The 1727 Brussels Midi to Dortmund...

On leaving Brussels Midi on the 1727 Dortmund train, it takes a while for the WiFi to kick in and for the train to emerge into daylight. The train crawls its way along, but at least we’re moving. Outside there is sweltering heat, much hotter - a million times hotter - than in the UK. I’d been hanging around on the platform for a whole hour having disembarked from the 1258 EuroStar from London St. Pancras, an uneventful journey sitting in seat 21, coach 2 with a little old lady for company. Now I’m in seat 64, coach 21.

A modern station en route...

Leaving the station behind, but still travelling at a snail’s pace, I look out at the overhead power lines, the trains parked up and others moving slowing into Brussels Midi. The city looks pleasant enough, the buildings daubed with graffiti.

I’m on the train for just over two hours and when I reach my destination (Dusseldorf) I’m only a short walk from my hotel, the Novum Madison, and only a short hop from Da Bruno, arguably one of Europe’s best Italian restaurants. Now I know that’s a bold claim, but I happen to like it and that’s it really. I’ve booked a table for 2000hrs, but will eventually change it for 2030hrs.

The train has picked up considerable speed, but we’re still in the suburbs. The little old lady on the Eurostar told me that it takes four hours to get from one side of Belgium to the other, but I’m not sure whether she meant by train or car or bike, probably by train. She’d been in the UK visiting her sister and was now returning home. Her husband had passed away, but when he was alive she’d spent time in Salisbury, close to where he worked, he was in the army.

The 1258 London to Brussels Eurostar reaches Brussels Midi

While on the EuroStar somebody in coach seven passed out. They called for a doctor and within minutes a tall woman passed me while I was in the buffet car. She was the doctor. I went back to my seat clasping a mint tea and a KitKat and spent most of the journey reading Saturday’s Guardian, which I had brought with me. It was only a short journey, about two hours, just over, and by 1608 I had disembarked into the aforementioned sweltering heat.

The train is slowing and we’re arriving in another city. I can see a paddling pool, further evidence of the scorching sun outside and then more trains parked up and going nowhere. A building with the logo of Stella Artois on the side of it makes me wonder if we’re in Leuven, home of the beer known as ‘wife beater’. Stella has been reduced in strength from its original 5.2% abv to just 4.8% and believe me, the reduction has been bad for the brand.

I was right, we are passing through Leuven and out the other side, past more graffiti and into a kind of semi-rural landscape of cornfields and then more buildings, office buildings, so not as semi-rural as I thought. Despite the fact that I’ve given up drinking for the last 21 months, I have a sudden craving for a pint of Stella, chilled, but the thought of breaking the abstinence worries me; I don’t want to go back, but a summer’s day (it’s 24 June!) makes me salivate at the thought of a cold beer. I wonder if I’m really doing myself any favours not drinking? What am I trying to prove to myself? Have I proved it? Should I carry on? There’s always ‘no alcohol’ beers and they’re just as good and probably as refreshing, chilled, on a hot day.

The train is now travelling through a rural landscape: fields of corn on either side of the train, the occasional farmhouse, but little more; grassy banks on either side of the track appear and then more fields.

The guard has just offered me a bottle of mineral water for free, it’s the sort of thing that simply wouldn’t happen in the UK. Earlier, when the same person had asked me to show my ticket I had to fumble around with bits of paper taken off the internet until I found something with a reference number. As always when faced with an authority figure on a European train, I think I’m part of The Great Escape, except that I’m still in Belgium, passing little sleepy hamlets surrounded by corn fields and giant propellers standing motionless in the heat, no wind power being generated today, I thought, keeping a weather eye on the landscape in case I spotted any solar panels.

Ultra light cloud has given way to a blue haze with wispy clouds, like a watercolour painting.

A word about the train: it’s comfortable. I have a solo seat, meaning I’m not sharing with anybody and nobody is sitting opposite either, which is great. The seat is red and wide and the coach has subtle red lighting. It’s all very cosy, but the air-con could be put up a notch or two. 

Behind some trees I can see containers with names on the sides of them. Magetra. And now some kind of aggregates factory. We’re going through ANS and there’s nothing much there but a company called Infrabel. Just outside of the station the name has been sculpted in grass, so it’s obviously an important business for the town, if that’s what ANS is, a town. The train is slowing again. Houses, one with a swimming pool, others with windows open and more still at the top of a steep bank and then the view is obscured by trees.

It’s 1815hrs and we’re definitely somewhere. I think its Avroy, a fairly big town. But I’m wrong, it’s Liege, but not just Liege, there’s another word, beginning with G. It’s a very modern station, but there are no more signs so I’ll never know what the G stands for. I like Liege, but then I like everywhere that isn’t where I live. Suburban trains congregate outside the station and they’re all daubed with colourful graffiti. Liege seems to be surrounded by steep banks (or hills) of trees and as we hit the outskirts there are blocks of flats and more houses, three-storey affairs, a church, red and white pylons. I have to remind myself that wherever I am, everything is the same. We pass through Chenne and skirt around one of the steep banks only to find more on the other side. As the train enters a tunnel I’m conscious that we might be going through one of the steep, mountainous banks, although ‘mountainous’ is probably an exaggeration, they’re hills.

I’ve been on the train for one hour. The tunnel is long and seemingly never-ending. We’re out of it! And then back in, or not, as the case may be, we’re out again. There are a series of bridges and we travel under them, some of them seem almost like tunnels, but just when I think we’re here for the long haul, daylight reappears. On my right I can see for miles, but then my view is momentarily obscured by a grassy bank. There are trees, like florets of brocolli, houses dotted here and there into infinity and in the distance dark hills topped by surreal clouds, like Toy Story wallpaper. Houses, cornfields, poplar trees, woods.

What is it? What do I crave? Why do I look out of the window longingly? Why is it that I feel I’d be more at home here than where I am at present, even if upping sticks is out of the question and, arguably, a foolish thing to contemplate? I feel it wherever I go. “I could live here,” I’ve said a million times, but perhaps all I really want is to linger awhile, to lie in the fields, to stop for a minute, somewhere (anywhere) and not have to fret or worry about stuff. 

Hergengrath? At least that’s what I think the sign read as we passed through the station. It was gone within seconds and now there are trees, through which I can see the odd house and now another tunnel, a proper one this time, but only short. Countdown markers, another town, allotments with sheds - or are there small houses - and now we’ve arrived somewhere. More tiny houses, well kept. We’re in Aachen. Platform 8C. We’re in Germany.

The train slowly pulls out of the station. I was last here in 1978 with a punk rocker from Hull. I was en route to Dortmund and then a place called Ludenscheid. Strange memories especially of my pal Keith Collins, now deceased, who should have been with me, but he decided to stay behind. I remember that year I was going to go to Scotland with two other pals of mine, but they were a couple and I would have felt out of place. I remember my dad saying ‘go to Germany with Keith’ and then Keith not going and me travelling alone. These were the days of the boat train from Victoria and the ferry across the English Channel to Ostend and then the train, although I can’t remember the exact journey.

It’s nearly 7pm and the heat continues, the sun still shines and the skies are blue. I might be wrong, but I think the next stop will be my final destination, Dusseldorf. There’s about 30 minutes left. The wind farms are back and so are the fields and the woods. The sun shines on a golden corn field and then we pass through somewhere called something like Langerwehre, another pleasant-looking place. The landscape opens out again. I can see for miles across fields towards houses and a distant ridge with some kind of tower, like Seattle’s Space Needle. 

There can’t be much longer to go and I’m worried that there will be a rush to get off the train if I don’t pack things away now. But I haven’t packed things away, I’m still observing what’s happening outside the window; there were wide open spaces a second ago, but now there are fields hemmed in by woods or rows of trees, there are industrial buildings, more industrial buildings, and I sense that, once again, we’re on the outskirts of a big city. I’m right, we’re in Cologne. As we approached the station I could see the blackened cathedral behind the rooftops.

People mill past on the platform, a man eating a slice of pizza, another man with a rucksack and a bright orange mat of some description, a black woman in a red dress. I could alight here and catch a train to Berlin, but why would I do that? There would be no point. We’re on the move again and I’m sure that the next stop is Dusseldorf. The train must be running late as I thought I would be there by now.

To Woodmansterne Green and then over to mum's...

Yesterday the sun shone brightly, for the first time in a while. They're saying June 2019 is the wettest on record and I can believe it. Last week it rained on and off most days and there's been cloud and low temperatures, but Saturday was fantastic. Andy wasn't riding and I'd arranged to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green. I've written about the ride over there before, it's fairly suburban in nature, but in the sunshine who cares? In fact, it took me back to cycling as a kid for some reason, there was lingering vibe brought about by the scented hedgerows and the warm breeze.

Jon was there when I arrived. We found a bench and opened up the tea. No biscuits. It was very pleasant just lapping up the early morning sunshine and then contemplating a ride over to mum's.

Bon, Mum and me...

Individual Twix fingers proved to be my downfall. Four of them. I need to exert a little more self-control.

Mum was getting a quote for a new back door. She's opted for aluminium. A man arrived. He was smartly dressed and sported a shiny bald head. He said he'd get a quote over Monday and that if she chose aluminium, it would probably take a week to arrive in the store.

Bon left, but I stayed for a cup of tea, not that I hadn't already had my fair share of tea back on the green. This time, in addition to the usual flask of hot water, I'd brought along one of those stainless steel thermal cups. I'd picked it up in Pittsburgh and it sported the logo for a company called Centro-Metalcut. I'm assuming they're a steel fabricator, but let's continue with the rule of keeping workstuff off the blog.

I rode back the way I came, but more warily. The traffic had intensified and while there were bursts of off-road track, when I reached Foxley Lane I kept my wits about me; there were moments when cars were far too close so I kept checking behind me to get a handle on what was going on. Soon I found myself on Purley's quieter back streets and then there was West Hill, a steep climb, but short-lived. I reached home at 1110hrs.

Sunday's ride...
Andy and I rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard, the slow way, and it was a very pleasant trip. The weather was a little chilly first thing in the morning, but it picked up, as did my hay fever. The key is not to rub your eyes, I told Andy as I rubbed my eyes. It's like having grains of sand in my eyes, that's how it feels, but I coped with it and soon we were on the bikes and heading up the hill towards Botley where I normally part company. On this occasion, however, I felt like a safer ride home away from the 269 so we rode along The Ridge into Woldingham and parted company on the Slines Oak Road. The hill at the end wasn't too bad and I reached home around 1000hrs.

Andy at the churchyard, Sunday 23 June

The pond at the top of Slines Oak Road

To the Tatsfield churchyard on Saturday and the bus stop on the Sabbath...

The first decent bit of weather for a while yesterday (Saturday). Tee shirt weather and, for the first time, the gloves were off, no need to wear them. But as the day progressed, it clouded over. Andy and I decided to ride to the churchyard and when we arrived the weather was fine, but clouds were gathering. Soon the sun went out and we rode back in grey conditions, but it wasn't cold. We'd considered Westerham and I think we'd talked last week about visiting Flowers Farm in Godstone for tea and cake, but I've been overdoing the rubbish food, it's something that needs to stop, and I know I keep saying this, but it's true. That said - and having resolved to stop eating cake yesterday morning as I got ready to head out on the bike - I ate two teacakes in the afternoon and felt fat for the rest of the day.

Now it's Sunday morning, 0624hrs to be precise. I've been up since 0500hrs having been awake since 0430hrs. It's the light seeping through the curtains that does it. I lay there for a while, but then thought what was the point? I got up, made porridge and tea and now I sit here writing this blog.

Our bikes at the Tatsfield Churchyard, Saturday 15 June 2019

Last week Andy managed to shave 10 seconds off his time for climbing a steep hill over in his neck of the woods. The aptly named Waller Pain Hill Climb was the event in question. He managed 2 minutes and 49 seconds, not bad. I'm sure I'd have taken longer. What's interesting about the Waller Pain Hill Climb is that it's been in existence since the late 19th Century. A cycling club from Peckham used to ride out of London and into the country and when they reached Waller Hill in Caterham they had to dismount. As bicycles developed, the hill was eventually conquered and the challenge became an annual event that exists to this day. Put it this way, it might be that the hill has been conquered, but it's still hard work, otherwise it wouldn't be a challenge.

The Waller Pain Hill Climb in Caterham. Andy did it in 2:49

Sunday's early morning weather was not as good as yesterday. I decided to put my rust-coloured jacket on before heading for the green. For some reason I was feeling a little sluggish and it seemed to take ages to reach our meeting point. When I arrived we decided to head for the churchyard (the slow way) but as we progressed along Beddlestead Lane the clouds got darker and when we arrived at the junction with Clarks Lane we decided to roll down the hill towards the bus stop. We sat there drinking tea and chatting about this and that and, just before 0900hrs, the rain arrived. A passing Lycra monkey stopped. He decided to head back to his home in East Dulwich, based on the falling rain - a 35-mile circular trip, he said. We sat there, waiting for the rain to stop and it did. We had a window in which to race for home. Andy and I parted company at The Ridge and I rode along the 269. The rain didn't return and soon I was, quite literally, home and dry.

The bike needs a service, probably next week. The rear brake is dodgy, making stopping difficult. The big question is this: take it to Evans Cycles in Gatwick or Cycle King down the road? I think the latter might win.

Over to mum's...

The plan had been to ride to Woodmansterne and see Bon, but he had a rear wheel puncture to fix and needed to take the bike to the shop for a new tyre. I thought he might have it done and dusted and ready for a ride, but when I sent him a text this morning it was not the case. So I lolled around and almost didn't go out - or rather I almost went out in the car instead. Fortunately, when I got outside the weather hit me square in the face, it was a wonderful day and to visit mum by car was sinful so I nipped back inside, grabbed the rucksack and rode off.

Mum in the garden, she's 90 in November

I hung a right on to West Hill, then a left on to Essenden, a right on Mayfield, a left on to the Upper Selsdon Road and then left into Jarvis, past Martin's gaff and on towards the Brighton Road. I turned right and then first left and rode up Hayling Park Road, quite a steep hill, and when I reached the mini roundabout at the top I crossed the Pampisford Road and skirted the Purley Playing Fields, vast expanses of grass peppered here and with white goal posts. Soon I reached the A23 and turned right, but then I cut left through a kind of industrial estate, emerging on the Stafford Road, close to Ozzie's cafe. I turned left and rode through Wallington, past the bike shop, crossing the lights at the top of the high street and heading downhill towards the mini roundabout at Boundary Road. I crossed into Stanley Park Road and soon the serenity of Carshalton Beeches epitomised by the peace and quiet of Crichton Road. I was getting close to mum's world: the Village Bakery, Vinoteca Italiana and free-wheeled down Park Hill. The lights at the Windsor Castle were red, so I mounted the pavement, turned left past the pub and then rejoined the road to race towards the BP garage, Marks & Spencer's Simply Food, and a right turn into Alma Road. I like Alma Road with its speed bumps and parked cars. At the bottom end, St Philomena's Convent School and a left turn, past the infamous Dog Shit Alley, under the railway bridge and then a left turn. Almost there, I thought, seeing the maisonettes where my life had started. Mum and dad moved when I was about three years old, but my early life had been at 3a Rossdale. We didn't move far, just up the hill and that's where I found myself now, riding up towards mum's. The road looks roughly the same as it's always looked, perhaps more cars than there used to be.

Fortunately, she wasn't in the garden, although she told me she had just come in to do something, luckily for me. Tea and fruit cake were next and I cut myself an ample slice and followed mum into the garden. The weather was wonderful: blue skies, white clouds, planes circling around Heathrow, all reminding me of my childhood years, in the paddling pool when the sun dipped behind the clouds and the sound of an invisible, crying jet made everything seem temporarily depressing. But not today. Memories of dad in his yellow bush hat, blue shirt and shorts flooded back to me, when the kids were younger and we would sit at the top of the garden, tea and cake and possibly a couple of biscuits, the sun shining, dad explaining something or discussing whatever was going on at the time or talking to Max about the cricket. The garden was in full summer bloom, elderberry trees, dad's oak tree, everything was raging with life as I sat there sipping tea and contemplating another slice of cake and another cup of tea. "Don't worry, mum, I'll do it," I said, getting up and heading for the kitchen. I emerged five minutes later, carrying another another slice of cake and another cup of tea.

Off-road track on the ride home...

We chatted about various things, but superficially. Family stuff. How's so and so? What's X or Y up to? Did you hear about...? That kind of thing and soon it was time to head back home. I could have repeated my outward journey, but knowing how traffic mounts up as the day progresses, I headed instead for Carshalton Beeches High Street, noticing a new Italian restaurant where once an Indian restaurant had stood. I climbed Waverley Way in a low gear and turned right when I reached the top and followed Beeches Avenue, which morphed into Woodmansterne Road and then I went off-road until I reached the Croydon Road. There were lots of joggers on the off-road path plus a few cyclists and one large, female dog walker who, in contrast to her own size, had two small dogs. At the end of the path I briefly rejoined the Croydon Road, but managed to cross it and ride off-road all the way to Foxley Lane in Purley, a once pleasant road that has since been messed with; now there are blocks of flats under construction here and there. Huge houses with huge, mossy gardens, once for sale, have been bought by developers and turned into ugly dwellings set back from the road. Not nice, but it's happening everywhere. Foxley Lane can be quite dangerous, especially where it is joined by Plough Lane. I keep my distance from parked cars and I'm always looking over my shoulder to see what's coming along behind me. Soon I'm at Cycle Republic and I join the Pampisford Road heading for Fennie's, a children's day nursery. I cross the A23. Not far to go now. I weave my way around some of Purley's backstreets until I reach the Purley Downs Road, but hang a left on to Norman Road and ride most of it no hands. The road morphs into Florence Road and then Kendall Avenue and then I'm on the 269, a road that features in most of our rides, except that I'm at the other end of it where it has a name, Sanderstead Road. It runs all the way to Edenbridge. I ride up the hill and turn left on to West Hill, a steep climb up its south face,  past another block of flats under construction on the right. Soon I'm home and it's 1115hrs, time for a slice of bread and a cup of tea.

Guess where we went?

It's not hard. How about the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way? You're right, but it could have been so different. It could have been an abort text. In fact, it was an abort text. I woke up at 0600hrs and when I peered out of the window at the small puddle that always forms on next door's flat-roofed extension, I noticed it was being disturbed by rain. "Abort". I wasted no time in sending it off, but immediately regretted it. Perhaps I should leave it until later, things might calm down, so I sent another text along the lines of seeing how things develop. And when Andy texted back saying he was going for it, I said okay, meet at the usual place, usual time.

How boring is this image? My view sitting on the bench at the bus stop

When I got outside, it wasn't cold, but the skies were grey and there were spits of rain here and there. Sure, it could get worse, but I rode up Church Way, slightly sluggishly it has to be said, and got used to the fact that there was no sunshine and only cloud and the odd spit of rain. In short it was fine and I was so glad that I didn't act on my initial rather impulsive abort text.

Andy later said that when he left the house he could hear the rain hitting his conservatory roof but decided to go for it anyway.

We decided to ride the slow way to the bus stop during which time we touched upon politics again, but not as vociferously as last week. Andy had caught an interview with Lib-Dem leadership hopeful Jo Swinson and wasn't impressed. He said she spouted a kind of student politics and I knew exactly what he meant and could we really have somebody like that as our next PM? It's all starting to look a little desperate. Nobody wants the Conservatives, but the alternatives are so poor that it looks as if we'll get them or, perhaps, the Brexit Party, an awful one-trick pony political party headed by the equally awful Nigel Farage who would probably sell the NHS to Donald Trump given half the chance.

...and this ain't much better

Talking of Trump, he was in town last week visiting the Queen on a State Visit. London Mayor Khan and leader of the opposition Corbyn made arses of themselves by protesting too much, Khan being lambasted by a presidential tweet sent from Airforce One. There were a few protests, but not as many as were expected (whatever happened to the days of Class War and paint thrown on Royal vehicles - these days it's just milkshakes).

Markle made herself scarce, emerging only yesterday (I'm writing this text on Sunday morning) to be a part of some kind of birthday parade for the Queen.

Both Andy and I had uneventful weeks and when we reached the bus stop, having witnessed a watery sun trying to break through fast-moving grey cloud, we sat there in front of the long grass drinking tea and watching the world go by. I wondered when the council would get round to cutting the long grass in front of us, while hoping that they might simply leave it grow so that our bus stop was obscured from view. But, as Andy pointed out, the grasses had grown to about two feet in height and had already seeded so it was unlikely. Teabags flicked from teaspoons, we headed home, Andy taking The Ridge and me risking the 269. I reached home around 0930hrs and then drove to Petworth in West Sussex for beef and horseradish sandwiches and a slice of coffee and walnut cake, which happened to be the deli's Cake of the Day.

Brexit again as we head for the bus stop and the churchyard

Summer has well and truly arrived. And rightly so. It is, after all, the month of June. Time has flown by. Prior to my three weeks out of the saddle, it was April when I last jumped on the bike, then there was last week (the Bank Holiday weekend) and now it's June. Suddenly everything seems lush and overgrown, like being in a rainforest. Fields are full of whatever fields are full of: oilseed rape, poppies, you name it, everything's happening. There are bees buzzing around, birds singing in the trees and there are two cyclists, Andy and yours truly, on Warlingham Green deciding where to go. It's Saturday 1 June, or rather it was (I'm writing this as the time approaches 5pm on 2 June, my brother-in-law's birthday). In fact, I'm sitting in the garden, on the lap top, my relatively new Chromebook, which I thought I'd lost forever when I was in Pittsburgh recently, but as you know, if you're an avid reader, I got it back. So, where was I? Oh yes, we're on Warlingham Green wondering where to go and we decided upon the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way and this time the old-fashioned slow way along Beddlestead Lane and not the 'new route', that of Woldingham and the golf course and then turning left on The Ridge and heading down Clarks Lane. We did that last week and it was fine, brought a bit of variety to proceedings.

June is busting out all over at the green...

Last week we discussed the origins of the name Peggy as we sat in the Churchyard drinking tea. This week it was Brexit again and I remarked how Rory Stewart was probably the best chance the Conservative Party had of uniting the country and getting on with Brexit. The rest I wouldn't give you tuppence for, certainly not that cretin Boris Johnson with his Master Race, Aryan Nation haircut and his professional buffoonery. Who needs a Tory like that? Who needs a man who would look totally at home in a private members' club, snoozing under a copy of the Daily Telegraph? The country doesn't need knee-jerk politicians like BoJo or Raab or any of those who think no deal is a good idea. It isn't.

But Rory Stewart, in my opinion, is a 'proper politician'. He has dignity, he has international experience, he was a diplomat aged 22, he knows about 'stuff', he's intelligent, calm, collected, seems to have a cohesive plan, came across well on Question Time on Thursday. In fact, talking of QT, it was the first time in about three weeks that there hasn't been any shouting matches. That must have something to do with the calibre of the MPs and commentators on the panel, they were all reasonably sensible. Rory Stewart was good because he answered the questions fired at him. He ALWAYS answers the questions, he takes on board criticism if valid; in short, he has all the makings of a worthy politician who, believe it or not, is not in it for himself, he's in it for bigger reasons, the sort of reasons you hope most politicians have for entering politics. Stewart is old school, but in a good way, and he has the support of another 'proper politician' Ken Clark. What's not to like? A government led by Stewart would mean a big sigh of relief from me. Just think for a moment about the rabble in the Tory Party: Boris Johnson. Remember what a God awful foreign secretary he turned out to be, bumbling around making matters worse, especially for that woman imprisoned in Iran. And didn't he recently exclaim 'fuck business'? Yes he did, and yet there is growing support for this idiot to be the leader of the so-called 'party of business'. No. Surely not. Surely those who will choose the next leader will realise that Boris is the wrong choice.

But Johnson isn't the only idiot in the Tory party. What about Dominic Raab? Another fool who thinks a no-deal Brexit will be alright, when even members of his own party argue that no-deal will likely mean no Conservative party either. Senior members of the Conservatives are considering voting against the Government to avoid no deal and that will mean a General Election and the Tories won't win it. Just look at how they've messed up the country. Look at other idiots like Chris Grayling; nothing that man touches has any hope of succeeding, he's completely incompetent but, like most incompetent people, he remains in his job earning top dollar while messing up everything he touches. Michael Gove, who is arguing that we should remain in the EU well into 2020, purely because he thinks such a stance will get him the top job is another political cretin. Any man who bears a close resemblance to Orville should not be standing for Prime Minister. It goes on and on. Andrea Ledsom calling for a 'managed exit' from the EU, what does that mean?

I'd like to think that people are beginning to wise up to all these idiots floating around the Tory Party. And I'd like to think that having Donald Trump offering his support to Boris Johnson will mean just one thing: the kiss of death. If Trump admires you, you know you've got problems, you might want to look in the mirror and check you haven't grown a Hitler moustache overnight. Trump wants Nigel Farage to play a key role in the Brexit negotiations. No, no, no, no, no!!! The man Russell Brand labelled a Pound Shop Enoch Powell shouldn't be seen anywhere near the negotiating table. He's not an MP, he's an MEP and all he's ever done in that role is shout the odds at other MEPs and be generally obstructive, belligerent and offensive. And let's not forget his Brexit poster. And where Boris is concerned let's not forget the message on the side of the bus. And while I think there is possibly something sinister behind taking the obese moose to court, it would be good to see him prosecuted for being more than just 'economical with the truth'.

The country is getting a little fed up with Brexit. They want it done and while I don't particularly want it done (I'm a remainer) if it has to be done then so be it, although I'll admit that I'm holding out for the second referendum, even if I do agree with Rory Stewart, who says another referendum will yield the same result because the country is divided straight down the middle. No deal is not the solution and nor is a second referendum, says Stewart and I think he's probably right. At the end of the day there's one word that must be taken into consideration: compromise. To get Brexit through Parliament, said Stewart in Epsom last Thursday, the two sides are going to have to compromise because Parliament rules supreme.

The above conversation, give or take, took place over our two weekend rides. On Sunday, the weather was just as perfect as Saturday and we met once again on the green and decided to head for the Tatsfield Churchyard, our summer location. I'd suggested our newly found field, but Andy said it meant humping the bikes over a stile. He was right, a stile was involved. We chose the churchyard and carried on our conversation about Brexit. On a clear day you can see the South Downs from the Tatsfield Churchyard and there really isn't a better place to be at the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning in June. I'd had a good night's sleep and was feeling particularly energetic for some reason. I kept up with Andy along Beddlestead (i'm normally around a minute or two behind him in places) and I was feeling chipper.

What bugs me is the backstop and I can't figure out why there has to be a border once we leave the EU. It's only a piece of paper that somebody has to sign to say we're out, so why should it change the way things are being done at present? Why can't the wheels keep turning, why do we suddenly need checkpoints, why can't we simply say 'carry on'? If all the security measures in place now stay that way, why should anything have to change? It's a question I'd like to hear Rory Stewart answer because he's the only person I think I can trust.

Around 0900hrs this morning we embarked upon our return journey. The ride up Clarks Lane to Botley hill is always a little trying; it is, after all, a hill that starts in Westerham and continues all the way to the Botley Hill pub. Andy branched off at The Ridge and I was sorely tempted to follow him, because riding down the 269 is dangerous at the best of times. However, going home via Woldingham means riding up Slines Oak Road, a steep hill worth avoiding. But I'm thinking of cutting out the risk of cars flying past too close and going back home 'the slow way' instead. And there are two slow ways: one involves Hesiers Hill, the other Slines Oak Road and I know for a fact that the latter is the best bet.

My bike needs a service and I need to sort it out, possibly later this week. With the weather being fantastic I'm thinking about cycling to work again, but in all honesty, it's probably best if I simply cut down on cake and do a bit of walking in my lunch break. But that doesn't mean the bike doesn't get a service, it needs one and it'll get one.

Tatsfield Churchyard yesterday, but I aborted Monday's ride...

I woke up on Monday morning around 0320hrs and couldn't get back to sleep. It was starting to get light outside and I was scheduled to go on a ride later, but couldn't contemplate it as I fidgeted around in bed trying to sleep. At around 0400hrs I decided that an abort text would be the best policy. Annoying as I'm guessing the weather will be fine and sure enough it is. After aborting I jumped back into bed and awoke to hear that the Brexit Party had stormed ahead of everybody else in the European elections. Farage now intends to have policies (other than just Brexit) and take on the establishment at the general election (whenever that takes place).

I made porridge with blueberries, strawberries, grapes and bananas and then moved to the living room to check out the BBC website. The Brexit party's success was the lead item so I decided to visit my blog instead, and here I am.

Yesterday we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard following the same route as Saturday - down Slines Oak Road, along Butler's Dene Road and through the golf course until we reached The Ridge where we turned left and headed towards the top of Titsey Hill. It was then a case of sailing down Clarks Lane and hanging a right close to the Park Wood Golf Club.

The Tatsfield Churchyard is a perfect place for a summer ride, the best destination, certainly first thing in the morning. We watched as a Spitfire flew past heading east, probably out of Biggin Hill airport, which is a few miles from where we were sitting, sipping tea. Andy was munching biscuits, but I've given them up, although later in the day I would eat around half a dozen ginger nuts, courtesy of a free promotion at Sainsbury's that was celebrating something. Free ginger nuts and free tea arrived at the house around lunch time and I can't resist a ginger nut (or any biscuit for that matter). But I'm trying to cut them out and largely I've succeeded. I reckon the only way to cut things out is not an outright ban, but looking at situations where they can be omitted, like on the ride. I've cut out biscuits on the ride and I don't have milk in my porridge any more, just water, although, to be fair, I only used to have half a cup of semi-skimmed milk mixed with half a cup of water, so I wasn't giving up a great deal. Still, it all counts.

Why Peggy?

The main topic of conversation was the name Peggy. One of the headstones, for a Gladys Jean Shrubb, explained how she was always known as 'Peggy' and I started to wonder what Peggy was short for. In the end I consulted Google and discovered it was a short form for Margaret, but that didn't explain why Gladys was so-called. Andy said that his dad, Sidney, was always known as Bill at work and that when Andy was born (back in the day when dads didn't feel obliged to attend the birth - my dad was at work when I was born) his real name was boomed over the tannoy and nobody knew a Sidney. "Oh, you mean Bill," somebody eventually twigged and Andy's dad was told that his wife had given birth to a son.

The plan for today (Bank Holiday Monday) was to go out later (meeting at 0800hrs instead of 0730hrs)  and ride to Westerham for breakfast in the Tudor Rose, but it wasn't to be. If I ride at all today, it'll be a short one, a late short one, over to mum's, perhaps, but I might just slob around* and do nothing until next weekend when I'll be raring to go.

* I slobbed around and did nothing.

Three weeks out of the saddle...

The last time I took the bike out of the garage it was still April. I haven't been on it for three weeks and I've started to notice things. I feel sluggish and fat basically. I've had a week in the USA where I've tried to eat sensibly, but sometimes 'looking after myself' goes out of the window and is replaced by chocolate chip cookies and fizzy drinks, French fries and cheese and if you take into consideration that I've lapsed a bit on the walking sessions at lunch time, then you might have some idea of the way I'm feeling.

My bike taking it easy at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Saturday 26 May 2019*

Not going cycling for three weeks isn't good on any level and when it comes to getting up at the crack of dawn (well, 0600hrs) then it's even harder. I had the alarm set for 0630hrs, which was a mistake as it didn't give me any time to chill out and slowly wake up while making my porridge. So I went without, which is rare for me, and instead had cold Weetabix sprinkled with a dash of sugar. It wasn't the most appetising of breakfasts, I can tell you, especially as I hadn't really put enough milk in the bowl, leaving the second biscuit dry and crumbly. "Roughage, that's what you need," as my dad might have chipped in had he been standing there.

I got out around 0710hrs, unpadlocked the bike and headed off in the direction of Warlingham Green. Andy was there and we decided to ride to the bus stop via Slines Oak Road and the golf course, turning left instead of right when we reached the road. We cycled past what might still be Al Fayed's house, although I have a feeling he's moved on. Past the road that dips down into Oxted and onwards towards the mini roundabout at the top of Titsey Hill. We sailed down Clarks Lane in the direction of Westerham and swung into the bus stop, and then out came the tea, the best part of the ride.

The grass in front of the bus stop had become overgrown, but that didn't stop us from flinging our teabags off a spoon and into the long grass. It's a game we play every week. "Teabags are biodegradable, so it's okay to discard them irresponsibly." Yeah, right, Matthew, that's why you always see huge piles of banana skins and teabags littering the country. Andy's better at it than I am (flinging tea bags) but today I think I did well having slung my two teabags almost into the road, which is the Holy Grail in this game. I haven't the foggiest idea what the locals think of us.

Tea finished we headed off, vowing to visit the Tatsfield Churchyard for Sunday's ride and possibly Westerham for bank holiday Monday. It all depends on the weather.

I was going to ride back with Andy, but thought I'd get back quick and get on with the day so I rode down the 269 and half way along - well, probably not even half way, more like a quarter of the way - I jumped on to the off-road path, which meant I was risking a puncture. That would scupper me, though, and I really didn't want to fix a puncture as that would mean a visit to Halfords to buy some leeches. In fact, I'm hoping I can avoid a puncture this weekend as I've got no means of repairing it. Let's not even go there.

I reached home before 0945hrs and got on with the rest of my day.

* Pic by Andy Smith.

Thoughts on a flight from New York to London...

I reached the airport in good time and I'm glad I never weakened and took a cab. Besides, these days I'm getting a little tired of taxi drivers because, in the UK at any rate, there's a growing number of drivers who want to get their racist beliefs out in the open and they always assume that everybody holds the same views and just need a little coaxing. I might have mentioned a British taxi driver who was so racist, his own colleagues called him Gupta.

The New York subway is just like it looks in the movies, but not as edgy. It's full of commuters and, on the E line, travellers like myself and holidaymakers heading for the Air Train. I forgot to check the terminal, but discovered, once on the Air Train, that all BA flights arrived and departed from Terminal 7. I checked my bags in, handing over my emergency passport, and then walking away unfettered by cumbersome luggage.

It's a six-hour flight and we're due to land in London half an hour earlier than scheduled. Food eaten, two hours have flown by and I'm listening to REM on the plane's sound system. It's a Jumbo jet and I'm sitting in seat 39K, a bulkhead seat with plenty of legroom, which is all I ask for on flights of over four hours. The jackpot is to get a window too, and that's what I've got, but being as it's a night flight, there's little point - until things brighten up, that is. I like to see what's going on outside, especially when there's turbulence.

Daylight as we head towards Ireland

In life, there's very little that upsets me more on a flight than a baby crying and I can't work out why. It makes me feel really, terribly sad. I find that flying can be emotional too, so putting the two things together is the most awful thing for me. There's always a baby crying somewhere on a plane.

I remember having trouble once on a flight to Chicago, although I hasten to add that babies were not involved. By 'having trouble' I mean being in danger of getting a little over emotional about things. Music is the trigger and certain compositions can bring a tear to my eye and I then have to spend time concealing myself from prying eyes, which is difficult if you're on a plane. On that occasion, I had a window seat, so I could turn my head to one side and try to calm myself down. Sometimes, listening to music can be my downfall.

There was an occasion in Manchester, in a boutique hotel, when I was caught unawares. I'd bought a Supertramp CD on Euston station and when I reached the room, on discovering there was a CD player, I played it and found that a certain track took me over the top again. I remember lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. Fortunately, I was alone. The problem (if that's what it was) can be traced back to the late 1980s. I was driving to work and had reached a multi-storey car park when a certain piece of music, by a band called Spirit, grabbed my attention and took me by surprise. It took me a while to recover. I simply sat in the car on the top storey of the car park staring at the tree tops until I felt sufficiently normal to head into the office. Such vulnerability lasted for almost 20 years, possibly longer, but it's not there anymore. It sometimes happened with other art forms. I remember reading Milton Kessler's Thanks Forever, a poem from the London Underground; and then there was Bruce Robinson's The Peculiar Memoirs of Thomas Penman, both tearjerkers in their own strange way. It still happens occasionally. There's a fine line between euphoria and grief.

During the flight, turbulence on a couple of occasions made it difficult to write long hand, but looking at my notes as I copy type them into the lap top, the handwriting wasn't too badly affected.

I keep replaying tracks from REM at the BBC, it's the only thing worth listening to in my opinion. REM has it sized in my opinion; tracks like Orange Crush, Radio Song and Man on the Moon pass the time and I listen to them over and over again.

I'm still finding it hard to believe that I was in New York and later I'll be finding it hard to believe that I was up here, at 38,000, looking down as the skies brighten around me. But New York! I was there: Madison, 42nd Street, Park Avenue, Lexington, it's as if it was a dream. While I was there I mooched endlessly around the city, I drank mint tea in a Starbucks on Second Avenue, I sat in the back of a Yellow Cab and I stared upwards to find the tops of skyscrapers. The last time I was in the Big Apple I was staying at the Parker Meridien hotel and on one occasion, while waiting for the lift to the ground floor, the lift doors open to reveal Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon of Queen. It was one of those moments I dined out on for many years - and still do. It was when Radio Ga Ga was in the charts.

By my reckoning, there's around two hours left of this six-hour flight. There's nobody in the seat next to me, but there's a woman in the aisle seat who has spent the entire flight covered from head to toe with a blanket. Outside it is getting light and there's nothing but cloud and we're high up.

I am starting to tire of REM, but perhaps I'll listen to Orange Crush one more time and then call it day. "We are agents of the free," warbles Stipe. Perhaps I'll listen to Radio Song again too. I remember when Out of Time was released; good and bad times, mainly uncertainty caused by looming redundancy, or had I already lost my job? Yes, I had. I remember the blue Cavalier I was driving, E108 HPH was the licence plate. I can remember all my plates. You could say I'm a sad, sad man.

I've switched on the map and we've passed the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and have just one hour and 45 minutes left before we land. I've put on Orange Crush again, it's so good, and I simply had to act fast as the song starting up was Love is Around Me, you know, the theme to Four Weddings and a Funeral. Surely that wasn't REM. Tell me it wasn't REM. I always remember it being Wet Wet Wet. Truly awful. Either way, I don't want to be reminded of that terrible movie.

Outside, it's getting a little choppy again. I think I prefer my turbulence when it's dark. We're headed towards Ireland and there's 90 minutes to go. We touch down at 0812 hrs. The seat belt signs have come back on and now it's clearer outside; I can see cloud below now. We're heading towards Porcupine Bank on our left and Porcupine Plain on the right and again I'm intrigued as to what they both are. I remember trying to learn more about the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and getting nowhere. And what, pray, is the Maury Seachannel? Time for Orange Crush again. I'm getting boring (was I ever anything else?). I'd better sign off.

Killing time in New York...

Two weird coincidences, sort of; first, arriving in New York at Penn Station was incredible. I don't know what it is, but there's something monumental about the city, you kind of know you're here, but at the same time you're wowed by the fact that you are here, it's an unbelievable place. I don't know, perhaps it's just me, but hey, I'm in New York and for some reason that's special. Anyway, and this will sound odd: the first thing I thought about as I waited for a cab outside of the station was Phil Collins and that time, back in 1985, when he performed at both Live Aids (in London and then Philadelphia). It came into my mind for some reason and then, once in my hotel room, I was watching a random interview given by John Lydon, in which he talked, quite candidly, about a number of subjects, including how he and his wife Nora had lost a baby. Very sad to hear that and I'm guessing the interview was fairly old, easily 10 years ago, as he said he'd just turned 50 at the time. In the same interview, although it might have been a different one, I watched half a dozen, he talked about being charitable and mentioned Phil Collins' appearance at both Live Aids. As Lydon rightfully pointed out, the money spent should have gone to the charity, there was no need for Collins to be at both events.

Home of the British Consulate in New York

Similarly, another coincidence. I am reading Will Self's Psychogeography at the moment and there's a bit where Self asks his readers when they realised that Evian (as in the mineral water) was 'Naive' spelt backwards. Well, at the risk of being a right pain in the arse, I remember the moment very clearly. I was sitting in the Selsdon Park Hotel in South Croydon with a marketing executive from a rival mineral water company - in the office we knew him only as a 'poor man's Richard Madeley'. As we sat at the bar he said, "Did you know that Evian is 'naive' spelt backwards?" I remember thinking about it and realising he was right. From then on, for a few months, I asked everybody else the same question, although I don't think many people found it as exciting as I did. I mean, even I didn't find it as exciting as I found it. The poor man's Richard Madeley, of course, was suggesting that people who purchased Evian mineral, and not his brand, were naive, but I can't even remember the name of his brand and I don't think you'll find it on the shelves today.

Lexington Avenue, New York...

I'm in New York, sitting in a Starbucks on Second Avenue and 50th Street. I've just eaten a cookie and I'm sipping from a large paper cup full of mint tea, killing time while the British Consulate, which is just up the road, processes my emergency travel documentation and thereby ensuring that I will leave the country later today. I'm not being deported, I  had my passport 'stolen' from the hotel I was staying in back in Pittsburgha (the hotel was totally responsible) and had to train it to New York to go through what turned out to be a fairly straightforward process.

It's weird being on the other side of the Atlantic and still listening to the same music. "I'm over yoooooo and I don't need your love no more, oooh I'm over you, don't call me up!"

Yellow cabs pass by and so do people and trucks. "I'm over yooooo and I don't need your love no more...don't call me up".

Last night the hotel was fine. The room was smaller than the Sheraton and I decided not to use the safe, just in case the hotel engineer decided to come on up and take out my lap top and defunct passport. Just one night, but it was fine, although I hate hotels that don't conform with the designers' rule of 'function before form'. A tiny round marble bowl with no plug. It doesn't work, guys, just give me a proper sink with a normal tap that works. And how about a plug? It's not big, it's not clever and hey, it's not even trendy, just very, very annoying. There was no restaurant either, which is often fine with me as it means I can explore what's out there, which I did. I found an Italian place, a pricey one - Montebelo's -  and, as always, it's never worth it. All I had was a bowl of soup, a bottle of Pellegrino and a chicken-based main course and I got little change from $70. Still, you live and learn. Look, don't get me wrong, it was alright, just a little on the expensive side. It came heartily recommended by Danny, the hotel concierge. Thanks, Danny.

Breakfast was fine, but it lacked the excitement of other hotel offerings.

Breakfast was okay. I had scrambled egg, a bowl of bran flakes with raisins, a bagel and a pastry, not forgetting a cup of English Breakfast tea. The breakfast offering, however, wasn't that substantial and I didn't have the feeling that I often get in hotels where there's a lot more on offer and I can really go to town, so to speak, but it wasn't at all bad.

I checked out early, long before the official noon check-out time, and headed towards the British Consulate, which was about 20 minutes away on foot. While there I struck up a conversation with a young chap from Muswell Hill who left his passport on the plane coming over and was waiting for emergency documentation to get home. We talked about all sorts of stuff, with me doing most of the talking, boring him, no doubt, with travellers' tales. "See that buildin' over there? It's full of politician sheeet!" The Consulate offices were on the 27th floor of a tall skyscraper on Second Avenue, but it was all very pleasant and soon I was waltzing out of there with a beige-coloured emergency passport. I was told I would have to give it up when I arrived in the UK.

Only certain people will get this shot...

New York is a vibrant, industrious city with lots of people milling around, going about their daily business and I love it. Actually, that's the good thing about America as a whole, that feeling that people are getting on with stuff. Goods trains carrying coking coal or aggregates or goodness knows what, endless goods trains pulled by two massive locomotives heading, perhaps, for an integrated steel mill somewhere, people selling flowers from highly perfumed stalls, office workers behind numerous windows in faceless skyscrapers, hotel workers checking people in and out, hordes of people waiting for the stop sign to beckon them across the street, gig economy workers on ridiculously fast electric bikes darting in and out of traffic. It's all good. There's something solid about New York, like there was something solid about the Amtrak train I took from Pittsburgh to NY Penn Station yesterday.

If you want to read about the experience that led me to be in New York, just click here.

The excellent Morning Star cafe on 2nd Avenue, good value, great food

After getting my temporary passport I looked around for somewhere decent to have lunch. I chose a traditional establishment called The Morning Star Cafe. It was fantastic. I ordered another mint tea (two, in fact) and I had penne with chicken, garlic and brocolli. It was good, very good, and I left on a high. We need more traditional cafes here in the UK, normal food, not poncy places with poncy food like you see on MasterChef. I had plenty of hassles to come, such as going through airport security. Why is it that some airports demand that I take off my shoes (like JFK) while others, (like London Heathrow) don't? It's one of those questions that never receives a straight answer.

Lunch at the Morning Star cafe...

But before the airport loomed large I wandered around, I mooched about, as I'm prone to in foreign cities. I moseyed on up Lexington and somewhere I turned on to 42nd Street and then passed all the big street names: Madison, 5th, Park Avenue. I was tired, if I'm honest, and I couldn't be bothered with the spectacle. I wasn't interested in shopping, I'd sat in a Starbucks earlier and besides, they all looked crammed with people and I wanted something a little more chilled. I decided it was time to wander back to the hotel, pick up my bags and trundle them towards the subway where I'd catch the E train. At the station a man was playing a steel drum, bringing a sense of carnival to proceedings. The station was packed, however, and it lent an additional sense of chaos to everything.

I'd reached the airport by taking the subway on Lexington and then jumping on the so-called Air Train. It was fine. I purchased a Metro Card at Lexington for $7.00 and it saw me all the way through. But! There's always a 'but': Because I swiped the card twice in order to chase after my suitcase, which had scampered off through the barrier on its own, like an unruly dog, I had to pay extra to board the Air Train. All was well, however, and I reached JFK's terminal seven (where the BA planes arrive and depart) with plenty of time to spare. After a turkey and Swiss roll, a large cup of some kind of exotic herbal tea and a banana, I moseyed around and then made for Gate 10 where my Jumbo jet to London was waiting.

On the subway at Lexington

I sat in seat 39K, a window seat with a 'bulkhead' meaning a wall, a little more leg room and a spare seat in between myself and the passenger in the aisle, who spent the entire flight covered head to toe in a blanket, like a criminal arriving at the Old Bailey. Later she told me she was cold, leaving me to wonder why it is that women always seem to feel the cold more than men? They're also skilled at wrapping towels round their heads.

The flight was smooth most of the way, but had its bumpy moments, and I spent my time listening to REM, reading Will Self's Psychogeography and writing rubbish in my notebook (you'll be subjected to it at some stage, unfortunately for you). The flight was just six hours and we landed half an hour ahead of schedule at 0830hrs.

Right now I'm sitting in a Caffe Nero inside Terminal 5 (they accept dollars) with a mint tea and an almond croissant and I'm contemplating my next move: train or taxi? I think the latter wins because I have some cumbersome luggage that I don't particularly want to lug anywhere else. Remember that I've pushed my suitcase from the hotel on Lexington Avenue all the way to JFK via the subway. I don't particularly want to continue pushing it.

The subway as we see it on the movies

But when I reached the taxi rank I noticed they were all Black Cabs, which means the journey would be metered. A metered journey means the final cost will be around £100 so I took the Heathrow Express to Paddington (£22) then the Bakerloo and the Victoria Line to Victoria where I picked up a train to Sanderstead. I was picked up at the station and spent the rest of the day lolling around, eventually hitting the sack at 8pm and sleeping through until 6am the following morning. Now it's Sunday and I'm feeling okay, the sun's shining and the garden is looking great. It's good to be home.

Approaching Ireland, nearly home...

On the ground at Heathrow Terminal Five - home at last!