Watching the fog...

I had plans to start talking about 'history in the making', but that would have been misleading. The truth is that history hasn't been made at all, it was just another cyclist on the way to see his mum. Another Dawes Galaxy, perhaps, or another recumbent cyclist on his eccentric way to somewhere, but nobody knows where.

What the hell am I talking about? We were sitting at the Tatsfield bus stop, watching the fog. Believe me, it's better than watching paint dry. In fact it's quite educational: watching cars without lights disappearing into the murk, watching cyclists without lights (Lycra monkeys, of course) disappearing or simply cycling past us without a care for their own safety. Why don't people switch their lights on when there's fog? Some did, but an equal amount didn't. The biggest idiots were the Lycra monkeys.

Our bikes – my Rockhopper (left) and Andy's Blast – close to the bus stop

So we're sitting there, sipping tea, watching the fog when somebody turns up and has the audacity to ask me to move my rucksack. Naturally, I oblige and we engage in small talk. He'd cycled from Biggin Hill en route to Warlingham – not a million miles from where we'd set off earlier – to see his mum. I was reminded of my own 'urban rides' to mum's (haven't done one of those for a while) although that said, it's Tuesday as I write this, Tuesday 9th October at 2241hrs, and earlier today I'd seen mum and enjoyed a slice (or three) of fruit cake. But let's get back to last Saturday and the fog and the stranger, who, it turned out, was a nice guy.

We were sitting there at a later time than normal and it was all my fault. I'd switched off my alarm and had forgotten to switch it back on. Result? I woke up at 0700hrs instead of 0600hrs (after a broken night) and had to text Andy to say we should meet at 0800hrs, half an hour later than usual. So naturally we were later and that's how we met this new guy. We never exchanged names, but we did exchange pleasantries, told him we'd been coming here for almost a decade, told him about our other routes and then it was time to say good bye. We watched him disappear into the murk of the fog.

"I wonder if he makes a good sausage sandwich?" said Andy.
"Or a Bakewell tart," I added.

It was all because our recent conversations had focused on Phil and how we never see him anymore.

"He's gone over to the dark side," said Andy.
"Forever," I added.

There wasn't much more to say on the subject and soon it was our turn to pack up and head into the fog. Andy was going home via the Ridge and I stuck to the off-road path on the 269 due to the fog.

Fog ahead. At Warlingham Green 0800hrs

Sunday was another late start. This time Andy sent me a text asking if 0800hrs would be okay. Of course it was okay, I texted back, and settled in for a little more relaxation. I'd been up since 0600hrs and was glad for the lull in proceedings, so glad that I almost missed the 0730hrs departure time.

We decided that a short ride would be the order of the day. I had things going on and needed to be back early so we headed for the good old 'cottage' – a short ride along the 269 and then a left turn into the fields, following an off-road gravel path. When we got there the seating was damp, but it was good to be back at the cottage. Being as the place is right off the beaten track it was tranquil apart from birdsong.

"Imagine if you'd spent the night here," I said.
"If you had a sleeping bag you'd be alright because you're off the ground," said Andy. "It's the ground that's damp," he pointed out.
"I'd pitch up a tent over there," I said, pointing to the woods surrounding the cottage. "Keeping out of sight is crucial."

I found myself wondering why I have this 'camping out' fantasy, this strange yearning to sleep under canvas. It's been with me for years and was bolstered somewhat by reading Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike. Mike combined cycling with sleeping in a tent in a mammoth cycling adventure around the coastline of the United Kingdom. It's one of my favourite books of all-time.

Looking at the fog...

We drank tea, we dunked Belvitas and we chatted about nothing in particular, apart from camping wild. I had to get back so we mounted the bikes and headed off. I raced up the gravel track to the main field, the rear wheel slipping constantly, and then, when I reached the top, I lost momentum and had to dismount. I walked for a few yards and then jumped back on. Andy and I rode side-by-side to the gate and then we both used the road, not the off-road path, to reach Warlingham (it's faster, but also much more dangerous). That said, there was no fog on Sunday morning. In fact, the weather was very pleasant, much warmer than Saturday morning.

Talking of the weather, it's starting to creep towards winter. Last weekend I realised I needed a scarf before heading out – but couldn't find one. If I recall correctly, the week before it was very cold. I think it was around 6 degrees, but it got warmer as the day got older. The pattern seems to be cooler temperatures first thing in the morning, but then rising temperatures as the day progresses, so much so that there are blue skies and sunshine. Today, Tuesday 9th, was an amazing day. Sunshine, heat, and it's mid-October. Not that good weather in October is rare. I remember a ride to the lakes with Andy back in, I think, 2010, when the weather was wonderful, just like a midsummer's day. I've also got a photograph somewhere on this blog of Woodmansterne Green in November – with plenty of leaves still on the trees.

This weekend, the one just past, was good. We managed two rides, albeit both of them were later than usual, but sometimes a slower start is better.

Here's to the next ride...

Slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – twice!

I was riding a mountain bike along a precarious trail with big drops on the left hand side. On the other side there were gypsies (no tramps, no thieves) chasing wild horses. Later, once I'd woken up and washed and shaved, I crossed a small pedestrian precinct where a man tried to hand me a small leaflet.

"Do you believe in the after life?" he asked.
"You never know," I said, not stopping.
"Then let's have a chat," he added.

I didn't stop, but I did consider handing him a business card that I had picked up in Newcastle last week in a ruse designed to make him think I was part of the Society for Psychical Research. I'm not and I didn't.

Last night I found myself on a plane to Los Angeles. The plane swooped low over the city, which looked deserted and unreal, and out to sea before circling and landing at the airport. It was raining and I was staying in an upmarket hotel. Out on the streets I was thirsty so I stopped for a soft drink and then found it was 0430hrs in the morning and I had been dreaming.

Andy's Blast at the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

It had been a good weekend of cycling: two trips to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way. The weather has definitely changed. On Saturday as I made my way to the green to meet Andy I wished I'd wrapped up warmer. A scarf would have been a good idea. On Sunday I found something to keep my neck warm on Sunday's ride.

Saturday's ride along Beddlestead was very pleasant, not the normal slog, and it was similar on Sunday. We had considered the Cottage for Sunday's ride, via the slow way along Beddlestead Lane, but why almost reach the bus stop and not go there? So we did. As we rode along we discussed Phil's disappearance (we simply don't see him anymore).

"He's gone over to the dark side," said Andy.
"Never to return," I added.

If the truth be known, we all missed Phil's sausage sandwiches and found ourselves reminiscing about the summer of 2015 when he produced a perfect Bakewell tart. Happy days, we thought, as we stared at the long grass in need of a cut. Andy watched a mouse scuttle out and waddle his way under the seats in the bus shelter. Moments later he reappeared, went back into the long grass and then re-emerged and made his way across the road, narrowly avoiding being squashed by a passing car. He found his way to the opposite bank and disappeared.

Lycra monkeys passed in both directions, some heading down the hill towards Westerham, others riding towards Botley Hill.

Rays of sunshine on the slow way route...

Both days were characterised by blue skies and the temperatures gradually rose, but not to the levels of August. It's that time of year for deceptive weather, when it looks bright and warm, but is, in fact, scarves and jumpers weather. I need to kit myself out with new cycling gear. At the moment I'm wearing red leather Converse All Stars, skinny jeans and a grey hoody; I look like something from an inner London housing estate and it must stop.

The Specialized Rockhopper is performing well. I'm keeping it oiled and in good nick all round, but I have got a couple of scratches on the frame that need to be touched up. In fact I must remember to get the paint.

It's Monday at 0815hrs and the sun is shining bright in the garden behind me, but it's not that warm. When I woke up it was just 6 degrees and it's expected to rise to 13 degrees. Winter is on the way, it's 1 October and this month, according to Andy, British Summer Time comes to an end. Of course it does: the clocks go back later in the month, why was I so surprised about that? I remembered one October when there was scorching hot weather. We rode to the lakes that day on what was probably a last blast of summer sunshine. For more details of that great day, click here.

Gearing up for the ride home...

Beddlestead Lane, the bus stop and the churchyard...

Early morning and there's a bite in the air that means summer is on the way out, but it hasn't gone completely and it's not going quietly. In fact, generally speaking, the weather is perfect for this time of year. I'm wearing a hoody over a tee-shirt (the one that says 'I bring nothing to the table') and by the time I return I kind of wish I hadn't bothered with the hoody. It's still warm out there is what I'm saying and we're moving into late September.

Yesterday and today (Sunday) are roughly on a par weatherwise. It's pleasantly warm with a bit of sunshine here and there and blue skies later in the day. Saturday I was running late because I couldn't find any decent footwear. I had two sub-standard pairs of trainers, purchased from Sports Direct, one of which now sported holes in both heels. The other pair I threw out, so it was a case of 'do I wear my work shoes on the ride or is there an alternative?' Fortunately, I found my red leather Converse All-Stars at the back of the wardrobe – I rarely wear them – and set about the tiresome task of lacing them up. The end result was a text to Andy saying let's meet at 0745hrs.

Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16th September 2018. Pic by Andy Smith

The plan, if I recall from last week, was to head to Westerham for breakfast, but time was moving on, so the slow way to the bus stop was the chosen route, which gave us a chance to chat as we rode along Beddlestead Lane. Normally we see plenty of Lycra Monkeys on Beddlestead, but we didn't see any on this occasion and we only saw one car. Later, when we reached the Tatsfield bus stop – our chosen destination – a few more came along, one having cycled up White Lane and the rest just coming from Botley Hill en route towards Westerham or vice versa. We sat there drinking tea and eating our biscuits with little to say other than to remark on how overgrown things were looking. The grass in front of the bus stop was long and in need of a cut and the grass banks of Clarks Lane were equally dishevelled from where we were sitting and in dire need of a trim.

Before we headed home I inflated my tyres – for the first time in two years. The bike is almost two years old now and not only have I not blown up the tyres since I bought it, I haven't had a puncture either. Last week I noticed a bit of a wobble when I turned left and then right coming down Elmfield Way and into Southcote Road and Andy said they definitely needed pumping up. I gave both front and back around 50-60 blasts of the pump and the bike rode well on the return trip as a result. Andy parted company at the Ridge, although we had considered riding back down Beddlestead Lane and up Hesiers Hill. In many ways I regret not doing this, but it was easier to take the off-road path along the 269. I reached home around 0945hrs and made a mental note to clean the bike and buy some touch-up paint off Ebay.

"Are they leather All-Stars, man?" Why, yes they are!!!

On Sunday morning I was keen to be on time after yesterday's faff trying to find suitable footwear. I'll have to get some trainers in the week and a decent pair of cycling trousers, but for today's ride it would have to be the leather All-Stars and jeans again, not forgetting the Jack Wills hoodie. I left the house around 0700hrs and headed up Church Way towards the Limpsfield Road with a mind full of stupid scenarios whirling around in my head. The first occurred when I spotted a supermarket delivery van driver in the doorway of a house on Ellenbridge. As I passed he saw me and I saw him and I started to imagine that he might have been some kind of a criminal. Perhaps he had just committed a murder and was worried that I might go to the police with his description. I pedalled away and imagined a scene at night where he took chase and we ended up in some nearby woods. Naturally I would have travelled deeper in to the woods on the bike, although I envisioned dumping the bike and making my getaway on foot, crunching my way over leaves and twigs, looking back to see the van with its headlights on full beam illuminating the woods, and the menacing silhouette of the 'murderer' seeing if he could spot me.

My next stupid scenario involved pretending to be Russian in order to escape from a gang of nutters intent on stealing my bike. I put on a meercat accent and threatened my assailants with novichok. Oddly, it worked and I lived to ride another day. By now I had reached Hamsey high street, which, as always, looks a little bit run-down and soon I was on the home straight towards the green. Andy wasn't there, but soon he arrived and we headed off.

Warlingham Green, Sunday 16th September

"How was your day?"
"The usual," said Andy.

I explained how I had done some shopping and then went over to mum's for tea and cake – well, four slices in the end and yes, it's got to stop. Really, it's got to stop.

We decided upon the Tatsfield Churchyard – the fast way – and rode along the 269 towards Botley Hill, turning left at the roundabout and riding down Clarks Lane, past the Tatsfield bus stop on our left and then slowing, turning left and hauling ourselves and our bikes up the mossy wooden steps to the churchyard where there appear to be more graves every time we pay a visit.

As we drank our tea and dunked our BelVita biscuits (well, I did, I don't know about Andy) we discussed the lack of time and the lack of leisure in our lives. "It's money," I said. "If we had more money we could do stuff, but we don't." Andy remarked that he just exists and how the weekend is over too quickly and then it's back to work. By and large I feel the same way. A change in lifestyle is needed, but how? In Andy's case, perhaps he could become a wedding photographer and spend his days leisurely processing images on his lap top in between jobs. "You'd miss a few weekend rides," I said, but then the fantasy brought me in, as some kind of writer, sitting at home looking out on rolling hills and contemplating my next book. "We'd have to ride during the week," said Andy as I poured our second and last cup of tea. "But we'd be our own bosses so it wouldn't matter."

It was soon time to go. We wheeled the bikes out of the churchyard and headed for Clarks Lane. The ride is uphill all the way to Botley as we were joining the hill that starts back in Westerham. Andy said goodbye at the Ridge and I used the off-road path flanking the 269 – it's safer, but there's always a jogger with headphones who can't hear me coming so I have to slow down. Not today – or rather not until I'd almost completed the journey. There was a jogger coming towards me and she stopped to let me pass her, but further along there was a jogger ahead of me, she had headphones on and I figured I'd be behind her for ages so I rode on to the road, close to Slines Oak, and headed into Warlingham.

Sunday league footy has started so there are always loads of parked cars close to the playing fields on my left as I ride home. I always give parked cars plenty of room just in case some dozey old bag opens the door and sends me flying – so far I've been lucky. All was well and soon I passed through Hamsey High Street and then Sanderstead. The traffic had picked up a little bit as I crossed the Addington Road and sailed down Church Way towards home. It had been a good weekend of cycling and now there's next week to look forward to.

To Woodmansterne Green and Westerham – powered by euphoric music...

The good weather continues and I find myself with a song in my head. Elvis Costello's I can't stand up for falling down. It's brilliant, like most of his stuff, and it's powering me along the street. Don't get me wrong, I'm not singing it out loud, that would never do, but it's in my head, giving me that euphoric feeling, which in turn propels me along the road a little faster than otherwise. It's motivational. A bit like when I hear Wake Up Boo by the Boo Radleys – although there's something sad about that song, I just don't know what. Perhaps it's something to do with this lyric:-

But you can't blame me

Not for the death of summer

But you're gonna say what you wanna say

You have to put the death in everything

Or perhaps not. Perhaps it's more to do with the extreme (in my opinion) euphoria of the song and perhaps extreme euphoria is close (in my mind) to being tearfully depressing – or tears of joy. I don't know what I'm talking about, so ignore me.

Bon and I met at 0730hrs on the green at Woodmansterne, a great meeting place, especially when the sun is shining. We did our usual: chatted about this and that, drank a couple of mugs of tea and then headed home.

Bon, it must be said, is looking good and it's got plenty to do with the fact that he's doing a lot of gardening – all that fresh air and exercise (he's cycling from one garden to the next so it's a double whammy on the fitness front).

Woodmansterne Green, Saturday 8th September 2019

The roadworks in Foxley Lane have completely disappeared and as I rode towards the mini roundabout close to the lavender fields, Bon was coming the other way. We both turned left and headed towards the green, parking up by the felled tree, which has been there since the hurricane of 1987 and started to drink tea and chat. It was pleasant, as it always is, and we probably stayed longer than planned. Bon had to get back to walk the dogs and was wary of Saturday football matches as his dog, Bruno, has been known to chase the ball and disrupt the games. "Who owns that fucking dog?" is a phrase Bon is familiar with, which made me laugh.

We eventually parted and I headed back, initially off-road until I reached the mini roundabout at the top of Foxley Lane, always a bit busy, but I got across safely, rode the length of Foxley, sailed past Cycle Republic, hung a right and then rode straight across the Brighton Road, along a few of Purley's back streets and then up Purley Downs Road, hanging a left into Norman Road, past Purley Oaks railway station, then past Sanderstead station and eventually up the strenuous south face of West Hill.

Andy on the edge of a cornfield, Sunday 9th September

That Elvis Costello track belted out of my brain on Sunday morning as I rode along the Limpsfield Road to Warlingham Green where Andy and I decided Westerham was on the cards. "Let's get our heads down, no talking, and just get there," I said, and off we went, the fast way. It was an exhilarating ride for both of us and I pushed as hard as I could with the sound of Elvis Costello ringing out from my in-built Walkman, all the way, reaching the green at around 0815hrs. We had tea and Belvitas, talked about many things, including the pre-blog days and around 0900hrs we decided it was time to head home.

For a euphoric song, Elvis Costello's I can't stand up for falling down has depressing lyrics, but to me it's more motivational than the Boo Radleys.

I'm the living result

I'm a man who's been hurt a little too much

And I've tasted the bitterness of my own tears

Sadness is all my lonely heart can feel

I can't stand up for falling down

I can't stand up for falling down

Simple though love is

Still it confused me

Why I'm not loved the way I should be

Now I've lived with heartaches

And I've roomed with fear

I've dealt with despair

And I've wrestled with tears

The ride out of Westerham is always a bit daunting, but the weather was good so it really didn't matter. Well, it did matter as the ride to Botley is all up hill, but we stopped when I spied a corn field – as if that would change anything – and took the photographs accompanying this post.

The cornfield, Sunday 9th September 2019...

Andy and I parted company at The Ridge, vowing to be back in the saddle next weekend. I took the off-road path along the 269 and reached home at around 1015hrs.

All-in-all, a great weekend and perfect weather too.

Strange dreams...

People say you dream just before you wake up, but it always seems as if the dream has been going on throughout the night. I would say we'll never know, but we do because the boffins in white coats have been conducting tests.

Anyway, last night (or first thing this morning before I woke up) I had a strange dream and as with all strange dreams (well, not all of them) I remember it. Or bits of it. I'm sure there was more, but all I can remember are two elements of it. First was a hotel room bed, white sheets. In fact it was, I think, two hotel room beds pushed together: a double and a single. For some reason there were room keys relating not to the room, but the beds – or rather the spaces the beds made up – were numbered, but not visibly, there weren't any numbers on the beds. I had a key for the single bed – or perhaps it wasn't a single bed, it might have been one big bed that could accommodate three people. I had key 102. Then, the other two bed spaces required keys 111 and 112. That was one element of the dream. I vaguely recall a very brief outdoor scene, possibly outside the hotel, the grounds. An overcast day, very dark, but daylight. Lawns and damp, mossy concrete.

The second part of the dream was even stranger. Again, a bed, this time a double, and, as with the beds pushed together, white sheets. But next to the bed, right next to bed's left hand side (if you were standing at the foot of the bed) there were two white Formica cubicles, the sort of thing you might find in an office bathroom. The cubicles were worryingly narrow, one more so than the other. Potential occupants would need to enter sideways and if you were really fat you'd stand no chance. Inside the narrowest cubicle furthest away from the bed was a woman with a baby, this much I knew, but she wasn't happy and I was concerned about her. At times, the silence from the cubicle worried me.

To the cottage!

I went to bed late on Friday night. God knows why. I was just sitting there, nodding off, watching the television. I should have hit the sack earlier, but sometimes I don't, I drag things out and soon the clock announces midnight and I feel I ought to crawl upstairs to bed having checked all the doors are locked and, if necessary, putting the dishwasher on (that way I know I'll have an easy time of it in the morning and I won't have to wash anything up). There's nothing worse than coming downstairs to dirty plates and pots and pans.

Outside the cottage, Sunday 2nd September 2019. Pic by Andy Smith

A late night means a late start and I woke up at 0730hrs thinking about calling Bon and meeting at Woodmansterne Green, but I was still tired and the very thought of riding the bike made me shudder. I kept imagining bits of the route and thinking how awful it would be struggling all the way to Woodmansterne and then having to come back.

As always, of course, my decision not to go turns to one of regret as the sun starts to shine and I slowly emerge from my sleepiness, but invariably it's too late to go, the moment has been lost and I have to resign myself to simply not cycling, while ensuring in my own head that I do go the following day – Sunday.

Andy had a late night on Saturday and sent through a text saying meet at 0800hrs, half an hour later than usual. I agree, but on the proviso that it's a short one. I suggest the 'cottage', a direct ride there and back, and Andy agrees. The following morning we met at the green and headed off along the Limpsfield Road towards the 269, although, technically speaking, the Limpsfield Road is the 269.

Room with a view: looking out from 'the cottage'...

It's a fairly short ride to the cottage: we ride halfway along the 269 and then go off-road along a gravel track flanked on either side by fields. We turn left and have a short but exhilarating ride downhill and then left towards the wooden shack we call the cottage. Once there we unload our rucksacks. Andy brings out the BelVita biscuits and I plonk a heavy Stanley flask, milk and teabags on the wooden table.

Stunning woodland views from 'the cottage'...

We sat there for around half an hour, probably a bit longer, but around 0900hrs we're ready to leave and the initial bit of the return ride is pretty exhausting. It's uphill on gravel and requires the lowest possible gears, although it's advisable not to stand up on the pedals (as I did) and risk rear wheel spin. Neither of us dismounted, which was good, and soon we found ourselves back on the 269 and ready for the ride to Warlingham Green. We got back there just before 0930hrs, said goodbye until next week and went our separate ways. I got home around 0945hrs and later headed out to towards Petworth in West Sussex, but not on the bike.

Next week we really must ride on both days. Last week (the bank holiday weekend) I managed two rides (to Woodmansterne and then the very long way to Tatsfield Village). Andy didn't ride on the Saturday, but rode with me on Sunday and probably went out alone on the Monday. This week we both had just one ride, so next week we're thinking Westerham for Saturday and haven't thought any further on where we might go on Sunday.

Andy's Kona at the cottage, Sunday 2nd September 2019. Pic by Andy Smith

The great thing about our recent exploration of off-road tracks is this: they've yielded new rides. The cottage, for example, is a new ride, it can be short (like Sunday) or longer if we go via Washpond Road and the stile without purpose. It's also a great place to shelter from the rain. Sunday's ride was excellent and, all in, took just 1 hour and 45 minutes to complete. The other week we found an excellent field, a little further than the Tatsfield bus stop – again, a new route if there's been no rain as there's nowhere to sit other than on the ground.

Weatherwise, things have been good. Sunday was a beautiful day and so was Saturday and now, as I write this on Monday evening, the sun is shining outside

Woodmansterne and the very long way to Tatsfield Village – and a huge hill!

It's definitely colder. When I stepped outside on Saturday morning at some time past 0730hrs there was a distinct nip in the air. I felt compelled to wear a hoodie. Once on the bike, en route to Woodmansterne Green, the cool air went through my clothing and, yes, I was cold. Summer, I figured, was on the way out and it looked as if the Bank Holiday weekend would be 'changeable' at best. Those carefree days of extreme heat and scorched lawns were gone, until next year, perhaps, but who knows?

Foxley Lane in Purley is all dug up. I think it has something to do with the water supply. How do I know this? I saw a workman in orange overalls with the word 'water' written on his back. Alright, he might have been a dyslexic Water Mitty, but I doubt it. Once clear of the road works, which spanned the entire road, I reached the roundabout, crossed it and headed towards the lavender fields at the southern most tip of Carshalton and when I got there I turned left and rode towards the green.

Bon turned up after about five minutes later and we both drank tea and chatted about this and that. I told him that I'd be going to Felpham later and we roamed around the green for a while before Bon borrowed my pump to inflate his rear tyre and we eventually went our separate ways.

I did go to Felpham and visited every holiday home my dad had rented going back to when I was about six. It was a walk of over five miles, on the beach, and there were four houses to visit. All but one – the Heron – was on the beach: Georgia, Merryweather and Seafront. The Heron was still called The Heron, which was good to see.

The weather was good on Saturday, but it started to rain a little bit around 5pm. It might have rained overnight, but if it did, it had stopped way before I woke up on Sunday morning. I was going to abort the ride as I was feeling tired, having done all that walking and driving the day before and not getting home until gone 2200hrs. But I didn't abort. I texted Andy that I'd be running late and reached the green just before 0800hrs.

Sunday 27 August 2018, Tatsfield village

Andy was thinking about breakfast at Flowers Farm, but as time had moved on, the notion of riding the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop raised its ugly head. I didn't fancy Beddlestead Lane; it's long and seemingly never-ending, but we both decided to do it and off we went, saving any chat until we reached the quiet lanes that lead towards Hesiers Hill.

Andy spoke of a jobsworth 'Parky' who wouldn't let him take photographs in a Hampstead park and as we approached an off-road track on the left hand side of Beddlestead Lane – a track that would morph into Norheads Lane – I said 'let's take it and head for Tatsfield Village'. We'd come the other way before (and found ourselves on Beddlestead Lane). It was a while back, but I remembered an extreme hill and it was definitely Norheads Lane. The difference, of course, was that this time we were travelling in the opposite direction.

Norheads Lane took us into Biggin Hill, a place full of souped up Fiestas with lowered suspension and tinted windows parked in steep driveways. I quite liked it. We rode around until we saw a sign for Tatsfield and eventually followed Lusted Hall Lane, a long and very steep hill, which took us – the very slow way – into Tatsfield Village where we headed for the bus stop opposite the Old Ship pub and broke out the tea and biscuits. I had a banana and for good reason. Yesterday evening in a pub in Petworth (The Angel Inn) I ordered a chocolate brulée. It was huge – too huge, almost inedible huge – so I ate half of it and still felt like I'd done myself big internal damage. While the chocolate was very tasty, it was the consistency of putty and as a result, I left the pub considerably heavier. So before I left home for the ride I packed a banana on the basis that it would do me good, unlike the biscuits.

It was soon time to leave. We headed out of Tatsfield village and towards the famous bus stop at the end of Approach Road followed by a right turn on to Clarks Lane towards Botley Hill. Andy and I parted at The Ridge and I rode along the 269 on the off-road track, front suspension adjusted for the uneven pathway.

The plan was to ride on Bank Holiday Monday and I regretted the 'abort' text as soon as I'd sent it, but sometimes there's pressure to stay behind, although not riding always makes me short-tempered and today I found myself teetering on a bad mood most of the time. We'd planned breakfast in Westerham at the Tudor Rose and we'd been looking forward to it, but no, it was not to be. Andy's not riding next Saturday so I'll probably meet Bon and ride to Woodmansterne Green. Perhaps breakfast in Westerham or Godstone next Sunday.

Off-road exploration continues...

When I woke up I followed my usual routine. I know routines change, but not this one. Or rather most of the time everything remains the same. At 0600hrs the sound of birdsong. Not real birdsong, but the iPhone's bedtime app waking me up. For a short while I lie there listening to it, but then I get up and switch it off, pull on a pair of trousers of some sort and a tee-shirt and peer out of the window to check the weather. Then I head downstairs, open the kitchen door and fill the kettle with water. After switching it on I seek out the small saucepan. If I can't see it I know it's either in the sink, soaking, probably because there was rice in it the night before, or – and this is my favoured situation – it's in the dishwasher, nice and clean and ready to use. Rarely, I open the dishwasher and find it isn't done and I feel a little deflated, sometimes so much so that I simply don't bother with the ritual of making the porridge, but if it's clean I pull it out, along with a clean bowl, place the saucepan on the hob, measure out three tablespoons of porridge – normally Flahaven's multi-seeded but over the last two days sachets of Golden Syrup-flavoured oats, not ideal, but better than nothing. Today I'll go to the store to buy some more multi-seed. I pour a cup of milk with water, normally half-and-half, into the pan, switch it on and then put a tea bag into my favourite Cath Kidson mug. When the water's boiled I leave it for a minute or two and then pour it into the cup, almost to the top, and then add a drop of milk. Once this is done I take fruit from the fridge: blueberries, strawberries (quartered), grapes, raspberries and place them into a colander for washing. I put the washed fruit in the bowl followed by sliced banana and turn the porridge down to simmer and when its ready pour it over the fruit. Normally I'll add a sprinkling of sugar, but we're out of stock so a dribble of honey or, as has been the case these last two days, nothing because the porridge is flavoured. I prefer multi-seed and will buy more today.

Andy and I at our new found shelter or 'cottage'. Can't wait for snow!!!

Yesterday was cloudy, but not cold, and there was no sign of any rain. Wearing jeans and my Montreal tee-shirt I headed for the green, carrying a rucksack which contained, among other things, a heavy flask full of hot water, four teabags and some milk. We were both running late and had agreed to meet at 0745hrs instead of 15 minutes earlier and this time we both knew where we were headed: to the off-road path off the 269 to engage in some more exploration. When we reached the turn-off, Andy took a photograph of the path, which disappeared into infinity while I took a leak; that huge mug of tea goes right through me sometimes and this was one of those occasions. "Go on without me," said Andy as he busied himself with taking the shot and putting the camera, which he complained was very slow, back into a plastic bag and then into his rucksack. I pedalled off and down the hill, but waited further along the track. We pushed on, but found the path disappointing. It led us down nettle-infested narrow paths and there was plenty of grouse running around as we'd stumbled across some kind of breeding facility, complete with electric fence, chicken wire fences and feeding devices. Eventually we realised we'd come round in circles and decided to take a different path. Soon we found ourselves on the track we'd found last week and were about to head back to the 269 when Andy spotted a right turn that wound its way downhill to a small wooden shelter with a table and bench seats, an ideal spot for tea, we thought, and got on with the task of making it. The shelter was a great find. Andy's taken to calling it our 'cottage' and it does have the feel of a house, being made of wood. There's also an aluminium ladder resting in the rafters.

We chatted about all sorts, even Brexit was mentioned, before we packed away our stuff and headed back up the hill to the track that would take us to the 269. Andy hit the road and I took the off-road track and eventually we parted at the Green, vowing to be back at the usual time on Sunday.

When Sunday rolled around both of us were a little tired, or certainly feeling more sluggish than usual, so we decided to ride the fast way to the churchyard. As usual it was deserted. We broke out the tea and biscuits, although today I had a banana instead of Belvitas, and we sat there discussing the education system as well as other stuff, all in a fairly light-hearted manner.

Andy said goodbye at the Ridge and I continued down the 269, taking the off-road path all the way to Warlingham where I rejoined the road. I reached home around 0945hrs.

To the Tatsfield Churchyard...and on Sunday a new off-road route!

I was going to abort Saturday's ride on the basis that I'd just returned from Vienna and needed to lie in, but I woke at 0600hrs and didn't reinstate the ride immediately, but eventually I sent a text to Andy suggesting we met at the green at 0800hrs. He agreed. We decided to head the slow way to the Tatsfield Churchyard and when we got there we chatted about my non-cycling blogposts. Andy says they're very angry and I found myself agreeing. He's right. I get a little tetchy, especially about Brexit, I'm no fan of the Conservative Party and I abhor Boris Johnson with his 'master race' haircut and his dishonest attitude towards politics. Boris thinks only of number one, himself, he wants to be PM and he doesn't give a damn about the country. Oops! There I go again, being angry, so I'll shut up. Andy's right. When I'm out of the country I tend to see it for what it is and it annoys me. Andy also dislikes my bastardisation of the word 'country'. I simply take out the 'o' in protest to the way the place is developing and the fact that Brexit won't improve anything, least of all immigration, one of the key issues that has led to our forthcoming isolation from our neighbours, the Europeans. And let's face it, Brexiteers weren't worried about EU immigration, which is falling and might mean that UK businesses have to increase wages (oh dear!); no, they were concerned about non-EU immigration, which, weirdly, the UK government has always been able to do something about, but has chosen not to do anything. The weird thing is this: I visit these places where trains are clean and run on time, where the roads aren't clogged up with traffic and where there seems to be less violence on the street and I think: why isn't England like this? And then I think of the Conservative Party, austerity, police cuts, rising crime, arseholes like Boris Johnson and it just makes me angry.

Andy and yours truly, in the middle of a field, Sunday12 August 2018

So, we found ourselves at the churchyard and the weather was perfect. Slightly cooler than it has been, but it's perfect weather and what better place than the churchyard to enjoy it? It had rained overnight so our newly found field was out of bounds. On the trudge up to the bench I noticed plenty of dew so anywhere without a bench was out of the question. The weather is now more in line with what it should be in August, but that said, the heatwave is likely to return, according to one of the tabloids.

Not far from the road, which turned out to be the 269...

On Sunday I fully expected it to be raining, but it wasn't. The skies were a bluey grey and it was cooler than yesterday, but it was still fine enough to risk it without taking waterproof clothing. Andy, on the other hand, had brought a hooded top and when he reached the green he took it off because it was too hot.

We considered the slow way to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, but I didn't fancy Beddlestead Lane – although I made short work of it yesterday –  so we thought we'd go the stile, which is at the end of an off-road, downhill track off the Washpond Road. Washpond Road is a pleasant country lane with a hill at the far end and fields on either side. It leads on to Beech Road (I think) and the off-road track is on the right hand side as you head towards the top of Hesiers Hill. The track – or 'trail' as I kept calling off-road tracks today (Sunday) – was overgrown with nettles (as Andy discovered to his cost, he was wearing shorts). We hadn't been this way for a long time – November 2013 to be precise – and for a minute I thought we'd taken another off-road track. But I was mistaken, it was the right one, just very overgrown.

The stile that lacks purpose – we headed left of it to eventually find the 269

We threw our bikes over the stile. Well, we didn't throw them, we placed them over the stile and then climbed over ourselves and made our way to 'the stile' – basically a stile that lacks meaning or purpose, it's basically a stile on it's on that doesn't need to be stepped upon to reach the other side. The stile faces a hill and Andy and I felt we had to see if we could reach the top on our bikes. I tried it first and succeeded and Andy followed. We felt justly proud of ourselves having discussed which gear we should select prior to mounting the bikes.

After drinking tea and eating biscuits, we didn't follow the original path back up to the Washpond Road as we knew it would mean walking all the way to the top and Andy couldn't face the nettles. I didn't blame him. Instead we followed the track behind the stile and continued off-road for some time until we reached the road, which turned out to be the 269. We vowed to return next weekend and check out another path that would take us on the other side of the hill opposite the stile, the hill we both proudly climbed.

We rode down the 269, Andy on the road and me following the off-road track (sometimes I don't feel safe on the 269). We parted company at Warlingham Green and headed our own separate ways.

Returning home – where standards are in free fall...

Friday 10th August: Another fine day on the weather front. I woke up in Vienna on a beautiful morning and after checking the computer, I moseyed on down for breakfast – nothing fancy, just muesli, vanilla yoghurt and a mint tea. At Motel One, people were having breakfast outside, but I stayed in and afterwards returned to my room to answer emails and then pack up and check out. I wish I'd packed the night before, showered early and got out in the air, but I slobbed around and eventually checked out with about an hour to spare before I needed to head for the airport.

View from Room 103, Motel One, Vienna

I took a walk around streets I remembered from my previous visits and then took a last look at the fairground, which has a completely different vibe during the day; the rides aren't as colourful, there's less people, but the rides keep going and people continue enjoying themselves. Being there was a bit like taking one last look at the sea as a kid before dad drove us home from a fortnight in Felpham or Middleton-on-Sea and we had a long, hot summer ahead of us playing in the back garden. In the end, I resigned myself to the fact that I needed to get on the move and, sadly, experience the hassles of travelling again.

I went from Messe Prater on line U2 to Praterstern and from there changed to line U1 and rode to the hauptbahnhof where I picked up a train to Vienna airport. On the platform, waiting for the 1412hrs train, I met an employee of OBB, the railway company. He was on his way to catch a flight to Zurich from where he would pick up a train and ride back to Vienna. He was a nice bloke, wearing the company uniform, which was smart, and he told me he'd been working for OBB for eight years. Clearly he enjoyed his job. He spoke about long train journeys to Bucharest and Warsaw and all over Europe and I'll admit that I did envy him. He seemed extremely happy and clearly loved talking about his job as a train manager, in charge of dealing with unruly people, answering passengers' questions, checking tickets and generally being the guy to go to if you needed something. On the way to the airport he pointed out a huge oil refinery on the outskirts of Vienna. Here, he said, the country receives its oil from Russia. He said that Vienna was home to the largest cemetery in Europe and pointed it out. In between the trees I spotted the odd headstone.

Inside Room 103. Eat your heart out, Emin!

When the 1412hrs airport train arrived we parted company, but never shook hands as we simply got carried away in the crowd; he was heading for Terminal 3 while I needed Terminal 1. Here at Vienna, security is at the gate, which in a way is good as that whole tedious process is broken up somewhat. There's passport control and then nothing until just before you fly. I headed towards gate D22 where I discovered my flight was delayed, it turned out considerably delayed. Initially, though, just 20 minutes, so I sat in the restaurant close to the gate and ordered a chicken pannini and a mint tea. Once I'd boarded the plane we had to sit there for an hour waiting for 'our slot' to land at Heathrow. But eventually we took off and there was a lot of cloud. The seat next to me on the flight was vacant so I could spread out a little bit, which was good. I read a bit of my book, Don't Skip Out on Me by Willy Vlautin, but spent most of the time looking out the window at the clouds below. Eventually the high cloud cleared and the picture outside the window was the same as always: cotton wool cloud below and blue skies above. It was a pleasant flight as I was in seat 12a, an exit row, so I had more leg room too.

My phone ran out of power, which was annoying. On arrival at Heathrow T3 I found a Caffe Nero, ordered a teacake and a mint tea and sat there waiting for the phone to charge, but it didn't – the plugs weren't working. I was, after all, back in the UK where standards have dropped severely and were as nothing when compared to those in Austria. From a place where trains run on time and are spotless clean to a place were train carriages have a liberal sprinkling of crumbs and fast food wrappers on the floors and seats. From a place where people are well-dressed and smart to a place where people shuffle along in jeans and trainers and wear bleak colours; from a place where train travel is relatively cheap to a place where it costs £270 to travel to and from London to Liverpool – thanks to Virgin's old beardy. I could go on but I won't. Well, alright, I will go on. How about this: I've been wearing white shirts all week, wandering around Austrian cities and they've remained spotless clean. I was in London for no more than 30 minutes and a I found a grey stripe of dirt running from one end of my left sleeve to the other. Why? Because I was back in the UK.

Did you know that the healthiest city in the world is Amsterdam followed by Oslo? Me neither, but guess what, London doesn't make the top 25. Click here for more. Interesting to note how most of the cities in the top 25 are in Europe. One, Mangalore, is in Southern India, it came 24th. There are others outside of Europe, but not many. Wellington in New Zealand and Perth in Western Australia both made the list and were high up.

In the end, having finished my teacake and drank my mint tea I headed home. The weather was cooler than Austria's 35C, but that was the only plus point.