my safe European home. I was wondering what would happen if, when I get there later today, they ask for volunteers to stay behind for another night. No is the answer, I simply couldn't face another night in an airport hotel listening to loud air-con units and roaring jets overhead. Somebody else can live the dream for a change.

The only good thing about tonight's flight is that my bags are already checked in and all I have is hand luggage. Yes, I've still got to go through security, but I don't have to queue, I don't have to use one of those check-in consoles, I just take off my shoes, get the laptop out, get searched and I'm through. I'll bypass the Society of the Spectacle and head straight for somewhere I can read until it's time to board and head home. I'm not going to enjoy any of the flight, I'm going to be awake throughout and I'm going to be counting down the hours as they pass, awaiting that moment when the darkness is replaced by light and I know we're only an hour or so out of Heathrow. But between now and then it's all about killing time. There's roughly 50 minutes before I need to check out of the Courtyard. In the UK it's around 1611hrs on Saturday afternoon. It's going to be nearer 2300hrs (UK time) when I take off from Detroit.

So, here I am, in room 116, listening to the distant – and sometimes not-so-distant – roar of the planes. I'm sipping mineral water, looking out on the lonely courtyard and the dandelions, peering occasionally at the unmade bed behind me and wondering what to do next. The air-con fan is back and that's my cue to visit the bathroom again...hold on. And I promise I won't keep you much longer. I think I've said all that needs to be said...okay, I'm back and there's little more to say. I'm going to clean my teeth, check out and kill time over at the airport, at least over there I'll find shops and hubbub and destinations boards and people milling around just like me waiting to go home.

Hanging around...

Every morning for the past week I've been taking the bus under the Detroit River into the Motor City. Every morning I show my passport and answer a list of questions, one of which is 'am I carrying any firearms?' and others ask what my business might be in the city of Detroit. I always pass with flying colours and then, later in the day, the process is repeated on the Canadian side of the border where I am staying in Windsor, Ontario.

Detroit at sundown from Windsor Ontario

Windsor is a strange place, it's like the sort of town you might find if you're playing Grand Theft Auto, it's quiet, there doesn't appear to be much going on and yet it's peaceful and for the past few days it's been home. I find myself looking forward to getting the bus 'home' and once on the other side of the border I can look out from my hotel room at the Detroit skyline and, in a way, feel thankful that I'm not there. But don't get me wrong, Detroit is just like any other American city, in fact, it's probably better. I thought the food was a cut above that of Pittsburgh, put it that way, and let's just say that Frank's Deli, in the Buhl Building, was to die for, especially if you order the famous Gyro wrap, which I did twice on consecutive days along with a Twinings Orange & Cinnamon-flavoured tea and a bottle of mineral water. There's only two tables as I guess most people buy take-outs, but Frank's was easily among the best food on offer in my humble opinion.

Graffiti in downtown Windsor

Normally, when I'm in the USA, I eat badly, but not on this trip and that's credit in many ways to Detroit, a place that has been given a bit of a bad press due largely to reports about crime levels, but it was fine. Yesterday I took a trip to a CVS to buy a toothbrush and some Sleepy Time Bear tea and I didn't feel in anyway threatened, it was just the usual sunny afternoon in an American city, lots of people walking around, plenty of traffic and those electric scooters, some abandoned on the sidewalks and I don't think I saw any down-and-outs or nutters walking about shouting (I saw more of them in Pittsburgh last year).

Houses in Walkerville

Watching Detroit from across the river is a bit like watching a toy town, a model you might see in Hamley's over the festive season, especially when a bright yellow two-car train on an elevated line passes by like something clockwork you might get for Christmas when you're a kid, it's known as the People Mover. The whole scene is toy-like, the small ships moored on the river side, the traffic, the buildings and the fact that I'm on the opposite bank, in a different country just watching things unfold.

It's strange being on the opposite bank looking over to Windsor, Ontario, which doesn't have an impressive skyline at all, although it's possible for me to pick out my hotel, the Doubletree by Hilton on Riverside Drive.

Biblioasis – a great bookshop

In Windsor, the restaurants are slightly better than in Detroit, in my opinion. There's not that American over-indulgence thing going on. Last night, in Cucina 360, an Italian restaurant on Chatham Street West, I had roasted salmon with brocolli and roasted potatoes, although I regretted the créme bruleé but thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't ordered the tiramisu, normally my go-to dessert in such an establishment. It was my second visit and it was fairly enjoyable as restaurant experiences go. There's a great restaurant called The Keg on Riverside Drive, very grand, a steakhouse, but there's more than just meat. Again, I ordered salmon with greens and mashed potatoes but started with prawns – or shrimps as they're known here – although these ones were huge and very tasty. I'd like to go back there and perhaps I will, but it's difficult to say as there are other places to investigate.

The Detroit-Windsor Tunnel... since 1930

Behind the Doubletree is the bus station and I often wonder where all the buses go. One heads north to Toronto, but others go elsewhere and it would be good to find out what other towns are like in this most southerly part of the State of Ontario. Without looking at a map I wonder how far east or west I can ride without finding myself back in the USA and having to show my passport. Perhaps if I take a bus anywhere I'd better make sure I bring my documentation with me. Not that I'm going to take a bus anywhere as I've been taking buses twice a day all week, albeit just for half an hour each way.

Some people living in Windsor, Ontario, take the bus to work in Detroit every day and I'm wondering whether there are others living in the Motor City who travel under the river to work in Windsor. It's one of those things I guess I'll never know.

The river is flat calm today and the sun is shining. The skies are a hazy blue and there's a slight breeze causing the flags to flutter slightly on the memorial green I can see from my hotel window.

My colleague Catherine and I took a short walk to Tim Horton's for a drink. I had a cappuccino, she had some kind of fruit drink. Foolishly, perhaps, I ordered a cookie (I wish I hadn't, but I had) and I sat there nibbling and sipping until it was time to go. Later, I set out alone for a place called Walkerville, an upmarket region of Windsor, to check out a bookstore, Biblioasis, and then after that a coffee shop around the corner called Anchor where I ordered a black tea and a square snack. I took the number 2 bus and it took around 15 minutes, one straight road. The bus was packed, but I got off at Gladstone and then entered the bookshop. I wasn't particularly looking for anything specific to read so I simply riffled the pages of a few novels and then headed for Anchor. After chilling with the tea and 'square' – that's how it was described on the receipt – I found myself in a couple of gift shops and then I caught a bus home along Wyandotte Street as far as Ouellette Avenue and then walked towards and turned left on to Riverside Drive and my hotel.

Tea at Anchor... nice!

We found a café for a late lunch (or snack) on the grassed river walk and sat there in the hot sun looking across the Detroit River at the Motor City. I needed to tank up on mineral water in order to hydrate and then we walked east along the river bank before turning to walk west again. It's odd, looking across the river at Detroit, to think that we are looking north, not south. The tendency is to think that we're looking south as Canada, by and large, is north of America, but the reality is, from Windsor to Detroit we're looking North, check out the map and you'll see what I mean. There are American states west of Detroit that are further north than Detroit, such as Minnesota and North Dakota.

It's nearly 1900hrs and the sun is still hot, the skies are blue and outside the motorboats travel east along the river. The skyscrapers of Detroit still stand proud across the water and people and walking back and forth or sit on the grass under the shade of a tree. Dogs are being walked, people are cycling and jogging, kids are playing ball games in the early evening heat while others sit on wooden benches watched by Canadian geese as they eat and drink below the limp flags hanging from white poles in a semi-circular war memorial. 

Friday

The plan was simple: have breakfast, pack, check out and walk to Walkersville, visit a bookstore (Bilblioasis) and then a coffee shop (Anchor) and then take a look at the hippy shop that sells all the magic beans and tarot cards. Yesterday I took the number 2 bus, this time we walked. The weather was still very pleasant and it took around 45 minutes. We did everything we set out to do and when we walked back, simply retracing our earlier steps, we stopped off at a bistro on the riverfront for a snack before heading back to the hotel and taking a taxi to the airport. 

A random shot of Detroit Airport close to gate 36...

It was sad to be leaving Windsor, Ontario, but we'd both had enough and just wanted to get the flight over and done with. At the airport it was the usual hassles and then we settled down with tea and soft drinks and stuff as we waited for the flight to be called. It was going from Gate 36, which was next to where we were sitting and eventually it was time to board. 

Or was it? They were offering $1,400 to anybody who stayed over in Detroit and flew back on Saturday night. That's £1,100! Wow! Surely a bargain? Well, yes it is so I went for it, but after saying yes I immediately regretted it as I really wanted to be home. I'm now sitting in a Courtyard Marriott not far from the airport, there's a noisy air-con unit (that will buzz throughout the night), the walls are a kind of orange colour, there are two double beds and it's all very miserable, but what is done is done, I'm flying back tomorrow night, I have a window seat and there's around a grand to spend for my troubles. I don't think I'll ever do it again. In so many ways I feel sick to the stomach about the whole deal and I just want to be home. I keep looking at my watch and working out how much time I'd have left on the flight had I taken it, but I didn't. Instead I took a shuttle bus to this Godforsaken place and now I've got to sit it out. I can't even be bothered to eat anything, in fact, I don't even know if there's anything worth eating. I hate my predicament and I hate myself. Roll on tomorrow is all I can say.

Now I wish I'd been on board, sod the money, sod the money.

In Windsor, Ontario...

For some reason everything was smooth sailing and there was an air of positivity surrounding me; it wasn't like last year's trip to Pittsburgh when COVID was still loitering with intent and I really thought I might have to wear a mask during the flight. As it turned out I didn't have to, but the whole thing had been fretful and unpleasant from the start. Not this year! Well, there was the one-armed taxi driver who took me to the airport, travelling through London on Coronation day at 20mph virtually all the way there, leaving little time to chill before the flight, although I managed a coffee, a pastry and a carton of fruit, granola and natural yoghurt, courtesy of Pret a Manger opposite Gate 28.

View from room 526, DoubleTree by Hilton, Windsor, Ontario

The first good thing was a direct flight. The last thing I wanted was the usual stop-over faff in Philadelphia or New York or Chicago. I had to move out of my comfort zone and fly with another airline (and not British Airways) but I think doing so was liberating. My take on British Airways is changing, it's a bit like my changing perception of the UK as a whole. For years I've been brainwashed into thinking that the UK is the best country in the world, the place to be from, the place to live, full of proper politicians who can do no wrong, a police force that isn't corrupt or full of rapists, racists and murderers and, of course, a health service that works. But no, it turns out I was wrong. I had been cheated. The Government is corrupt, there are rapists, racists and murderers amongst the ranks of our police force and the health service is on its knees.

Not a million miles from Detroit...

I've never been 100% happy with British Airways, but I had been conned by Léo Delibes' Flower Duet and the reassuring British accent of the pilots, although of late I've noticed them sounding more like contestants in The Apprentice, which is a little off-putting. And then there's the class system, which I hate with a vengeance anyway, but on a British Airways flight it is live and kicking and ready to annoy the hell out of me as I walk through the plane to my economy class seat, passing the cosseted comfort of those well off enough to fork out the extortionate price of a First or Business Class seat.

Rain at Heathrow

Fine, all planes have their own versions of First and Business Class, but it's the attitude of the cabin crew on a British Airways flight that makes it all worse. It's also a lot to do with the UK itself and how, perhaps, our 'flagship airline' reflects the country, which is on its knees morally and economically. The very thought of sitting in a capsule flying at 38,000 feet and basically being transported across the Atlantic in what amounts to a smaller version of 'our great nation' is just too much to bear. Somehow everything British is synchronizing and becoming one massive blob of depressive crap and in this case offloading moaning English people who have simply had enough and can't believe their luck, that they are getting out, albeit temporarily.

The good news was that I was flying Delta – a huge Airbus 330 jam-packed with American positivity where I sensed that the cabin crew were on my side for once. Sitting in seat 39A looking out on the rain drumming hard on the tarmac, I was glad that I was missing yesterday's Coronation of King Charles lll and all that unnecessary flag waving by overweight Brexiteers. I turned and spotted a couple of vacant seats on the other side of the plane, seats 38G and 38H. It was an exit row so there was plenty of much needed leg room and all I had to do was get up and take it as boarding was complete. I jumped up and waltzed across but before I could sit down I was told that it was an exit row and that I couldn't sit there. Disappointed, I skulked back to seat 39A and buckled up, but minutes later another member of the cabin crew – her name was Tia – came over and told me that I could sit there and that there had been some kind of misunderstanding. They thought, wrongly, that I was the dad of three kids sitting in the middle row of the plane. One of the kids had strayed over to my desired seat, seat 38H and when I went over there, knowing full well that the kid wasn't supposed to be there, they thought I was the dad and that I was trying to spread my family across the width of the plane. Anyway, thanks to Tia, I was allowed to sit by the window, in an exit seat, and enjoy the flight. And let me tell you, I enjoyed the flight immensely. For a start it was smooth all the way, even as we glided through the clouds over England and believe me it took a long time to break through to the blue skies above. I stretched out, I read Murakami's Novelist as a Vocation, I briefly listened to Transmission by Joy Division on my iphone and I enjoyed the inflight hospitality – chicken with pesto and vegetables, a wonderful salted caramel ice cream and later a delicious chocolate mousse, not forgetting two large glasses of orange juice and a couple of bottles of mineral water. 

Decent airline food courtesy of Delta

When Tia passed by I thanked her for allowing me to sit in seat 38H – and to commandeer seat 38G for all my stuff. I told her that, had I been flying British Airways, I would still have been sitting in seat 39A, I just know it. British Airways' cabin crew are like that, they're almost like British businessmen, they are short-sighted and reluctant to give anyone a break and would prefer those seats to be empty throughout the flight rather than have me sitting there enjoying myself. Had I remained in seat 39A I would have sat there in my leather jacket, my on-board briefcase stuffed under the seat in front of me, my two bottles of mineral water getting in the way, and I would have been most uncomfortable throughout. The flight would have been awful, I know that much, and had I needed to get up (as I did on numerous occasions) I would have been interrupting the person sitting in seat 39B. In short it would have been a nightmare and I would certainly not have arrived in Detroit feeling alive and happy as I did, thanks to having moved seats. I think from now on, if I can fly Delta, I will, because they're great, that's all there is to it.

Everything was a doddle. Immigration, normally a big hassle, was smooth. Baggage reclaim was fine too and then it was just a cab to Canada, yes, Canada. I'm staying over the river in Windsor, Ontario, and while that means showing my passport twice daily to customs officials it's better than staying in a cockroach-infested hotel in Detroit. 

And while we're on the subject of hotels, the DoubleTree by Hilton on Riverside Drive in Windsor is amazing. Hopefully I won't get some awful foot infection like I did last year in Pittsburgh and I put that down to the hotel which was the only place where my feet were exposed. Last night, just as a precaution, I kept my socks on.

Just landed at Detroit...

But what a great hotel. First, the check-in was fairly smooth, second, the room was amazing. It sports a huge (and I mean huge) flatscreen television, there's an interesting-looking shower, which I just know will be invigorating, a massive (and comfortable) double bed, a decent wardrobe and a wonderful view of the Detroit skyline across the river. Apparently, if I was on the Detroit side the view across to Windsor isn't as impressive. 

There's a pool and a gym and I might try and get some exercise, although I know what it's like at the event I'm attending on the Detroit side of the river and that means there won't be much time for keeping fit. Also, I need to buy a pair of trainers if I'm going to use the Peleton exercise bikes as I can't very well go down there in shorts and business shoes, I'll look ridiculous and I'd have to look ridiculous in the elevator too and I simply couldn't stomach the humiliation. Shorts and black leather shoes. Think of that for a moment. I would look and feel like a dork.

Last night, after a perfectly respectable pasta meal, I slept well, from around 1930hrs to just before 0500hrs – roughly nine hours – and now I'm considering hitting the showers and also having a shave, then it's breakfast on the second floor and a day wandering around and also getting over to the Detroit side of the river to engage in the process of work, albeit for a short while as the whole thing doesn't start until tomorrow.

I suppose the only downside to being on the Canadian side of the river is having to show passports twice a day to border officials. I'm guessing it'll be stricter on the US side, but I'm more concerned with the cost, which could be as much as $50 per trip, which will mount up. That said, we have purchased a Transit Windsor Smart Ride Card so it won't be anything like $50 a ride. Right, let's hit the showers!

To Oxted and Westerham - two rides and I'm back in the game...

Cycling hasn't exactly been on the agenda these past weeks. Admittedly, a week or two ago, I did get to Westerham to meet Andy, you might remember how I rushed to get back in time to got out again for lunch for an Easter get-together and how I allowed myself to become dehydrated. Now that's not a nice feeling. I've done it before and it makes me feel a little light-headed, a little panicky even, so I must remember to hydrate properly, perhaps take a bottle of water with me rather than ride 11 miles, have a cup of tea and then simply ride back and have nothing for some hours afterwards. But that was a few weeks back, Easter bank holiday to be precise and in future I'll be prepared.

I took last Friday off but cycling was out of the question as the weather was a little on the poor side, although generally things are on the up, the blossoms are on the trees and life is becoming a little more hopeful than it has been. In truth, it's been cold and wet and unpleasant and, as a result, there has been little cycling action. So, now things are changing. Saturday was a lovely day so I kicked myself into gear and headed to Oxted for my usual lolling around the town, sitting in a Caffe Nero, sipping tea and on this occasion reading The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall by Steve Hanley. It felt good to be on the bike and I enjoyed riding into Oxted, parking up and sitting on the sofa by the window in the Nero. Of course the ride home eventually beckoned, but it didn't phase me, I just rode off down the high street, along Granville and then along the road that led to Titsey Hill. I can't remember the last time I rode up Titsey but it was just the same effort, I didn't feel in anyway physically challenged or out of condition (even if I know that I am to a certain degree).

I reached home and then, true to form, didn't bother rehydrating myself. Later, on a drive to Westerham and en route to a National Trust property somewhere near Ide Hill in Kent I had to stop at a NISA store and buy a huge 1.5 litre bottle of Evian (Naive spelt backwards). I swigged from it as I drove along, I was that desperate, but eventually I started to feel normal again.

Yes, it's raining in Westerham

Sunday morning, as I sat at my laptop, I checked out the weather on the BBC website and saw the familiar cloud and raindrops emoji; it looked as if I'd get there unscathed but would take a soaking on the return ride. And so it came to pass. Andy (as always) had arrived before me and had almost finished a large cappuccino with soya milk when I arrived. There was a strange old man making himself comfortable when I approached our table and tried to sit down. He was, shall we say, a little odd. He wore an old British Rail hat and great coat, both of which had seen better days and made what could only be described as extremely vague and hard to understand conversation about football, something about Bromley, which neither Andy nor I could get to grips with; Andy managed to say he didn't follow football, which was fair enough, nor do I, and while neither of us believed he was ever going to go, he eventually got up and left us alone.

Andy, quite rightly, berated me for continuing to eat cake - he'd been reading my blog posts about Finland - and while I tried to defend myself, there was no point, he was right and I was wrong. My only defence was that I'd started to ride again: Oxted yesterday, Westerham today. I started to discuss the moment on the plane from Helsinki to London last Sunday when I asked a member of the Finnair cabin crew for a bottle of mineral water. Earlier (as you can read in the previous post) I'd seen her pushing a trolley full of bottles of mineral water towards the front of the plane, but as she passed she ignored me. I had to press the overhead button and suddenly there she was with a look of 'can I help you?' on her face. I asked for a bottle of mineral water and she said she didn't have any. "But I just saw you walk past with a trolley full of the stuff," said I and she told me that was for business class passengers only. She offered me two miniscule paper cups of plane water and I won't say I wasn't affronted. But, as I said to Andy, imagine paying £1,100 for a one-way journey from Helsinki to London (as I was expected to do last Saturday, that was all that was available). Instead, I stayed in Helsinki for another night. Imagine that: I spent another night and I had dinner in the hotel and it was cheaper than flying back business class. As it started to rain outside, Andy and I sat there talking about the lunacy of flying business class, the unnecessary expense of it, and then we moved on to me giving up alcohol and Andy's veganism. It's amazing, said I, how many friends I've lost as a result of giving up drinking. I related the tale of how I suggested to an old mate of mine that we meet for a coffee somewhere, but he was having none of it. "No, let's meet in All Bar One... you can have a lemonade." We didn't meet. People don't like it if you don't drink, I told Andy, and that's because 'drinking' is ingrained. The focal point of all soap operas is a pub, be it the Rovers Return, the Queen Victoria or the Woolpack. Drinking never did me any good and I often wonder if it does anybody any good. Who needs a hangover? Who needs to wake up in the morning wondering whether they'd said something they shouldn't? Who needs to be unable to drive a car? There's no point in it and there's even less of a point to no-alcohol beer, it tastes very bad, compared to the alcoholic variety, and you're better off with a mineral water or an apple juice (as opposed to a no-alcohol cider, although it's debatable whether one is the same as the other). I doubt I'll be drinking again, although that sounds a little indecisive so let's rephrase that: I'll never drink again.

Andy said he gets a little frustrated when people assume that he can't eat certain things. I'd said something like, "Oh, you can't have milk can you?" and he said, "I can have milk, I simply choose not to". Fair point. It reminded me of Detectorists when passers-by asked Andy and Lance, "Are you metal detectors?" and they would reply pointing to their equipment, "No, these are metal detectors, we are metal detectorists."

Outside it was pissing down and the church bells were ringing out, but both of us knew we had to get up and go. We both knew it was going to be unpleasant, but it had to be done. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet up next weekend and then we parted. Andy followed the conventional route out of Westerham and I chose the route that would take me past the Velobarn and then left on to Pilgrims Lane.

"Look, you've just got to grin and bear it," I said to myself under my breath as I cycled along. "It's only around one hour in the saddle and you'll be home." 

To be honest, there was no alternative so I pushed on. It wasn't that bad and that was because it wasn't cold or windy and the rain lightened up, it was more of a persistent drizzle. I knew my clothes were going to be wet through by the time I reached home, but I also knew that there was one part of my attire that would be fine, my shoes. You remember, the waterproof shoes I'd bought on Amazon? I wouldn't have to put them in porch for the next three weeks and wait for them to dry out, just wipe them down and they'd be ready for the ride next week.

I reached home around 1120hrs and once again left the house without hydrating myself. Later, while having lunch in Flower's Farm - it's been extended since Andy and I were last there - the need to have two bottles of mineral water arose, but after that I was fine. We drove home and now here we are watching television and this 'Scooby Doo-alike programme called Outer Banks. Look, it's not high art, we know that, but we find it easy watching and that's the end of it. Until next week...