In Rome (day two) – mooching around...

I met the international man of mystery in the hotel's opulent reception area and out we went on to the rainy streets of Rome. Rain characterised the trip, but the weather was changeable. One minute it was bright and the skies were blue, and the next it was driving rain.

It's not Nelson's column, alright?

The International Man of Mystery commented, as we ambled along a narrow Roman street, that we could be anywhere in Europe, and he was right. All European cities look the same and Rome was no exception. In fact, virtually everywhere looks the same unless you find yourself in, say, Morocco, the Middle East or the Far East. Restaurants with seats under awnings, tourist attractions beseiged by Chinese tourists and people touting their own excursions (10 euros for a guided tour around the Pantheon). We stood outside the Pantheon looking up at the pillars and I think we were both thinking the same thing: 10 Euros to look around something that was going to resemble the tourist attractions of countless other European cities, we would be ambling about with Chinese people holding out selfie sticks or following somebody holding up an unopened umbrella. It turned out to be free entry and, it seems, we missed a treat. But did we? I know how I would have felt. I would looked up and thought, yes, yes, yes, all very nice, let's move on. And move on we did. The Trevi Fountain was the same, in fact we saw it before we arrived at the Pantheon. The Trevi Fountain was overrun with Chinese tourists with selfie sticks. I wasn't impressed, put it that way, and started to wonder why everybody makes such a fuss of it. To be honest, it would look good in my back garden. We moved on, after a cappuccino, and headed for the aforementioned Pantheon – I almost wrote 'Parthenon'. Next up was what we thought were the Spanish Steps. They were definitely steps, but not the Spanish ones. It was raining as we headed, unimpressed, towards the Colosseum. Again, the same hordes of tourists, tour guides and what have you. We thought we'd have an early lunch (it was around 1130hrs) and found a smallish restaurant nearby, with a view of the Colosseum. Tortelloni and ragu sauce and a Pellegrino. The rain stopped and we headed back towards the hotel. 

Yours truly at the Trevi Fountain...

I've never been a 'tourist'. It doesn't matter what the attraction is, I'm not impressed. The Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, give me a pastry and a cup of tea and I'm happy. It's the same wherever I go. The Palace of Versailles, no, I'm not interested. The leaning tower of Pisa – leave it out! Stonehenge, it's fucking boring! I could go on, but I won't. You get the gist of what I'm saying. I'm a philistine. I don't mind natural tourist attractions, like the Grand Canyon, Niagra Falls and such like, but not for long. Once I've seen it, I'm happy. Time for a cake and some tea, or a decent meal. I like to mooch around, that's my specialty, I don't want to stand in front of whatever it might be and put on my 'impressed and awestruck' face, I don't want to lie to people about the way I'm feeling towards a pile of old rubble – I'm not bowled over, I'm not impressed, I don't care, I'm not awestuck (I'm thinking: 'now there was a nice little café across the street, can't wait to get there!'). I live to mooch around, I want to bury my face in a book in the mellowed-out atmosphere of a coffee shop, preferably independent, and, yes, sit there looking out at the Colosseum, perhaps, or the Palace of Versailles, but I don't want a history lesson, I don't want to hear about how King Henry the Vlll used to do this and that and lived in a small room at the top of wherever it might be. Personally, I like the sea. I want a lonely beach, crashing waves, the sea air, sand and seaweed and, of course, a café, like the Lobster Pot in Felpham. I want the woods and the fields. I don't mind a riverboat trip or a stroll around the grounds of a National Trust property (as long as there's a visit to the teashop built in). But don't expect me to tour 'the house'. I don't want to see some 17th century bedroom or living room, with a harpsichord in the corner, or a load of ivory-handled brushes on an ancient dressing table. So what? Where's the café?

'Impressed and awestruck' enough for you?

Eventually we wound our way back to the hotel to await a minibus to the airport. All airports are the same too. I bought an elaborate sandwich, a bottle of mineral water and a small square of cake and awaited my flight. It was dark by the time we took off and headed towards Gatwick, but the skies were clear all the way over and soon, after a long two hours, we began our descent. Getting through passport control was easy, there was no need for baggage reclaim and soon I was on a train heading for East Croydon. Rome is better than Croydon, so are most places. There are no tourist attractions in Croydon, nothing worth putting on the awestruck face for.

Turning my back on the Colisseum...

The best part of the day – lunch!

A Roman statue...

We thought these were the Spanish Steps...

In Rome...

I've never been to Rome before and here I am, sitting at a very small desk in the corner of room 510 in the Savoy Hotel, a polished establishment in the centre of the city. I didn't sleep well. I awoke around 0300hrs and then again at 0500hrs and then I slept on until being awoken by the iphone at 0730hrs. Fortunately, because I don't drink, there was no hangover and as I wasn't planning to shave I simply cleaned my teeth, threw a few handfuls of cold water over my face and headed for the breakfast room, which was in the basement.

View from room 510, Savoy Hotel, Rome...

The Savoy is a very grand hotel with marble walls and floors and rooms with sturdy wooden doors. I have a large double bed, a full minibar – clearly, the hotel trusts its guests – and all the usual stuff, such as tea and coffee making facilities, a television, storage space, a safe and a reasonable bathroom, complete with bidet and a shower that looks good, but doesn't actually work that well. Put it this way, it was no way as refreshing as the shower in my room at the Act Hotel in Tokyo, which was three months ago. Time flies.

Yesterday in Rome we had driving rain. In the UK it was clear skies and sunshine, but as the plane got closer and closer to Rome a bed of cloud appeared below us and made our descent a little bumpy. It was all a bit rushed and after dinner, the raining hammering down, I headed back to the hotel and hit the sack. Now, having enjoyed breakfast (yoghurt, cornflakes, orange segments, fruit tea, a couple of small pastries and, of course, some cooked vegetables with rice) I'm back in the room, considering another shower before heading out for a walk around the city.

Room 510, Savoy Hotel, Rome

Because it's all been so rushed (this particular trip, an annual event, always is) there's little to say about Rome. My plan is to head out and see what's happening. I'll try and see something I'm supposed to, but normally I just mooch about until I find a coffee shop. In fact, I've got to pack and check out by 1000hrs so I'd better get a move-on.

We fly back later today and have to be ready to catch a bus to the airport around 1530hrs so there's not much time. As I've said, these trips are always rushed, which is a shame on one level, but on another I just want to be home.

The flight time is roughly two hours. Fortunately, we return to Gatwick airport, which is only a short journey from where I live, so I'm hoping to be home around 2000hrs if not earlier.

Might abort Saturday's ride and take it easy, but not sure yet.

Breaking new ground (again!)

Having slept for eight hours I was up with the lark and sitting downstairs in front of the computer at just gone 0600hrs writing the post that precedes this one. I went on a bit about 'stuff' and then I made the tea, jumped on a very clean bike, following yesterday's jet clean, and rode to the green where I met Andy.

Close to where we stopped for tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Where to go? Yesterday, I had suggested riding the lanes towards Beech Farm Road, but taking a track on the left leading down to an area known as Cony Crook. It's the track that takes us down to the so-called 'stile with no purpose'. The idea was to turn right at the stile and follow the continuing off-road track towards the Cottage, stop there for tea and then continue off-road towards the 269 before heading home in the usual fashion. This we did, but when we reached the stile with no purpose we noticed that a gate giving us access to the next field was shut and there was a sign stating 'no footpath'. We'd never seen the sign before, but rather than throw our bikes over the gate and continue on our journey (which we probably could have done, there was nobody about) we turned round and followed the track back towards the stile and onwards, bearing right and travelling across a couple of large fields until we found more gates blocking our way. There was nothing left to do other than stop, have tea and then head back the way we came. Not a problem.

I found myself indulging my ridiculous sleeping rough fantasy as where we had stopped looked like the perfect place to set up camp for the night. If I was homeless, I'd definitely get myself a tent and a sleeping bag and head for the woods rather than sleep on the street and this morning I found myself surveying the woods behind where we had stopped: it was, in short, perfect. I couldn't think of anything better than waking up and hearing the birds chirping and very little else. Fortunately, of course, I'm not homeless, so it's not something that is immediately (if at all) on my agenda. Mind you, I wouldn't mind trying it for one night.

Our bikes, Sunday 13th January 2019 – pic by Andy Smith.

It was a very pleasant ride to a very pleasant place. There's nothing better than peace and quiet and nothing but the sound of birdsong. Everything was still, there wasn't a soul about, the fields were empty as far as we could see and no Lycra monkeys either (their bikes are incapable of traversing such terrain). So we leisurely drank our tea and took in our surroundings before heading back along the track that had brought us here. The wind had been behind us on the outward journey, but now it was hitting us face-on as we rode back towards Cony Crook. Looking at the map, there's a lot of paths and tracks close to where we were and one that goes through Lumberdine Wood (worth exploring). It comes out on the 269, but I think it's the same track that takes us from the 269 to the cottage, but either way Lumberdine Wood looks interesting.

What we could see as we drank our tea. Pic by Andy Smith.

Andy rode back to the green and we stopped at the garage to jet clean the bikes. Mine needed it, but not as badly as Andy's Blast. We rested the bikes against a wall and blasted them with water, getting off any excess mud, of which there was plenty. Then we said goodbye and rode our separate ways back to our respective houses. 

I got back in time for the Andrew Marr Show. It's going to be an interesting week in politics. May's Brexit deal will probably be rejected by Parliament (here's hoping!) and then there's the possibility of a general election. Either that or a second referendum.

For fear of missing out...

Right now, at this very moment, I'm listening to John Martyn. Arguably, Martyn is the most laid back you'll get. I'm listening to the album Bless the Weather – in fact, as we speak, the title track is playing. It's great if you want some peace or if you want something murmuring in the background, helping you get along. I first got into John Martyn during my troubled teenage years, although I don't ever recall buying an album by this great musician, who is sadly not with us any more. It was always put on the turntable round at somebody's house and we'd all simply chill out – in fact we'd get so chilled out we'd fall asleep, which was nice. For a long while I didn't listen to John Martyn. I don't know why, but it's difficult as I don't possess any material of his – but since it's been possible to download music from operators like Spotify, my life has changed and now the man is back in my life, albeit at the crack of dawn. You can bet, certainly over the next few days at any rate, that I'll be listening to John Martyn at around this time in the morning. And if you're interested, one of his best albums was entitled Solid Air, an album title I can understand.

A clean bike at last! It was getting to look a bit like Andy's Kona!

So here I am, it's 0632hrs now, dark outside and I've enjoyed eight hours of sleep, which is rare for me. I normally hit the sack around 2300hrs and sleep badly, waking around 0430hrs and then having trouble getting back to sleep. Last night, not so much fed up with the quality of British television, but simply feeling too tired to stay up and watch Manchester by the Sea, which I really wanted to watch, I hit the sack at 2200hrs and after listening to the news on Radio Four, none of which I can remember, I switched off just as Joan Bakewell was about to embark upon a programme about death – not the sort of thing I wanted to listen to last thing at night. Why does Radio Four do that? I've often put the radio on at night, with a view to distracting myself from the fact that I can't sleep, and there's something miserable on, like programmes about disease or death; and it's not just in the dead of night, often it's at 2100hrs. Depressing.

I'm going to make a point of hitting the sack at 2200hrs from now on because there is nothing worth watching on television these days. Why is James McAvoy ALWAYS on Graham Norton's show? That man must be making so many movies. Norton is always on after the news on a Friday night and invariably I sit there and watch it, because Norton is probably the best thing on television when it comes to 'entertainment'. I love the big red chair, but invariably don't like the musical bit, it's invariably the lame part of the show. I mean, Cheryl Cole was on the other day. That said, Cole is one of those people who is so bad she's good. She mimes, she's not a rock and roller, there's a lot wrong, most of all the huge tattoo on her arse. I don't know about you, but that would definitely put me off. Just knowing that tattoo exists would annoy me, but it's not something she's going to get rid of easily, meaning it's there for life. Imagine lying in bed next to her knowing that her tattooed derriere is festering under the bedclothes, just inches away. I hate tattoos and would never have one done. It's a bit like scribbling in Biro on your exercise book: you start with one squiggle and soon the cover is peppered with drawings of some sort – ruined in other words – and I guess Cheryl Cole has ruined her arse. If ever I interviewed her it's the first question I'd ask: "How do you feel about ruining your arse?" Or, "Don't you think you've ruined your arse?" She's looking in need of a good meal too, somebody give her an ice cream, anything, a Belgian bun (like the one I ate in Morrison's in Reigate yesterday afternoon). What she really needs, of course, is a roast dinner: chicken, roasties, greens, gravy, apple pie and custard, that's what I'd offer her if I saw her in the street.

So I went to bed early and managed to get eight hours' kip. Fantastic. Cycling takes it out of me, I've noticed. Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop. We were going to ride to Westerham and visit the Tudor Rose for breakfast, but I had stuff to do and couldn't really afford to be back late. I stormed up Beddlestead Lane and felt great on my return, using the off-road path on the 269, talking to myself here and there, as you do when you find yourself alone in a wide open space, nobody around for miles, as it seemed to me yesterday morning. When I reached Warlingham, having said goodbye to Andy at The Ridge, I stopped off at the gas station to jet clean my bike. The bike is clean. Very clean. And I don't want to get it dirty on today's ride so it'll probably be the long way to the bus stop again.

One reason I stay up late is the fear of missing out. The truth of the matter, however, is that I won't miss anything. In the same way that nothing is that funny, nothing is that good either, so I'm going to try and set myself a new rule: hit the sack at 2200hrs. I mean, Fiona Bruce presenting Question Time, who's idea was that? It's the BBC and it's awful political correctness. Have you noticed how Doctor Who is doing its bit for diversity? There's a white, black and Asian assistant for the female Doctor Who. PC is everywhere at the BBC. Didn't they get rid of that long haired bloke on Countryfile to make the programme more diverse? I think they did. They couldn't get rid of Craven because that would have been ageist. Is that how you spell 'ageist'?

Anyway, I'd better go and make a flask of tea for the ride. See you later...

Sunday 6th January – to the bus stop, the slow way...

No riding on Saturday, I needed the rest and Andy was out of action, so instead, after a late start, I headed for the south coast for a walk and, of course, a visit to the Lobster Pot café on the front at Felpham, a great caff.

Sunday I was up at 0600hrs, although I was strongly tempted to send an abort text to Andy. We rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – of course we did! – and we went the slow way. It's less of an ordeal these days for some reason.

Warlingham Green on a wintry morning over the festive break...

At the bus stop we engaged in our usual activities of chatting and watching passing Lycra monkeys and joggers emerging at the top of White Lane. Around 0900hrs we headed for home. Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and I used the off-road path all the way along the 269.

Weatherwise it was cold. Not biting cold, but just cold. I'll need a balaclava one of these days.

I reached home around 0945hrs, locked up the bike, closed and locked the garage door and got on with my day.

It's now Monday morning, 0711hrs and I'm listening to That's Entertainment by the Jam. I had a broken night, or rather I woke up early, just before 0500hrs. I tried to get back to sleep but couldn't so when 0600hrs rolled past I got up. And now Road to Nowhere by Talking Heads is playing, kind of summing up the United Kingdom at the moment: knife crime is rife (Lee Pomery was murdered last week on a train en route to London) and let's not forget Brexit.

Better go and make my sandwiches or I'll be late for work. Here's to next week's riding.

New Year's Day 2019 – to mum's!

A later start than normal and Andy wasn't going so it was up to me to motivate myself. I'd had a late night by my standards, staying up and watching Hootenanny, a programme I despise because it's so corny and stuck in the 1980s. The music's not stuck in the 80s, just the people on the programme, they all seem to be people from that era; it's normally the likes of Jennifer Saunders and husband Ade Edmondson, but last night it was comedian and writer Alexei Sayle. Nice people, I'm sure, but, well, I don't really know, there's something about Hootenanny that I don't like. I switched over a couple of times to watch Madness on BBC 1 –  Suggs never seems to age. The BBC has replaced the word 'Christmas' with 'Oneness' and that annoys me.

I must have hit the sack around midnight thirty, possibly a little later, but I didn't sleep well and there were some pretty loud fireworks outside too, but I got there and suddenly it was almost 0800hrs and Radio 4 was blaring out, if that's what Radio 4 does. I suppose it doesn't really 'blare out', that's more for Radio 1 or Capital, but the clock radio is set to come on around 0700hrs, so I must have been sparko for a good 45 minutes after the radio had activated itself.

Purley playing fields on New Year's Day

I jumped out of bed, feeling fine as I hadn't been drinking. In fact, as avid readers of this blog will know, I haven't had a drink for 14 months. In fact, later today I found myself on LBC talking about this; I'd pulled up the car in a side street and dialled the number and then found myself broadcasting to the nation. What were the benefits of not drinking? Seemed like a reasonable question. "I get a better night's sleep, I don't make a fool of myself and I have more energy," I said, just before the midday news. I think it was midday, it might have been 1pm, I can't remember.

But let's get back to the morning. I had my usual porridge, grapes, blueberries and sliced banana (all in the same bowl) and accompanied by a large mug of tea in my favourite Kath Kidson mug. I was considering not going cycling, but it was later than usual, I felt strangely energised and decided to head for mum's. I rode down West Hill, left on to Essenden, right on to Carlton, left into Jarvis Road, across the Brighton Road and up Hayling Park Road to the roundabout. I crossed straight over and skirted the playing fields until I reached the A23 where traffic lights halted my progress, but not for long. I turned right and then left and emerged on the Stafford Road heading for the top of Wallington High Street. I rode up the hill and spied a Sainsbury's Local, open on New Year's Day. In I went having padlocked the bike outside. I felt as if I was dismounting a horse and tying it up outside the General Store, just like the cowboys do in the movies. I bought two bunches of bananas, two cartons of organic milk and one of those high-fibre nut bars and then headed out of the store having used one of the automated check-outs.

The ride continued. I rode up the hill and turned right into Crichton Road, following the road round to Carshalton Beeches station where I turned right and free-wheeled down the hill towards the Windsor Castle pub where I turned left at the lights. I sped round the corner while the lights were green and then turned right on to Shorts Road, a one-way street and I was riding the wrong way, but there were no cars and it saved cycling up the hill to Alma Road. Soon I was passing St Philomena's school, under the railway bridge, left and then left again – it was at mum's.

Christmas cake awaited me and a cup of tea. This year mum didn't make the cakes, but my niece made one for mum based on mum's recipe. It was good. Very good. And much appreciated. After tea and cake I munched the high-fibre bar and then bid farewell to mum. What followed was the same ride but in reverse, stopping briefly at the Cambridge Garage, now known as 'the BP garage', but only to see if they had a jet cleaner – they didn't, so I rode up the Cambridge Road, turned right on to the Banstead Road, through Carshalton Beeches High Street and then left and up the hill towards the Village Bakery and Crichton Road. I reached home and then went in search of a shop so I could buy bread and soup for lunch. The Co-op on Warlingham Green was open and soon I was enjoying lunch back at home – minestrone soup and bread. I had a shower and went for a drive, but the teashops were closed and we'd already enjoyed the delights of Chartwell just a few days ago.

It's now Tuesday evening and it feels just a like a Sunday night. Work tomorrow, but fortunately a short week, just three days. Can't say I'm looking forward to going back, but only because I've enjoyed slobbing around and now I've got to look sharp, be in the shower at 0730 and on the train by 0818. The slog begins, and it's going to be a busy old year.

It's been a good festive season of cycling. Andy and I have been riding alternate days ever since the weekend before Christmas, although we both took Thursday and Friday of last week off (Andy was working and I needed a lie-in). Check previous posts for further details.

To the Tatsfield Bus Stop – heavy fog meant the slow way there and back...

Another mild morning and we met at the green as usual. We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way. Weatherwise everything was damp and wet and glistening and there was a fog looming, hanging in the trees, so we thought the slow way would be safer. There was a few Lycra monkeys on the road, and even more when we headed back along Beddlestead towards Hesiers Hill. This time, as I approached the climb I changed down and managed the gears properly. I stayed in a low gear for the second hill before things levelled out and we headed for the green where we parted.

There's always something musical that keeps me moving along. The other day it was a Christmas carol, the Sans Carol, but today it was Misty Mountain Hop by Led Zeppelin, I know not why. My in-built Walkman kept playing it over and over. "Walking in the park just the other day..."

We reached the green at 0930hrs and I got home 20 minutes later. A good ride.

To Godstone Green via the Enterdent

Saturday morning, the weather's fine and as usual I'm 'a tad' late, no more than 10 minutes, but I had issues surrounding making the tea, nothing major. We decided to head for Godstone Green via the Enterdent. Yes, I know, it sounds like toothpaste, but it's a road and a very steep hill. It's also much longer than I remember it, and that's possibly because I haven't been this way for some time, let's say around eight years. It's amazing how time has flown by. Amazing and scary too, but yes, I was back on the Enterdent, riding up the hill, and wishing it would end if I'm honest, it seemed endless, but soon we turned right and virtually free-wheeled into Godstone, past the 'artisan baker', which we discovered was really a Coughlan's. We took a seat in front of the small lake on the green and watched as a flock of seagulls landed, frightening off two ducks who seemed to disappear off the face of the planet, clearly they were not impressed by the gulls. There were people around too: a woman walking two small dogs and getting tangled up in the lead, another woman with an Alsatian and a couple of blokes too, not forgetting a couple of runners.

The bikes on Godstone Green,  30 December 2018. Pic: Andy Smith

We headed back the way we came in, but avoided the Enterdent. It's a quite a haul going out of Godstone and heading for Ganger's Hill. It's steep, as we know from past rides, the most recent being on Christmas Eve when we visited Flowers Farm for tea and cake. No such luxury today, just tea and Belvitas, but they did the job, even if I'm trying to stop eating biscuits (and cake). As the hill kicked in, I changed down in to low gear and did my best not to looked pained as I ascended the hill. The bike was being very noisy today. Clickety clack, clickety clack as I rode to Godstone and more of the same on the way back, it was annoying me.

Andy and I parted at the top of Sline's Oak Road, just like on Christmas Eve, and I once again rode down the hill, turning left on to Butlers Dene Road. I jumped back on to Sline's Oak and headed up the steep hill to the Limpsfield Road, losing momentum once, but managing to restart with relative ease and then riding leisurely towards Warlingham Green and then Sanderstead.

I reached home around 1030hrs, quite late considering our usual rides are much shorter, but I blame the hills en route (the Enterdent and then, of course, Ganger's). The bike needs a jet clean and one of these days it'll get one. It's also going to get its chain oiled and I must fix that fucking clickety clacking too.

Boxing Day – fast way to Tatsfield Bus Stop (and the slow way back)...

Drinking tea at the bus stop. Pic: Andy.

Another late start. I leave the house at 0730hrs and head up Church Way. A squirrel scuttles across the road from right to left, runs along the top of a low fence and disappears into the undergrowth. Houses display their festive decorations and soon I find myself riding through the churchyard, past Sanderstead pond and on to the Limpsfield Road. I'm heading for the green where I meet Andy. The weather is fine, no rain, and there's little in the way of traffic so we decide to risk the 269 rather than ride the slow way. "But let's ride the slow way back," I suggest and we agree, even if it does mean Hesiers Hill. At Botley we notice a mist, it's fairly thick so my lights go back on. Soon we reach the bus stop where we chill out, drink tea and I turn down the biscuits for a second day – the problem with Christmas is eating all the wrong food: minced pies, Panettone, Christmas cake, cheeses, crackers, pickled onions (yes, I own a jar of Garner's); it's all going on and besides, I need to stop eating shit. We ride back the slow way, down Beddlestead Lane, and then it's time for Hesiers Hill. Unlike the last time, I change right down and manage to sail along without any issues, getting a few 'well done' comments from passing Lycra monkeys coming down the hill. Andy and I weave our way towards Sainsbury's and then head for the green where we part company. All the way home along the Limpsfield Road I recite the Sans Day Carol, aka the St. Day Carol, but because I haven't sung it for years and years, I get the lyrics wrong. Actually, not badly wrong: "And Mary bore Jesus Christ, our saviour for to be," I sing (fairly quietly), but it's "And Mary she bore Jesus our Saviour for to be." I reach Sanderstead and soon I'm on Church Way again, riding downhill towards Morley, hanging a right on Elmfield, a left into Ellenbridge and a right on to Barnfield. Soon I'm home and soon I find myself on a five-mile walk, which I enjoy. Tomorrow I'm planning an 8-mile walk.

Christmas Eve – to Flowers Farm for tea and cake!

Tea and cake at Flowers Farm, Christmas Eve 2018. Pic by Andy Smith.

I leave the house later than usual. We are meeting at 0800hrs. Dawn is breaking as I ride through suburban streets, heading uphill. It's Christmas Eve, traffic is heavier than usual, I wait longer to cross the Addington Road and then speed through the churchyard, past the pond and on to the Limpsfield Road. Andy is waiting. We decide to head for Godstone and Flowers Farm. It means riding down Slines Oak Road and through Woldingham, something we haven't done for a long time, or perhaps not that long ago. We both recall the occasion not when a deer scampered across the road in front of us. Woldingham is quiet as we pedal along Butlers Dene Road on onwards towards the golf course via 'the off-road bit' I so despise, but today it seems easier than in days gone by and why this should be so I don't know. Andy and I both marvel at the houses we pass. "Who needs such a large house?" says Andy. Nobody, I reply, but it must be a way that rich people use up their cash, an investment. We ride down Gangers Hill, over the M25, over the A22 and on to the A25. It's a short ride to Flowers Farm where people are queuing to buy turkeys and the shop is overflowing with colourful fruit and vegetables. There's a café – and it's a good one. We've been here before. The cake is excellent, there's a roaring fire, a wood burning stove, although it's warming up as we arrive. Cake is ordered: a lemon cake and an apple cake plus a pot of tea and some slices of apple. "I haven't had an apple in ages," says Andy. "Me neither," I reply. We wait for our order to arrive and when it does we tuck in. This is my sort of place, I could sit here all day, staring out of the window, eating cake, sipping tea, but we can't stay too long, we have to ride back, and it's a hard slog, a very hard slog, not initially, but once we round the corner, taking a sharp right turn, the hill hits us hard, but it's not that hard, not as hard as the Westerham hill, although much shorter. It is a short, sharp shock and we both stay on our saddles, emerging on to The Ridge unscathed. We are back in Woldingham on the other side of the golf course. We sail past the club house and into Woldingham, stopping at the top of Slines Oak Road where we part company. No ride on Christmas Day, but we will be riding on Boxing Day, weather permitting. I sail down Slines Oak Road and hang a left on to Butlers Dene Road and then further along I turn right on to a gravel track that is peppered with puddles. A man with a large Alsatian dog is coming the other way. I turn left on to the Slines Oak Road and follow it to the Limpsfield Road. There's a steep incline, but I stay on the bike and turn left towards Warlingham. Much more traffic now, people doing 'last minute Christmas shopping', the stores will be packed today, I think, as I ride into Sanderstead, past the pond and head down Church Way towards home. I have a lot to do too (last minute presents, helping people out here and there) and soon it will be evening, time to hit the sack and wake up on Christmas morning.