Two rides: to the churchyard and then (ahem) 'the field'...

Flytippers visit Hesiers Hill

It was good to get two rides in. Both involved Beddlestead Lane, which is always a bit of a chore, but it was a good weekend of cycling and the weather held out too.

On Saturday I was running a little late and when I reached the green we decided to head to the churchyard. It was a fairly average ride, nothing untoward occurred (when does it?). Although, when we reached Hesiers Hill it was disheartening to notice that the fly tippers had been out dumping their rubbish on the road. We stopped, but not for long, and soon we were pedalling hard towards Clarks Lane. I can't say I'm a fan of Beddlestead, but it's a good work-out so it can't be that bad.

When we reached the churchyard we did what we always do: drink tea and chat about this and that. We rode back up the hill towards Botley and parted company at the Ridge.

On Sunday we set up 'camp' close to an adjoining field and the nettle-infested path from which
we had just emerged - unscathed! Pic by Andy Smith.

On Sunday we thought we'd visit 'the field', the one that's just across the road from the Tatsfield Bus Stop. The last time we were there was roughly a year ago when the field was full of corn and the sun shone brightly. Perhaps it was earlier in the month, I don't know, but there was no corn, just grass, and it was wet. We entered the field from White Lane because Andy said the path from the other side was overgrown with nettles and thistles (he was right). It took a while to find the path (the North Downs Way) but when we did there was a short ride under tree cover towards a gate and that meant we'd have to manhandle the bikes. Andy suggested lifting them on to their rear wheels, which seemed to do the trick, and once we were both through we decided to get to the churchyard to drink our tea. Between us and our destination, however, were plenty of thistles and nettles. Andy was ahead of me, but suddenly I found him standing still in front of me. "It's thick with nettles, we'll get stung to buggery in our shorts!"I was wearing my camouflage shorts that I had purchased in Miami in 2007*, they're a bit baggy and I wouldn't even think about going commando. Andy might not have used the word 'buggery', in fact I'm sure he didn't, but it seems to express the way he was thinking perfectly. Shorts are not ideal where nettles and thistles are concerned, although I discovered recently that a nettle's sting can penetrate through long trousers, so there's no way out. Andy was prepared to go back the way we'd come and to be fair, I thought we might have to as I looked over his shoulder at what awaited us, but it was worth a try I thought. "I reckon we can do it," I said, taking the lead and employing the bike as some kind of battering ram to flatten the nettles on my left while steering clear of the nettles on my right. It worked and soon I found myself close to the roadside next to an old tree trunk. Andy followed and I don't think either of us were stung. Our decision to advance to the churchyard was based on the heavy dew that hung over the field. There was nowhere to sit down.

The field was damp so we battled with nettles to find a place for tea.
We had just emerged from those woods you can see across the field

"We might as well have our tea here," I said, pointing to the tree trunk. Andy agreed so I pulled out the flask and the teabags and milk.
"I don't understand why nettles exist," I said. "I know everything has a meaning, a purpose, but I can't see the purpose of stinging nettles."
"Ladybirds like them, apparently; they lay their eggs on them; you would have thought they'd find other plants," Andy said, slightly flustered about the whole situation.
"Bastards," I added, or I should have, perhaps I did, I can't remember.

Further along, loads of nettles...

Last year the field was full of corn, this year it was just grass. "I think it's what they call crop rotation," I said and Andy was reminded of school. "I remember learning that," he said, and so did I.

"What about oxbow lakes?" I said.
"I remember those too," he replied.
"I've seen one from the train, somewhere near Northampton," I said, like the geek I was. Actually, I'm not a geek.

It was time to head back up the hill towards Botley again. As we passed the dew-laden field on our left, Andy spotted a metal gate. "We should have lifted our bikes over that gate," he said, but it was too late now. Perhaps if we'd seen the gate we might have ended up in the churchyard, but one thing was for sure: a lesson had been learned. No more field unless we could be guaranteed it would be dry, but either way there was still the hassles of humping our bikes over the gates, and who can be bothered to lift the bikes? Not us!

We were on the North Downs Way...

We parted again at the Ridge, pledging to be back on the bikes next week. The rides back along the 269 on both days were quiet, not much in the way of traffic, which was good. The weather was good too, warm and bright, but not much in the way of blue sky and sunshine.

There's been two mass shootings in the USA, one in El Paso, Texas, in a Walmart where 20 were killed and 26 injured. It's being classed as a hate crime (surely, that's obvious). Not sure about the second shooting, but it took place in a bar on East 5th Street called Ned Peppers in Dayton City, Ohio, in the Oregon district of the town and nine people were killed.

In other news... Iran has seized another tanker and Boris Johnson is pledging £1.8 billion for hospital upgrading, except that nobody believes him. Time will tell.

Andy arriving at Warlingham Green...

* I visited Miami in 2007 to attend SNAXPO, a conference and exposition about the snacks industry in the USA.  I was staying on North Hollywood beach in a hotel that was yards from the sea and was with a colleague, Nick Thorp, who would later join Andy and I on one of the Black Horse bike rides.

Sunday - to the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

On Saturday it rained all day. It was that horrible, persistent, constant drizzle, interspersed with heavier downpours. Outside everything was wet and dripping and the skies were grey; gone was the clear, blue skies of the week just past when the UK sizzled in record temperatures: it was something like 38 degrees, the hottest ever, but that all changed on Saturday morning. I was up at 0600hrs, looking out of the window at a puddle on next door's flat-roofed extension. Rain was hammering down. I immediately sent Andy an abort text, but hesitated slightly, thinking that perhaps I should wait to see how things look at 0700hrs. But I sent the abort as the rain had its slippers on and was planning to hang around. It never stopped and I resigned myself to not going out. Instead, I lolled about fretting about this and that (holidays, money, the usual things) and then later I discovered that Andy had gone out! I couldn't believe it at first, but he'd gone out in the pouring rain and was adventurous enough to consider a ride to Westerham, the slow way! In the end, having stopped at the bus stop to shelter from the storm, I think he decided to head for home and, let's be straight here, he was soaked through, but not cold, he later told me. I guess respect is due for this, he's either a legend or a fool and I'm going to opt for the former.

Andy braved the rain on Saturday and I think he's bought a new bike...

Later I checked out my iphone to see what the weather had in store for Sunday. There was a white cloud, but fortunately no blue rain coming out of it; fine, it was going to be an overcast day, but at least I'd get a ride in. And sure enough, the next morning was grey but dry, although it had rained overnight, I think. I met Andy on the Green and we headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop the slow way. As we cycled along, Andy told me about his ride in the rain on Saturday as we weaved our way around the country lanes, down Hesiers Hill and up Beddlestead. The bushes and shrubs on either side of the road had grown considerably and at places they poured onto the road. There were a few Lycra monkeys around. We reached our destination and out came the tea and biscuits, although I've given up the Belvitas. We sat there, as we always do, making small talk, watching passing cyclists and motorists and then, after our two cups of tea, we jumped back on the bikes and headed home, Andy rode along the The Ridge while I took the 269 heading towards Warlingham. I got home around 0930hrs and, for the first time in a few weeks, I felt energised. It was good to get back on the bike.

Is this Andy's new bike last weekend in Westerham?

No cycling this weekend...

... and I suppose it was all my fault; it certainly wasn't Andy's. On Friday night I went out to meet some friends and while I didn't touch any alcohol - for those who don't know, I haven't touched the stuff for around 21 months - I did indulge in some home-made iced tea. It was wonderful, so much so that I had a couple of glasses and enjoyed every last drop. Later, prior to jumping into the car and driving off into the stormy weather that was Friday night, I also enjoyed a cup of normal tea. Again, very nice, but what I had failed to consider was my caffeine intake. For around the same time I've been off the booze, I've also been off the caffeine. I now drink decaff tea, but not on Friday night. Anyway, I reached home around 2330hrs but wasn't feeling in the slightest bit tired or weary. I decided not to go to bed, but to watch a movie, Man Up, with Simon Pegg. No, it's not my type of film at all, but I wanted to see what the director made of an essentially very simple scenario (man goes on blind date with the wrong girl but ends up falling in love). Look, it was fine, let's leave it at that. But I was still buzzing and decided to get on the computer, check things out. By the time I marched upstairs to bed, still wired, it was approaching 0200hrs. I thought it best to abort and did so there and then.

Andy got to Westerham, but I stayed at home...

For some time now, ever since returning from Dusseldorf, I've had a sore throat and a dry cough. The sore throat was initially very unpleasant and the cough was also not very nice, but they've both persisted. In the middle of the night, just after midnight, I awoke with a coughing fit. In the end I had to get out of bed and head downstairs to make some tea (this time decaff). I turned on the computer, checked out the BBC website (Iran had seized a British ship in the Middle East) and killed time until I'd finished my tea. I thought about aborting, but decided not to. Best, perhaps, to see how I felt in the morning. My alarm went off at 0600hrs and I wasn't feeling good at all. I decided to abort and climb back into bed, eventually falling asleep and then waking around 0900hrs. I needed the sleep, put it that way, but, as usual, the weather was fantastic and I missed out on a ride. Andy posted a photo on Twitter: he'd gone to Westerham, where I was planning on going had I gone out. Anyway, you can't cry over spilt milk, as my mum says. Well, you can, it's just pointless. So I painted the side gate and sat in the garden catching a few rays and didn't really do much all day. I'm under the weather, feeling weary and it's not good.

I slobbed around all day after finishing the gate. I sat in the garden reading the Rough Guide to Cult Fiction, a great read. I've done the crossword (nothing too challenging, just the Waitrose Weekend magazine) and the only clue I didn't get was the name for a baby salmon. Any clues?

Here's to next week's ride.

The Tudor Rose is closed, there's no tea for Sunday's ride...

First, when we arrived in Westerham fully expecting to eat a massive breakfast, we found one of the Tudor Rose waitresses sitting on the green. She'd only got up because she heard me exclaiming that the restaurant was closed. It's not normally closed, but the door was locked, the lights were off, the tables had chairs resting on top of them. Why wasn't it open? According to the waitress, the only person with a key hadn't turned up. She didn't seem to know why. "It doesn't matter," I said, but it did matter. Andy and I rarely have breakfast in Westerham and we'd decided that today we would do just that: ride to Westerham and eat a hearty breakfast. But it was not to be. We skulked off. The Italian caff was also closed, leaving us with one option: the Costa Coffee. We don't like Costa because it charges a fortune for not very much, like all coffee chains. In fact, we rarely ride into Oxted because we know we'll end up paying the best part of a tenner for a cup of tea. But now there was no alternative. We found a table outside and I went in and ordered. "Two teas and, er... two Bakewell tarts," said I. "That'll be £50,000," said the woman behind the counter. Actually, she said "That'll be £8.80," and I placed my debit card on the machine until it beeped. Then there was that monotonous wait while another person pieced the order together: the cups, the saucers, filling the two small white teapots with water, adding the teabags and then retrieving the Bakewell tarts from the counter display. I nearly dropped the lot, thanks to a pillar behind me that I hadn't noticed, but all was well and soon I was outside, placing the tray of goodies on the table and taking a seat.

Tea and Bakewell tarts, Costa, Westerham

The waitress from the Tudor Rose was back on the green waiting for the person to arrive with the key, but every now and then she'd get up and come back towards the Costa, go inside and then reappear again. We continued to eat our tarts and sip our teas and very pleasant it was too, until it was time to go, that is. Around 0845 we headed off up the hill and it was pretty painless. We parted at the Ridge and I rode the length of the 269 without resorting to the off-road path. I was home around 0945 and then drove off into deepest Sussex for the day. It had been a great ride and good weather too.

Our bikes outside Costa, Westerham

Sunday the weather was poor. It was spitting rain and then the spits turned to drizzly rain, but it was fairly warm out so it didn't matter. We were both running later. Earlier, Andy had texted me saying just that, he was running later. I texted back. "So am I, can't find the top to the flask." And I never did find it and eventually resorted to the fact that there would be no tea. We both arrived at the green at 0745hrs and decided to head for the bus stop the slow way. "It won't be the same without tea," I said. "It's more than just tea," said Andy and we rode off along the Limpsfield Road.

Warlingham Green on Saturday morning. Pic by Andy Smith

As the rain drizzled down we talked about the recent Purley stabbings and I said that I remembered when I was a kid, everybody had knives, pen knives or even flick knives, but there was never any knife-related violence. Beddlestead Lane is mentally and physically challenging, but today it was fine and soon we found ourselves on Clarks Lane and making the left turn towards the bus stop. When we got there we knew there was no tea to drink. I broke my 'no biscuits' rule and ate two of Andy's Belvitas and then we looked at the long grass in front of us. "We can't even flick our tea bags," I said.

A mug but no tea at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic: Andy Smith

With no tea to drink - we normally have two cups each - we cut our stay at the bus stop short and headed for home, Andy parting at the Ridge and me heading down the 269. Again, I didn't opt for the off-road path and reached home at 0920hrs.

Saturday's ride was great, but Sunday's was marred by the rain and the lack of tea, but all-in-all, both rides were alright and we managed almost 40 miles of riding.

On the news front, it's being reported that Donald Trump pulled out of the Iran nuclear deal purely to spite Barack Obama. Serena Williams lost the Wimbledon final and there's more fall-out from the Kim Darroch affair involving press freedom.

To Woodmansterne Green to see Bon and then mum's, but rained off on Sunday

The sun was shining on Saturday morning and it was perfect cycling weather. I left the house around 0720hrs and headed for Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. The heat made the ride a pleasant one and I followed the usual route along Foxley Lane. Bon cycled down the road to meet me as I rode towards the green and we simply wandered about chatting about this and that and, of course, drinking tea.

When Bon left I carried on towards Carshalton. I was on my way to mum's house. Within seconds of arriving, a man dropped by to measure up her kitchen door, she's having a new aluminium one fitted in a week or two.

Recent pic of mum

While I was there I enjoyed a couple of slices of fruit cake (I can't help myself) and a couple of Twix fingers, but then cycling's a form of exercise that demands food.

The ride home, again following the usual route (see previous 'round to mum's' posts) was very pleasant, although tackling the south face of West Hill is always a bit daunting. I was home around 1100hrs and spent the rest of the day slobbing around, chilling in the back garden, not doing that much.

Strangely, Sunday's ride was rained off. Bon sent me an abort text. I thought the rain would stop and the sun would come out, and it did, but not until late afternoon.

All day I've felt a little down in the dumps and gradually a sore throat presented itself. I sat and watched Ben Fogle in Antarctica and then Peter Davidson and Christopher Timothy driving around the Scottish Highlands in a blue Morgan.

It is now Monday morning, and any thoughts I had of trying to cycle 10 miles before work have been put on the back burner, thanks to the sore throat. I'm even considering taking the day off sick, but I'm not sure if I feel THAT bad. It takes a lot for me to take a day off sick from work. There's no LemSip in the house (their never is when I need it) so I might just make myself a second cup of tea.

No cycling this weekend...

I can't blame the weather. Alright, I can blame a week in Dusseldorf for taking it easy on Saturday morning, although I had planned to ride over Woodmansterne way to meet Bon. We hadn't arranged anything, but I could have called him or left a text and that way I would have committed myself. But I didn't call or text. In fact, sitting here now, at 1838hrs on a Sunday evening, Kylie Minogue performing at Glastonbury - "Put your hand on your heart and tell me" - I'm feeling a bit ashamed of myself for doing absolutely no exercise. I've slobbed about, I've taken the car over to mum's, eaten cake and biscuits, then changed a pair of trousers in M&S and there's not much else I can remember about Saturday.

As for Sunday, I had a golden opportunity to go cycling, but decided that a planned drive into darkest Sussex took preference and, ultimately, I kept the bike under lock and key. Once I'd abandoned the proper ride, which would have been to meet Bon on Woodmansterne Green, all that was left was riding the Woodland Trek. Well, I sent Bon a text, but he'd had a rough night and didn't fancy it. I texted back to say that I had some driving to do so perhaps cycling was a bad idea. Let's meet next Saturday, that seemed like the best policy.

Suddenly I felt 'off the hook'. I mooched around the house, still considering the aforementioned Woodland Trek, but time was ticking, time was running out. I didn't go anywhere, other than deepest Sussex in the car. On the way back I was feeling sleepy and had to stop in huge Tesco store in Pulborough where the shelves were empty in places. I bought a bottle of mineral water and a Bounty and miraculously I was able to drive again. This happened once before; I was feeling sleepy so I ate a Bounty and was instantly revived. Anyway, I got home otherwise I wouldn't be writing this. Kylie's still on and, to be honest, she's putting in a pretty lame performance. Even when Nick Cave joined her on stage, it was underwhelming.

Reading a great book at the moment, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Brilliant, but I'm only on Chapter Four so I'll keep you all posted. I'm also reading Another Fine Mess by Tim Moore, which is all about a journey across America, through Trump's America no less, in a Ford Model T.

What's happening in the world? The Tory party leadership battle continues with two contenders left in the race, the obese buffoon that is Boris Johnson and the slightly more palatable Jeremy Hunt. I don't want either to win, but if I had to make a choice it would be Hunt. Also in the news, a pregnant woman was stabbed and killed in Thornton Heath, near Croydon, Surrey. The baby is in a critical condition in hospital. I've mentioned Glastonbury. Last night's performance by the Killers was good, especially when the Pet Shop Boys and then Johnny Marr appeared, but I haven't really been watching it. Kylie is still on, getting emotional. Worse still, that awful Chris Martin has just joined her on stage. That bloke is always gate-crashing other people's acts and he's so boring, not very rock and roll is what I'm saying. Get off the stage, you cock! I can't stand him or Coldplay. One person we should all try to get out of heads and minds is Chris Martin, the cappuccino 'rocker', the skinny latte of establishment rock, the clean-cut nob cheese of popular music. Oh, I do hope Coldplay won't be performing, I really do.

Church bells are ringing out from the Glasto stage and Kylie's performance is now confirmed as absolute girly bollocks. Especially for you, I wanna let you know what I was going through...no!!! Anything but that song. I suppose Donovan will be waltzing on to the stage in a second, let's hope not. Look, I'm signing off, it's all too depressing.

On the 0817hrs Dusseldorf to Paris Nord train (heading for Brussels)...

When I woke up this morning it was only 57 degrees Fahrenheit. Most of the week it’s been in the high eighties. That’s not to say it won’t get hotter as the day progresses. I’m on board the 0817 train to Paris Nord, although I’m getting off at Brussels Midi. I’m sitting in seat 14, coach 22, right at the back of the train, but the carriage is virtually empty, the seat wide and I’m as happy as Larry looking out at the passing landscape.

One thing I noticed on the journey from Brussels to Dusseldorf - and I’m now reminded of as the train slows down as we arrive in Cologne - is that the Germans really love their allotments. I’ve never seen such elaborate sheds, some sporting their own back gardens, most with net curtains; the Germans really make themselves at home and their sheds could easily double as houses, places where people could live.

We have stopped on a railway bridge over the Rhine, right in the middle. I remember walking over this bridge back in 2007, or thereabouts, but I can’t remember exactly why I was in Cologne, although it was probably something to do with the international potato processing industry or food manufacturing in some shape or form.

We have arrived in Cologne and loads of people are now standing to my right with their suitcases. To my immediate right is a south east Asian couple are trying to put their massive suitcases in the racks over the seats. Miraculously, they’ve succeeded and now a steady flow of people are pushing their suitcases in front of them. Just when I thought the journey was going to be silent, I can hear the apologies. “I’m so sorry”, “excuse me, sir” and “sorry about that”. These are all holidaymakers in shorts and tee-shirts and trainers, a world alien to me.

The train is edging out of the platform, we pass the Merian Hotel and the backs of apartment blocks and then Cologne Hansaring station on which more holidaymakers stand waiting for a train. The train picks up speed and it won’t be long before we leave the city behind.

The guards have been round checking the tickets, always a nervous moment for me for some reason, but all my documents were in order and now the food trolley, but I want for nothing; I’ve eaten breakfast and that’s enough until I reach Brussels Midi. Although I’ve just heard it’s complimentary and I have the choice of sweet or salty. No, I must resist and I do so easily - until I’m offered a croissant. “Orange joose, multi-vitamin?” He’s moved up the carriage as we pass through a town and back into the fields.

Outside the sun is shining, the wind farms are still and the skies are blue apart from one solitary cloud expanding like ink on blotting paper as it splurges from some kind of industrial plant. It’s lovely out there. Everything is bathed in sunshine, everything is still, blinds are down, umbrellas are up. All is quiet.

Some of the passengers are tucking in to their breakfasts, sipping water or fruit juice, and I’m looking out of the window at the woods where all is still.

I was up at 0600hrs this morning and I’d had a fairly good sleep, mainly because I was packing stuff away last night and didn’t hit the sack until around midnight. Compared to earlier in the week the heat of the night had gone, but I kept the windows open as it was nice to listen to the city before nodding off to sleep. I was in the hotel breakfast room at just gone 0630 having showered and shaved last night in order to save time in the morning. Mint tea, yoghurt, a couple of mini pastries, cereal and that was my lot. No scrambled egg or fresh fruit this morning. Check-out was quick and soon I found myself on the railway station passing the time by reading English newspapers. The very thought of going back there depressed me: Boris Johnson, Brexit and all those associated with it. I’ve avoided watching television all week and my only contact with the UK has been through the BBC website.

Ebbsfleet, I'm back in the UK and not happy about it...

We’re in Aachen. After a short stop the train lurches out of the station and I fall asleep only to awake at Liege, but I thought we might have arrived in Brussels. Panicking slightly, but knowing deep down that we can’t possibly be there just yet, I jumped up and asked the guard. “Liege, Belgium,” he says and with a sigh of relief I went back to my seat. It’s 0953hrs and we’re due to arrive in Brussels at 1035. 

Trains always make me sleepy, but that’s what’s nice about them. Liege is nice too, what I can see of it. The town is surrounded by wooded hills, but it’s a picturesque sort of place with tall, narrow, close-knit townhouses. And now we’re passing through Ans. Within seconds there are fields and once again the sleepy, sunny stillness returns and I am reminded of what my life knows as ‘the magical year’, 1989, when all was good with the world, the Berlin Wall came down and I enjoyed a fantastic holiday in Menton, South of France. We travelled there by train and I remember the return journey when the weather was similar to what it is now. This was before the recession hit and redundancy loomed and I felt angry with the world for the first time in my life. Up until the start of 1990 I had no real gripes with my position in the world, but after 1990 things started to go wrong and the United Kingdom of today was born and by that I mean a distrustful place full of career politicians and angry, bigoted people. Perhaps for others this awful world had arrived earlier, who knows? But for me, 1989 was the last of the good years, the end, if you like, of innocence. After 1989 I lost friends, I lost jobs and I lost respect, there was nothing but uncertainty in all spheres of life and it has continued physically, mentally, politically and professionally.

Cake and a mug of ginger orange tea...

Travelling through Europe as I am right now on a Thalys train, through the fields and towns and sitting here in comfort writing and admiring the passing countryside, I find it odd to think that my country, the United Kingdom, has voted to leave the European Union. When I arrived at Dusseldorf Hbf this morning I was wondering if there was any way of giving up my British citizenship and just becoming a ‘European’ of no fixed abode, meaning not British, not French, not German, just a European. I think I’d simply like to stop being British, it’s such a pile of poo, especially if it’s going to be headed up by that huge, obese buffoon, Boris Johnson. The thought of that oaf representing me is abhorent. It makes me angry, although I think the real cause of my anger right now is the fact that I’m going home. Sooner or later I’ll be returning to the United Kingdom and I’m not happy about it.

Trendy, yes, but a great piece of cake!

When I arrived at Brussels Midi I found that I had to pay to take a piss. I remember reading somewhere, I think it was Chomsky, who said ‘they’ - the man - would charge for the air we breathe if there was a way. They make it complicated here just to take a wazz. First you have to buy a token and then insert the token in the wall and magically a door opens. I’m sitting in a cafe now, a place with a weird name, like EXKI It’s a bit trendy, but not too much and I’ve just purchased an excellent slice of cake and a ginger orange with vanilla tea, it’s great! I’ve decided that for the month of July, no cake, no chocolates, no biscuits. Thirty one days of abstinence should sort me out. I feel as if I’m putting on weight so all the crap has to stop, pure and simple.

In Dusseldorf...in the sweltering heat

I arrived in Dusseldorf around 2000hrs and walked the short distance to my hotel, the Novum Madison. Check-in was reasonably straightforward, although I hadn't bought in to their breakfast offering. This I quickly rectified and was surprised to be given a key with the number of my room on a blue piece of plastic or Perspex or whatever it's made from.

Room 416, Novum Madison, Dusseldorf

Reaching the room proved a little confusing. In fact, even now, I'm not exactly sure what floor I'm on. I pressed the button in the lift for the fourth floor, assuming room 416 would be on the fourth floor, but it's confusing. Anyway, eventually, I got there and found a relatively basic room with pine furniture, a safe that doesn't open, probably because the previous guest left it that way. I was reminded of my recent trip to Pittsburgh and decided not to mention the safe to the guys on reception. Who knows where I'd end up later in the week?

The view from room 416, Novum Madison

I dropped off my bags and headed straight for my favourite restaurant, which is literally a five-minute walk away: Parma ham with melon (I know, very seventies, very droll, but I fancied it) a non-alcohol beer and pasta arrabiatta. They'd run out of non-alcohol beer, probably on account of the hot weather, so I ordered a bottle of mineral water instead and decided not to have dessert. The bill was only 30.10 Euros.

There's an entrance to my hotel across the road from the restaurant, very convenient, I thought, and when I reached the lifts I decided it would be less confusing to take the stairs and possibly less hassle too. The lift appears to be slow and it takes an age from when I press the button for my floor for the doors to close, that's another reason why I hopped out and took the stairs. Besides, the exercise will do me good, I thought, as I started the climb.

Much needed...

Back in the room, I flicked through the television channels, but found nothing in English, even The Big Bang Theory was dubbed over in German and it was weird to see Sheldon Cooper speaking a foreign language. It was around 2100hrs that I hit the sack. I'd left the window open because of the heat and listened to the city: the sound of passing cars, the distant conversation of anonymous individuals on the streets below, the rumblings of trams. I slept through until around 0400hrs and then lie there awake listening to the outside world. At one stage I got up and texted a colleague. "It's fucking hot". That was at 0427, before I decided to go back to bed. The birds started to tweet outside, but it was still dark. Soon it lightened up and now I sit here writing this at 0610hrs. Breakfast is served from 0630 so I'm going to take shower and head on down there.

The heat continued throughout the day. It was so hot that I had to return to my hotel room for another shower in the late afternoon and change my shirt, and then I headed back to the other side of town to continue my working day, which didn't end until gone 2100hrs. I took a taxi back to the hotel and had an enjoyable conversation with the driver. He was a photographer and a cab driver and had been doing the latter for some 20 years. He enjoyed his job and was currently working a five-day week because of a big convention in town, the one I was attending. He lived in Leeds for two years and knew the Yorkshire region well. I told him I loved Dusseldorf and would love to live in the city, which he took as a compliment. It is a great place, very friendly.

Also much needed...

I couldn't stay in the room for long, it was far too hot and there was no air-con. Fortunately, it's possible to open the windows, but I still had to get out and decided to go for a walk as the daylight faded. I found myself in a small supermarket, Rewe, and wandered around, checking out peppermint tea and bars of chocolate, but not really thinking about the hot night ahead. I left empty-handed and had to return to buy two huge bottles of Felsensteiner 'medium' mineral water. The 'medium' refers to the fizziness, which is subtle.

The area around the hotel is not the best, but then anywhere near a railway station is normally pretty grim. There were sex shops for all persuasions and table dancing joints and places of that ilk, not to forget a few shady characters sitting on benches alone or congregating in groups. But they didn't seem to bother anybody and more normal people mingled in the twilight, drinking or dining alfresco outside the occasional bar or cafe. Nothing appealed to me, apart from a bunch of bananas and the mint tea. I only bought the water, which I am now sipping in order to rehydrate. I've been drinking water all day long and I'll probably repeat the process tomorrow. I'm going to hit the sack, but you might hear from me again if getting to sleep in the heat proves problematic.

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