To Oxted....

I hadn't been to Oxted for a while as the hill coming out is always a little daunting but 100% achievable. I've been doing shorter rides, some non-stop, others a little closer to home, like ending up at the Sheep Shed and enjoying a cup of English breakfast tea and an almond croissant.Today I left the house without really thinking about where I was going. I might well have done another non-stop ride via St. Leonard's church and Washpond Lane, a kind of twist on the conventional Weeble involving Beech Farm Road and Botley Hill and it is there, of course, that I have discovered the Sheep Shed, a perfect venue for a hot day.

The Sheep Shed, Botley Hill

The weather has stepped up a little lately with plenty of hot sunny days and weekends, which is great as there's been a lot of rain too, all very depressing. So I'm riding the 269 wondering what to do and I'm thinking I'll just turn at the roundabout at Botley Hill and come straight back, 14 miles, that's good enough, I thought, but Oxted was nagging at me and as I reached the roundabout I thought fuck it and pedalled down Titsey, picking up speed at the bottom and soaring into Oxted whilst considering the coffee shop in Limpsfield (Coffee at Kiwi House). It was, therefore, a last minute decision to turn right and not follow the road round into Limpsfield village. Instead I headed along Granville and into Oxted High Street, the perfect place to be on a sunny Saturday morning.

There's plenty of choice: Starbucks, Costa, Coughlan's, and, of course, Caffe Nero at the top on the left and, as always, I opted for the latter. There's something very pleasant about spending around 30 minutes sitting outside Caffe Nero on a sunny Saturday morning, people watching, and that's just what I did before checking out the charity shop and then riding home.

All the way to the hill I kept thinking of ways out of it. I considered turning right on Pilgrim's Lane and then taking a left a long way down the road and coming back as if I'd been to Westerham. I thought about White Lane, but realised, obviously, that that would be even more difficult and soon the hill was upon me and, as always, I took it in my stride.

I decided later not to turn right on Beech Farm Road as I have been doing of late (to increase the mileage, but mainly to avoid the dangerous bit of the 269 (the last bit before reaching Warlingham). Instead I just pressed ahead and all was well. I took me roughly one hour from Oxted to home

To Tatsfield Village...

 My last couple of rides have been more exhilarating than the many which have gone before; I don't know what it is, I feel lighter, I stand up on the pedals and swing the bike from side-to-side on the inclines, more so than I have been doing of late. I figure it might have something to do with losing a bit of weight or being on a slight downward spiral with my weight that has made me lighter and, therefore, more energetic and inclined, perhaps, to ride faster. Today was a great example of this new thing: earlier this morning I'd received a text from Andy asking me to get there on time as he had until 0930 before he had to ride to Sidcup in South East London to see his mum. These days, Andy rides everywhere, no journey is too far. I found myself thinking how he must be saving a fair bit of money through not driving or taking buses and trains. I should at least be riding three times a week, but I'm not, I'm back to riding twice a week, which needs to be upped, by at least one ride.

Library image of the village pond in Tatsfield...

But getting back to today's ride. I left the house around 0755hrs and reached Tatsfield Village by 0850, Sheree's wasn't even open and Andy nowhere to be seen. For me this was great: I'd beaten Andy to Sheree's and I was feeling good. The truth of the matter is that I've been laying off the bread, just two slices per day, no more. In the past I could easily consume six to eight, possibly even 10 slices per day with honey in the morning and possibly Marmite (or more honey or even marmalade) in the evenings. So I'm feeling good about myself and I'm reluctant to bring out the scales just in case I haven't lost any weight. That realisation would be disappointing, demoralising and depressing, the three Ds.

At Sheree's we sat outside in the early heat of the day, Andy with his soya latte and vegan almond croissant, me with nothing but a pot of tea and a small Biscoff-like biscuit. We talked about Andy's trip next year to Stonehenge and the Isle of Wight and again I found myself thinking how he sure gets around on two wheels. Nothing phases him. I started thinking of my own holidays and how, going back into the distant past, I used to go on two-week vacations and it would only cost around £1,800 quid, plus a bit of spending money. These days nobody goes away for a fortnight anymore and I found myself wondering why that would be, but not for long. These days it's just a week and it costs around three to four grand! Unless you go to an Air BnB villa but the costs still mount him, the good old days have well and truly left the building. Andy says you have to take into consideration inflation and he's right. I'll admit I never did consider it although of course it's part of the problem. I have trouble parting with such a huge sum of money for what ultimately becomes a few snaps on my iphone that eventually get deleted and then the memory fades and I'm left with nothing but a debt. Admittedly (as I've said many times) most people save for their holidays, put down a small deposit at the beginning of the year and that way the horror of parting with so much money is spread over a number of months. But not me. I suddenly go on holiday on a whim and have to pay the full tariff, no discounts. I start to feel miffed about this and sometimes forget about a holiday altogether although, having not had a vacation since 2019 when I went to the USA (not really a holiday it has to be said) I am now in dire need of one. I often look at passing fields from a train or even neatly manicured lawns as I pass them by on the bike and imagine myself on a deckchair just relaxing, reading, listening to the radio, anything but what I seem to be doing all the time: thinking about work or fretting about something or other. I need some downtime, especially at the moment with everything else that's being going on with mum (see previous posts).

Anyway, enough of that. I'm looking at taking a week off, very soon. Places like Spain and Greece have been bandied around and it looks as if finally we'll get away and I'll be able to sit by a pool somewhere chilling out. I'm planning on leaving the iphone at home to avoid the temptation of looking at my email, I want to be totally cut adrift from it all for one week, just soaking up a few rays, eating decent food (I always eat decent food) and just doing bugger all without spotting an unread WhatsApp message.

Whenever I watch a holiday ad on the TV it always seems alien to me, not something I do, a world inhabited by other people with little to do. 

It's been a very hot day today. The ride was early enough in the morning not to be unpleasant and when I reached home I chilled in the garden, drinking tea and just relaxing before a trip to a place called Ightham Mote where a cappuccino and a cookie was most welcomed followed by a tour of the house, which, even if I'm not the sort of person to enjoy trips around National Trust properties, was of great interest, being in a place that's been around since 1330AD and probably earlier. To be honest, though, I much prefer the cafes, the almond croissants, the carrot cake, the coffee and walnut cake, the Cornish pasties and so on, those and perhaps a walk around the grounds where I don't have to listen to some guide telling me about the life of one Frederik Von Hausen, a fictional character I invented who sums up the sort of people that used to own these impressive pieces of architecture that are dotted around the United Kingdom.

I'm now sitting indoors blogging. I'm kind of glad I'm doing this as I haven't been writing a great deal of late and I need to get back into it.

I didn't realise that Andy has a tattoo, which is mildly embarrassing as I started dissing people with tattoos only to discover that Andy had recently had one done in memory of his wife Marcia. I felt a bit of fool it has to be said. Some years ago now Andy and I used to have a joke about dissing the pope only to discover that he was standing right behind us. It was kind of like that, but Andy having a tattoo is a one-off, he's not planning a sleeve or any unsightly tattoos on his calves or chest, which is good to know. Basically, Andy's not the sort of person to have a tattoo, that's why I felt safe dissing people who do, but I was wrong and I'm sure he forgives me.

This and that...

Met Andy on Saturday at Sheree's Tea Room in Tatsfield. We chatted about many things, but the best part of the conversation was when we talked about Andy's school trip to, well, everywhere by the sounds of it. He took a boat across the Bay of Biscay in a storm and in the same boat went to the Azores, although Andy couldn't remember much about the Azores, a place I'd like to visit. I wonder if you can go on holiday to the Azores? Probably. On the same trip, Andy went to Morocco and, well, sounds like it was a great trip if you ask me.

Andy and I had been chatting about travelling by train through Europe to Spain and that's how we got on to the Bay of Biscay and Andy's school trip. I had been planning on a business trip to Barcelona and during my research discovered that there was only £200 between flying there and taking the train. Unfortunately, the trip had to be cancelled (or rather postponed) but it'll be back on the agenda in September and my plan is to take the train. Andy's already made the journey.

Andy-related stuff has kept me going this weekend. I'd admit I'd forgotten he was going to tackle the Dunwich Dynamo, a 120-mile free ride from Hackney in London to Dunwich on the Suffolk coast - at night time. The ride goes through the night and Andy tells me he finished around 0400hrs, adding that it wasn't as bad as he thought it would be. Miraculously, he rode on from Dunwich for 30 miles, presumably to where he was planning to spend the night, but what a guy! Well done, Andy. I can't wait to read about it on your blog.

My ride to Tatsfield had been fine, a little bit of fine rain (or was it moisture from the early morning fog?) but generally the ride was great. As always, Andy was there before me but I'm guessing just before me as his coffee had yet to be delivered to the table. I ordered a tea. Andy said that Sheree had forgotten to order his vegan pastry - shame on her! - but all seemed well. Andy said Sheree's Tearooms was sanctuary and I know just what he means. In many ways it's a strange place, full of crazy teapots and gift items, like scented candles and soft toys, but it's great place for a much-welcomed pot of tea after a bike ride, albeit a short one of around eight miles.

Ken, one of Sheree's regulars, was there wearing, it has to be said, a great shirt. He's in his eighties but he's still looking good. The place was very different on a Saturday. We're normally there on a Sunday when things are fairly peaceful, but on Saturday there are lots of people around buying their shopping, plenty of chit chat and general bustle, which livened the place up a little bit. I ordered a second pot of tea and another latte for Andy and we sat there chatting before heading off - Andy preparing for the Dunwich Dynamo and me just going home to prepare for visits to see mum in hospital. There's nothing wrong with her, but she's being kept in to build up her strength and deal with frailty issues. 

... and now it's almost a week later. I've been at work all week (nothing new there!) but today I was in London for a lunch with a colleague from Germany. Olivo in Eccleston Street was good, but this was a business meeting and it went well. We discussed next year's conference (the one I organise every year). The conference in question takes a lot of work and I've started early trying to pull together a programme. It's going to mean some trips to get everybody on side (not that anybody isn't onside). But enough of work talk. I left the restaurant around 3pm and there was no point going back to work.I can't remember what time I reached home, something like 5pm or 5.30pm. I went to Coco & Nut for a cup of tea and some banana bread and then walked home. Right now I'm watching the French Olympics opening ceremony, it's quite impressive and there are some very arty bits in between the parade of athletes on boats on the Seine.

I was going to see mum in hospital, but I'll be there tomorrow and people have been up to see her today. She's doing alright according to reports on WhatsApp.

The weather has been good today, but generally not brilliant. It's easily been the worst summer for some time.

I'm currently reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore, better make that I'm still reading Sonic Life, it's a big book but a good book, lots of interesting insights about the band and the US no wave scene in New York in the seventies and eighties. When I finish it, I'm planning on doing another A-Z challenge, reading a book for every letter of the alphabet from A through to Z. It's a good exercise as it introduces me to new novelists; not new in the sense that they've just written whatever it is I'm going to read, but new in the sense of new to me. One of the rules is that I'm not allowed to read any author I have read before - and believe me that leaves me with plenty of choice! For my letter A I'm thinking about Eric Ambler, but nothing is set in stone yet. I'm not allowed to listen to anybody's recommendation and it has to be a totally random exercise. That said, I do have a book that I'm allowed to use as reference, the Rough Guide to Cult Fiction.

Anyway, I'm off to read Andy's blog about his mammoth ride, that of the Dunwich Dynamo. Andy will be back at Sheree's on Sunday so I'll be looking forward to seeing him.

The joys of cycling!

Cycling merrily along British roads, I turned left on to the Limpsfield Road, quite safely, when a white van man slowed alongside me.

Van man: "What do you think you're doing, you silly cunt!"

Me: "Go fuck yourself!"

Van man: "Fuck off yourself!"

Me: "Yer bald-headed cunt! Brexit wanker! Piss off!"

And at that point he rolled up his window and drove off in a huff.

A few thoughts on mental health and politics

Lots to discuss, but perhaps a bit about my mental health first. Today, now, as I sit here at 2058hrs on a Monday evening, I feel good - good enough to write something - I feel okay and by that I mean I don't have bouts of butterflies in my stomach or that awful feeling that something terrible might be happening, commonly known, I'm told, as a panic attack, something I've been subjected to ever since my sister passed away, or rather while she was in the process of passing away. I remember clearly, on the day she died, on 2nd December 2023, leaving the hospital with my niece and my brother and almost finding it impossible to drive them round to mum's. Seriously, it wasn't good, but it subsided and then it would return or it might not return until the following day but it was always around. I had it yesterday for a short while and it was such that I said no, I wasn't up to driving somewhere (Forest Row near East Grinstead) only to discover a few moments later that, actually, I was alright, and then off we went and I never had any problems. So, anyway, here I am, in fine fettle, just had a chat with the illustrious illustrator (my pal Geoff) about politics and guitars and, well, the conversation ended up with a chat about IZAL medicated toilet paper (I brought it up) and that came about because Geoff was talking about how Jimmy Hendrix, on Crosstown Traffic, used a comb and some tracing paper, which makes a sound similar to a gazoo, to achieve a certain sound. We'd been talking about Duane Eddy's Peter Gunne and, well, either way we ended up talking about bog roll, mainly because I remember, as a kid, using a comb and some IZAL medicated toilet paper to make the sound of a gazoo. In my school days, if you needed a poo you'd have the indignity of using IZAL medicated toilet paper and let's just say that it wasn't a very pleasant experience. It seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet and replaced by something a little more comfortable.

So, yes, the conversation nose-dived from politics and talking about James O'Brien's book How They Broke Britain to discussing the awfulness of IZAL medicated toilet paper.

But getting back to my mental state (which is fine). I just seem be having these weird panic attacks which date back to my sister's untimely and tragic death just before Christmas last year and now, of course, my mum having all these falls in her house, which have led to the attacks continuing. I'm fine when I'm on the bike, I'm fine at work or on the train to and from work and I'm fine now, at home, at 2109hrs. My question is this: how come I'm okay now, but I wasn't okay for a lot of yesterday? What have I done today that I hadn't done yesterday, what had I been eating yesterday that I've avoided today? Well, cake springs to mind. Perhaps it's got something to do with sugar, I don't know. I even had a cappuccino on Saturday, that's always a no-no for me. Coffee often makes me feel a little weird. But earlier I said I didn't experience any panic attacks whilst on the bike on Sunday (yesterday) but I was getting it slightly in Sheree's for some reason. It's a very odd thing. Perhaps today I've tried to steer clear of subjects that are stressful, like my mum, but let's leave it there as I don't want to start feeling strange again. Right now, I'm fine, and that's the main thing.

So what else? Politics, of course. For a start, I'm glad the Tories were absolutely trounced on Thursday last week. Labour is now in power under the leadership of Sir Keir Starmer, and all I can say about the Tories is good riddance. We had 14 years of crap from the Tories from David Cameron onwards. In fact, Cameron set the ball in motion for Brexit and then, once achieved, he resigned and the country was subjected to a load of disgusting and incompetent Tory Leaders: Theresa May (she wasn't too bad) Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and, of course, Rishi Sunak. But how awful have the Tories been? Extremely awful. Austerity under Cameron and Osborne, Theresa May's awful premiership, which involved the whole 'hostile environment' strategy, and then, of course, Bojo, Boris Johnson and the Partygate scandal and other disgusting activities, all the corruption, the row about his wallpaper, the sleaze, I can't remember half of what he got up to, but we all know that he was an out and out liar and eventually he had to go. But then came Liz Truss, who messed up the economy with her mini-budget, which led to her being the prime minister who reigned for the shortest ever time, I think it was 47 days or something absolutely ridiculous. Lastly, Sunak, a multi-millionaire, actually, make that billionaire, a man so out of touch with the people he's supposed to be governing it beggars belief. Well, he's gone, they've all gone, and thank the Lord for that. We've all been waiting ages for the general election and we all voted with our feet when it came. The Labour Party has a stonking majority, the country went from blue to red overnight and many people have been sighing a huge sigh of relief at the thought that they've gone. 

I was glad to see the back of Jacob Rees-Mogg, Grant Schapps, Liz Truss, the list goes on and on and on, but they've gone! The public has spoken and that's what's great about living in a democracy and not a dictatorship. They've gone! But there's more to the politics of stupidity than the Tory party. Take a wider view, there's so much wrong with our political classes, they're just not that good. I've said before that we need "proper politicians" and they're out there, believe me. 

Unfortunately for me, I live in a staunch Tory constituency so my vote for Labour was well and truly wasted, although I shouldn't really think that way, but it's true. To be fair, I suppose that if everybody switched and voted Labour then Chris Philp would be out of the picture, but he's still here as my local MP and he has a position in the shadow cabinet too, and I suppose you have to ask why. Well, in my case it's, as I say, because I live in a staunch Tory constituency and there are people who would vote Tory whatever happened, but there are other situations where it's the individual who carries the weight and not, if you like, the politics. Take, for example, Jeremy Corbyn. Now I know he's not everybody's cup of tea and that he's pretty extreme left wing (which a lot of people don't like) but ultimately the people of Islington North voted for him as an independent candidate because it was him they trusted to do their bidding in Parliament. In short, whatever you think of Corbyn (I like him) he is a proper politican, not a career politican (of which there were many in the Tory Party since 2010) but a genuine individual who the voters want be they Labour or Independent. I'm sure there are Tories who garner the same kind of admiration, because not all Tories are bad people in the same way that not all Labour or Green or Lib-Dem politicians are not worth voting for. I'm sure there are Tory MPs out there who are respected because of who they are and what they have done for their constituents, which makes it all the worse for them when the greater party (the likes of Johnson and Truss and Sunak and others) let the side down and ruin it for genuinely decent people. It's a shame we can bring together the best politicians, the proper politicians and make up a party that serves all, has left and right leanings and compromises where compromise is needed.

Listen, let's talk about stupidity. I'll admit that I'm fairly left leaning in my politics (that's not the stupid bit). But the last thing I want is to have Donald Trump in the White House at the end of the year, with people like Nigel Farage fawning over him like he did the last time. The last thing I want is for that idiot with a daft haircut to throw Ukraine under the bus and side with the Russians and the awful Victor Orban of Hungary. I wish, as I'm sure you'll imagine, that Putin would get the hell out of Ukraine. But it's looking as if the Democrats are going to shoot themselves in the foot by keeping Joe Biden in the job when it's clear that he's going to be regarded by the American public as somebody not up to the job and that means another term for the fucking Donald, the last thing the world needs. So I'd say sort it out now, not later, get somebody else in place and don't let that idiot Trump come back into power again, the man is an imbecile of the highest order. But no, rather than see the threat for what it is, Biden is "not going anywhere" and, therefore, is putting himself over the interests of the American people. What is wrong with him?

The weather in the UK has been atrocious. Really piss poor. Rain, cloud, not nice and it's affected the riding. I didn't go out Saturday morning because it was raining. Fortunately the weather was fine for Sunday so I met Andy as planned at Sheree's. I've been alternating my rides (not deliberately) but in line with the weather. One minute two rides over a weekend, the next just one ride. It's not been good and now I'm definitely going to get swimming sorted out. I know I keep saying I will, but, yeah, in fact, let's not say anything, it's safer.

A strange dream early in the morning...

A strange dream. I was in Berwick upon Tweed and I recall remarking to myself that it was the first place where the surroundings begin to look more Scottish than English and then I was no longer there, but instead I entered some kind of shopping centre looking for somewhere to chill out, a coffee shop perhaps, but I never found one. Instead I was with a woman, a PR woman by all accounts, who was showing me a room. The room had its floor down from where we were standing and there were conveyor belts, two I think, coming up from the ground level of the room. The conveyor on the left had a sleeping back on it. We moved out of the room, or rather I did, leaving the woman there to lock up or something and as I left the room I realised I was in some kind of theatre but without any seats, perhaps it was a school hall with heavy curtains concealing the stage. For some reason I thought it would be funny to hide from the woman behind the drapes, which I did, realising that I was barefooted for some reason and that my right foot was exposed. I quickly pulled it back and awaited the arrival of the woman.

To Stockholm!

The cab arrived at 0715hrs and I was on my way to Gatwick airport's South Terminal to catch a 1015hrs flight to Stockholm (Norwegian Airlines). The weather was changeable: rain one minute, sunshine the next and always cloud, it's been this way for some time and when you consider it's now mid-June, it's not good, certainly not the summer I was expecting.

Arriving at Arlanda airport in Stockholm...

My weekend had been a bit fraught as mum took yet another fall and this time it was recommended that she go to hospital, something that proved to be a complete waste of time as paramedics have previously established that mum is in tip top condition, there was (they said) no advice they could offer her in terms of keeping herself fit and healthy. When I say it was a complete waste of time her going to A&E I can only say that I was right and she should have simply stayed at home and gone to bed. By not doing so, she was left in a corridor on a gurney, not hooked up to anything, and basically left there. She travelled by ambulance to hospital and I followed behind in the car, she got there some time after midnight and was left until gone 0200hrs before being given a blood test followed around 0300hrs by an ECG, none of which she needed and both tests proved there was (again) nothing wrong with her, except that being left in a corridor all night and not getting a good night's sleep did nothing for her wellbeing. I spent the entire night wandering back and forth through interminably long corridors. There were only vending machines available for sustenance and all they contained was junk: fizzy drinks and chocolate bars. In fact, the food offering at St. Helier Hospital in Carshalton, even during daylight hours was piss poor: a Subway for heaven's sake! A Costa was a little better but still, considering it's a hospital, the level of 'healthy' eating was very low. I managed to find a bottle of mineral water but that was it until around 0700hrs when the Costa opened and I could eat a healthy breakfast of granola (or something like it) with raspberry compote and natural yoghurt plus a cup of English Breakfast tea. Prior to that I could find nothing other than a faulty vending machine and the aforementioned machine containing fizzy drinks and chocolate bars.

My Norwegian Airlines flight at the gate at Arlanda

Furthermore, as I said, she was basically left on her own once those tests had been completed, and wait she did, until the morning when a doctor arrived and I had to explain exactly what had happened: a soft fall, they happen a lot, she's already been given a clean bill of health by paramedics and that was it.  I resolved to leave around 0830hrs and I probably hung around for a bit longer, I went to that Costa and then left and went home. I slept a bit during the day on Saturday, but it was a bit like arriving home from a transatlantic flight except that the rule about staying up until the night time of the country you're in didn't apply. In the end I simply lolled around, watched a Planet of the Apes movie, "Caesar is home," and then I hit the sack for real around 2130hrs and managed a full night's sleep before awaking around 0530 and having breakfast ahead of the cab arriving to take me to the airport. I was feeling fine, certainly rested, and the journey to the airport was uneventful. My driver was from Pakistan where, he informed me, it was current 48 degrees (that's hot). He still has brothers living there but has been in the UK a long time, working initially in security at a bar and, for the past decade, as a cab driver, which he enjoys because (as a lot of them say) he's his own boss and can work the hours he chooses.

View from room 3324, Hilton hotel

Getting through security was smooth-running, a quick squirt of some after shave and then it was time for breakfast at the magic Wonder Tree. I chose healthy options, granola with yoghurt and fruit, an English Breakfast tea and a couple of slices of brown toast. I know, all toast is brown, but mine was toasted brown bread with a couple of portion packs of butter. Then the usual waiting game. A visit to the washrooms and then to Gate 14. The flight was delayed due to some mishap or other but eventually we got away, through the cloud and off to Stockholm. It was a reasonable flight, a little bumpy on the climb out of Gatwick but otherwise fine. The weather in Sweden was better than in the UK and after checking in at the Hilton in Slussen we, that is me and my colleague Catherine, went for a stroll around town, stopping at Café Fatöljen (there's supposed to be an accent over the 'a' but I can't find it on my laptop) for, in my case, a cappuccino and a slice of apple pie, actually it was more a kind of apple crumble slice with vanilla cream, much needed. On the flight over a paper cup of tea and a chocolate bar was all I had and all I needed. Dinner later consisted of pasta and tomato sauce, surprisingly good considering we were in a sports bar with sticky laminated menus and a couple of large screen televisions which were showing England's opening game in Euro 24 against Serbia. I left the game at 1-0 and couldn't be bothered to watch any more. As I write this I still don't know the result as when I returned to my hotel I simply couldn't be bothered to watch it. I'm not a football fan and couldn't care less if we won or lost.

Prior to dinner, however, I did take a walk around Stockholm. Not so much a walk, perhaps, but a stroll in the sunshine and it was good. There was something inspiring, something positive, something evocative about the part of the city I wandered through. People were at peace, sitting on very comfortable and reclined park benches, children played, people wandered around enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon and while I was part of it, I realised that I needed something like this myself, a bit of peace and quiet and not thinking too hard about anything. I suppose all I really want is a holiday, a break, a change of scenery, a reboot close to the sea with nothing to do but read and chill out and enjoy just living rather than all the stress and bother that accompanies day-to-day life. In other words, I must book a holiday.

Inside room 3324, Stockholm Hilton, Slussen

I hit the sack around 2300hrs and awoke around 0500hrs, not bad, and now here I sit, at my desk in room 3324 which, I have to say, is fairly pleasant. I've got a week at a conference here, one that I developed, and it's full-on until the end of the week when I fly home. I like Stockholm and I like the Swedes. It's a great city, especially in the warm weather and everything, give or take, takes place in the hotel, even the gala dinner on Tuesday night.

Cappuccino and a slice of apple crumble and custard!

I'm still reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore, a great book, and I'm hoping I'll get time to read more of it during my stay here in Stockholm. Right now it's time to hit the shower and prepare myself for the rest of the day. I'm thinking I might have dinner in the hotel tonight, but I'm not sure as I've spotted an Italian restaurant a short walk from here and that might be a better option.

Apple crumble with vanilla cream in the sunshine...

Two rides...one non-stop, the other to Oxted

For some time now I've been conscious that my blogging frequency has nose-dived. There's no reason really, it just slowed to a virtual stop and only came alive when I travelled somewhere. Perhaps there simply wasn't a great deal to say about cycling. I ride the same routes, they're all pretty much the same every week and I just no longer saw the point of writing about them. I am, of course, wrong, so today, Monday morning (not, perhaps, the best time to be writing a blogpost) I've decided to come back. The aim? To write at least one post per week.

This week I managed two rides. The first, on Saturday, was a non-stop excursion to Botley Hill along the 269 but taking Beech Farm Road on the return ride, diving into Washpond Lane and basically avoiding what I consider a dangerous bit of the 269. Besides, I feel better when I'm off the beaten track and not at the mercy of some of the nutters that populate that rather dangerous stretch of road from Beech Farm Road down towards Warlingham Sainsbury's.

Last week, Caffe Nero, Oxted...

I left late, wondering why all the discipline has gone. It used to be up with the lark (it still is) but then leaving the house at 0700hrs to meet Andy on the green at 0730hrs, but no more, the pandemic changed the way we rode and we started meeting at the destination, which was invariably a Costa or a teashop of some description. Lately, we've been meeting a lot in Sheree's in Tatsfield village. Today, however, was a non-stop ride, no teashops, just constant pedalling from the moment I left the house to the moment I returned.

On the outward ride I was constantly changing my destination in my head. I considered riding to Sheree's in Tatsfield village. I wondered whether I should head towards Westerham having not been there for some time, or whether I should go to Oxted, get a haircut. Biggin Hill sprung to mind as did a simple Washpond Weeble; and there were others, like the Slines Oak Slogger or the route that takes me to Botley and then into Woldingham and home. But no, I settled on riding to Botley and then back along the 269 to Beech Farm Road, then along Washpond Lane, Ledgers Road, Church Lane and back up towards Warlingham Sainsbury's where I turn right on the roundabout and head home along the Limpsfield Road. It was a good ride.

On Sunday it was Oxted, although again I was changing my route constantly, thinking again about Westerham and Tatsfield Village. I even considered the Tatsfield Churchyard as the weather was good, but I didn't have any tea with me so I rode to Oxted where a choice of coffee shops awaited me. Foolishly I went to Costa, which was annoying on many fronts, mainly because it was on the shady side of the street. I should have gone to Caffe Nero and ordered a green tea and an apricot croissant as I will in future because there's nothing nicer than sitting outside that Nero in the sunshine for a half an hour or so before the ride back, which involves Titsey Hill. I always dread Titsey Hill and often consider alternatives like riding into Westerham and then up the more sedate hill to Botley before rejoining the 269, a road that always features on my rides unless I cycle over to mum's, which I also considered but turned down.

I sat outside the Oxted Costa with a large tea and a Bakewell tart watching passers-by and generally chilling out, but with the thought of the ride home nagging me. When I eventually left town and rode towards the hill I started working out alternatives but then started saying to myself "no, you can do it, take the hill, don't butt out just do it". And do it I did. Nothing's ever as bad as you think it is. I rode down the 269 but didn't turn on Beech Farm and soon I was on the Limpsfield Road heading home, getting there around 1230hrs. After lunch I mowed the lawn and then drove over to mum's.

At Venice airport...

31 May: I arrived miles too early and began to wonder whether getting the free transfer from my hotel to Marco Polo airport in Venice had been a good idea. I could have taken the train from Udine to Venice and made my way to the airport from there. Still, mustn't grumble, although, to be fair, I have been moaning quietly to myself as I arrived too early and couldn't get rid of my suitcase. In other words, I've been dragging it around with me. 

Out of the clouds heading for Venice

Nothing has really gone wrong (so far). While I had to establish when my airport transfer would arrive at my hotel (the Allegria in Udine) – and was given two conflicting scenarios (one picking me up from the hotel at 1100hrs, the other at 1020hrs at a specified pick-up point outside of the hotel – everything, considering, has been smooth. There was a small amount of confusion before myself and around four or five people from Turkey, one of whom was staying in my hotel, were in the car and on the way to the airport. I say 'car', it was more like a minibus, but after around 70 or so minutes (probably a little longer) of driving along the autostrada under cloudy skies we reached Marco Polo airport from where I write this note.

I am slowly but surely developing the persona of a pissed off and mildly stroppy business traveller, something that I must stop. I can't figure out why I'm that way, I've just become 'that guy' when the slightest thing goes wrong or when I'm the one who has been silly by overlooking a pretty obvious sign that disputes the reality I thought to be true. After discovering, for example, that I couldn't check my bag in until 1425hrs (this was at around 1230hrs) I moseyed off in search of food and when I found it ordered a pizza, a small custard tartlet (very tasty) and a cup of English Breakfast tea. Then, I found a table and sat down to eat my food. But no, I was asked to sit elsewhere. "This is the restaurant," a man said, snootily, and I was directed to some more communal-looking seating to eat what amounted to a takeaway meal. This, of course, was annoying as I could have ordered a sit-down lunch in the restaurant but I didn't see the aforementioned (and quite obvious) sign requesting people to 'queue here' for a seat. 

The main square in Trieste faces out to sea...

Mildly miffed I sat and ate my food in what was basically a more 'downmarket' seating area, which was fine, and when finished I bought myself a fridge magnet from the shop opposite and then wandered towards the bag drop area at the other end of the terminal building, finding when I got there that there was still over 30 minutes to wait. I joked with the woman on duty, the one who informed me and others earlier that the current check-in was for passengers to Paris Orly only and that I'd have to wait until 1425hrs before I could 'drop' my bags off. There's now under 10 minutes to go until I can check in so I might have to leave this post for a second while I get rid of my suitcase and, of course, hope and pray they don't lose it.

Tasty treats before a plant tour in Trieste

I'm heading back to London after a trip to a place called Udine in Northern Italy. I flew out on Monday 27 May (a bank holiday) and have been here all week. It's been a very hectic but enjoyable week with little time to do anything other that what appeared on the event's itinerary. A gala dinner, a classical music concert, a rigorous day time programme of presentations and plenty of sweet things to eat in between, like biscuits, pastries and so on, all designed to make a nonsense of the so-called 'Mediterranean diet' and the notion that, if you're an Italian or eat loads of olives, you'll lead a long and healthy life. I can imagine people now as they prematurely arrive in Heaven and are given a form to fill out, claiming in the 'extra information' box, "they never said anything about biscuits and filled croissants and fancy desserts" being part of the aforementioned 'Mediterranean diet' as they consider their chances in the "I shouldn't really be here" queue.

Amazing biscuits and pastries in Trieste

The check-in was simple and straightforward, just like it had been on the journey out from London Gatwick a few days earlier and within seconds my bag was on the conveyor and on its way to the plane and I was left to go through security, which was also very easy and took minutes to get from the start to the finish. Then it was time for the Society of the Spectacle. I always keep my eyes fixed straight ahead until I reach the male perfumery section where I always give the sales assistant the false impression that I'm going to spend almost £100 on some fragrance or other, only to disappoint them at the last minute with "I think I'll leave it this time". At least I smell good for the flight home, I thought.

One course of a wonderful lunch at a Trieste restaurant

The journey out from Gatwick to Venice on 27 May was a little more fraught and totally my fault because I had led myself to believe that I'd be flying out around 1600hrs and, therefore, didn't have to be at the airport until around 1400hrs. I could take things easy in other words. How wrong! I only needed to look at my travel details and I would have known that I was flying at around noon and that the gate would be closing at 1150hrs. When I did realise the dire situation I had put myself in – time was getting on – I chucked the remaining few things in my suitcase and decided not to bother washing, there was simply no time and I could do it all at the other end. I booked a cab – "come as soon as you can"– and within 20 minutes I was en route to the airport, sitting in the back of a white Prius in silence, hoping and praying that I'd make it on time. When I reached the airport the flight had been delayed and there was plenty of time so I sailed through security and found my way to a Starbucks where I "enjoyed" an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I put the word "enjoyed" in inverted commas because I was stressed and needed to calm down, which I did, and then made my way to the gate and on to the plane. I had a window seat (19a) on the way out and on the return journey (6f) and the flight going out was relatively okay, although, as avid readers of this blog will already know, I've always been a little apprehensive of flying if there's a lot of cloud about or the weather is in anyway unsettled.

Waiting at Marco Polo airport for my flight to Gatwick

The pilot on the outward flight, Rachel, said the flight would be relatively smooth 'once we were through the cloud' and she was right. It was a smooth flight and I jumped off the plane with a strong sense of relief, along the lines of one flight done, one more to go.

As I was attending a massive event, when I cleared security I headed straight for an information desk and was told to wait until they found a driver who would ferry me to my hotel, which they did, and soon I was on my way to Udine (about an hour's drive on the autostrada). I checked in to my hotel, the Allegria, and then headed for the shower and after that a shave. I was ready to take a stroll with my fellow journalists to a local restaurant for dinner and our host Paolo. The Italians know how to cook, put it that way.

After waking up the following morning, it was a roller coaster schedule from then on. I was up every morning at 0600hrs, eating a fairly sub-standard breakfast at 0700hrs and then waiting for a bus to take me and my fellow journalists to a place called Buttrio where the conference would take place. There was a gala dinner inside Udine Castle (although it wasn't IN the castle as it was when I attended another event a couple of years ago, but instead in a huge but tasteful temporary structure just outside of the castle itself. It was fine but tiring as it's fairly hard to keep up conversation with strangers when all I really wanted to do was relax alone after a long day, possibly eat alone and then hit the sack. I probably got to bed around 1230hrs. It was a short walk from the castle to the Allegria.

A tasty treat at the Trieste restaurant

The conference was full-on for two days and was followed by a plant trip to Trieste, which was 'up the road' from Udine – probably around an hour's drive. In fact, where the plant trips were concerned, some brave souls had signed up for tours in far flung places like Beijing and Louisiana and Egypt and other locations which increased the intensity of the schedule and made me feel tired just thinking about it. Not that I had booked myself on any of the plant tours and the one I did take (to Trieste) was organised for me. And what a trip it was! Well, the plant trip was so-so but the food on either side of it was something else: first a wide selection of pastries and mini desserts, which I greedily scoffed as if there was no tomorrow, and then, after the tour, a short walk to a restaurant in Trieste down by the water's edge where we were given an excellent four-course meal.

The great thing about the Italians is they love their food and they won't let anything get in the way of it. We sat there watching a storm roll in and listened to the thunder, which was preceded by flashes of distant forked lightening and in between the poor weather and the relentless rain we all ate well: there was plenty of sea food and I lived to tell the tale – and by that I mean no upset stomach, no sitting on the throne all night, nothing at all, but then this was a very good restaurant.

A coach eventually took us back to Udine and it turned into a late night. Dinner with a colleague was planned for 1900hrs and while my initial plan had been to go all the way to Udine, change and then return to Buttrio by cab, I eventually decided to get off in Buttrio due to mounting traffic and then went out for a pleasant meal.

And now I'm back where I started. It's the day after that dinner with my colleague in Buttrio. I took the minibus to Marco Polo airport and all the rest you know, other than I'm sitting here in the airport listening to a French man talk about something or other. Unfortunately, I don't speak French so I can't understand a word he's saying, not that it matters, it's probably something inane.

Outside there are blue skies and scattered cloud and its roughly an hour before I take off, that's assuming the flight leaves on time (it's around 10 minutes late as I write this). In all honesty, I just want to get home. It's been a good but long week and I've met some interesting people. 

I think they've announced my gate, Gate 56, so I'd better get moving, but now that I'm through passport control and at the gate, a few words about the hotel, the Allegra. It was small but it was fine. The room was clean and perfectly adequate although I couldn't see out of my window, or rather I couldn't see without a lot of hassle trying to prise open the shuttered windows, and I couldn't be bothered. Besides, the trip was so rushed I didn't really get much time to look out of windows or read or do anything (like blogging) that I do on most trips. While I don't mind other people fixing my trip for me, I know that if they do, I end up with the itinerary from hell, but this was fine. Busy but good. Both flights, for example, were perfectly fine in terms of departure times, but the conference schedule meant extreme weariness in the mornings especially if there had been a late night, ie the gala dinner on Tuesday and the classical music concert on the Wednesday night. This morning I had a brief lie in and a later breakfast and then I packed my suitcase and was ready to leave the hotel, but we've spoken about that part of the day already.

I wasn't keen on the breakfast as there were elements of the experience that required the help of somebody else. Tea, for example, had to be ordered, but invariably there was nobody there to order it from. A hot water urn would have helped and it would have been good if milk had been available too, but again we only got milk if we asked for it and we could only ask for it if there was somebody there to ask. Every morning I enjoyed a filled croissant and a bowl of chopped fruit plus an English Breakfast tea.

The flight home was good, very smooth all the way, and we arrived at Gatwick earlier than scheduled. Passport control and baggage reclaim were also very smooth and soon I was on the other side wondering whether to get a taxi or a train home. I opted for the latter because it was cheaper and, let's be honest, quicker too. I alighted at East Croydon and jumped into a black cab (£20) and now I'm at home, the fridge magnet I purchased in Venice is on the fridge door and I'm considering some pasta for dinner. My wife and daughter are returning from Paris tonight and I'll be picking them up from the station around 2230hrs. Time to sign off and make some food.

Columbus, Ohio: Heading home...

The Brekkie Shack in Columbus, Ohio, close to the Aloft hotel, has a good vibe to it. It's bright and breezy and there's loads of decent 'brekkie' options including the House Made Granola Bowl of yogurt topped with in-season fruit and chia-sunflower seed granola, not forgetting a honey drizzle. That and a mug of green tea and I was set up for the day. I have to say that I've been eating decent food out here, not too much of the burger and fries, which is the default cuisine in the USA. There was plenty of temptation to eat badly, like an amazing-looking carrot cake and other 'cakey' stuff that was crying out to be eaten, but I resisted and left the the place feeling good about myself and, therefore, life in general. 

The plan was to head for the so-called German Village, a district of Columbus, and a book shop called the Book Loft. Here was a book shop that consisted of different rooms full of different types of books and if you're in to books it's the place to be. I didn't buy anything because I've got enough books on the go already. James O'Brien's How they Broke Britain and Thurston Moore's Sonic Life are the books in question. I didn't want to add another one to the mix.

Katzinger's Delicatessen, German Village, Columbus

After lunch in Katzinger's Delicatessen it was time to head back to the hotel and start packing for tomorrow's long journey home: two flights, one from Columbus to New York's JFK airport and then the transatlantic hop to London, although that word 'hop' is probably an understatement. 

Later, with grey skies and the rain hammering down, I stood under cover outside the Aloft Columbus hotel. There was a man on a down-at-heel-looking push bike with a rear wheel puncture. He couldn't fix it because he didn't have a repair kit and was standing there soaking wet wearing a blue cagoule preparing himself for the moment when he'd somehow make a dash for it. I looked at the rain and wondered how the hell I would get to the Starbucks across the parking lot without getting soaked. And then I remembered the base ball caps in my room. I'd been at an event where some of the stands offered freebies in the shape of tee-shirts and baseball caps. I had around four of them upstairs in my room so I turned on my heels and found the cleaner in my room. "It's your room, you can stay here if you like," she said as she changed the sheets on the bed. And yes I could have stayed and made small talk but I preferred to let her get on with her job. I told her she could have one of the baseball caps and then headed downstairs to tackle the rain. The walk to the Starbucks was less than five minutes across an exposed parking lot and when I reached my destination I wasn't that wet. I ordered an English breakfast tea and tried to read O'Brien's masterpiece. I was about to finish the Jeremy Corbyn chapter and then move on to the one about Dominic Cummings, but simply couldn't face it. I know the story, I've lived it: the Brexit lies, the bigotry, the racism, the British thinking they're something special when they're far from it; so after a short while I simply sat there drinking my tea and looking out of the window. Eventually the rain stopped and I was able to walk back across the lot to the hotel without fear of a soaking.

Our last dinner in Columbus was at the Cap Diner. There were no seats in the restaurant but there was room in a kind of temporary area, or additional space, which had a canvas roof and heaters to keep away the cold, although they didn't do a brilliant job. The rain hammered down on the roof as we awaited our food. I changed seats so I was a little closer to the source of heat but it wasn't brilliant and when the food arrived I was disappointed to note that I had been given two chicken breasts rather than the one I had expected. This, was, of course, America where the portions are huge, and because I'd been eating lightly most of the week I could barely finish the meal. I managed the chicken breasts but I left the vegetables. Catherine opted for two starters, which were more manageable than my one main course. On the next table a woman received her dessert: a huge chocolate cake at least a foot high.How anybody could eat THAT much chocolate cake I don't know, but she took it in her stride and laughed as she scoffed it. Cardiac Care Unit, here we come, I thought as I watched her pigging it with inner disgust. We passed on dessert and headed back to our respective hotel rooms, me in room 626 and Catherine in 526 directly below me on the fifth floor.

House made Granola Bowl, Brekkie Shack

It was early but it was time to hit the sack, do some last minute packing and then leave the Aloft and head to the airport. But first a 'game' of pool. The inverted commas are because neither of us were any good and, therefore, the game wasn't at all real, we were just trying to pot the balls regardless of the rules and it was more fun than playing for real.

I set my alarm for 0700 and then lay in bed until I fell asleep. I awoke numerous times before the alarm went off and I jumped out of bed and set about packing. For me it was always going to be a case of 'last minute packing' as I figured putting stuff back in the case would be easy. There's something awful about checking out. I've never liked it and I can't understand why, but the very thought of packing stuff away, trying to cram everything into a suitcase, has never appealed. I managed to get everything in and after a shower I headed down to the lobby where I met Catherine and we both walked across the lot to the aforementioned Starbucks for our last breakfast where we had been eating the same thing all week: granola with yoghurt and some kind of jam, not forgetting an English breakfast tea for me and an iced coffee for Catherine.

Our time in Columbus had run out and we jumped into an Uber and headed for the airport. There was time for tea at a Starbucks when we got there and then we boarded the flight to New York/JFK. The flight was full and I hate full flights. I sat next to an Egyptian Professor of English Literature. She was travelling to New York where she has a 20-hour stop-over and is planning to get a hotel room. From Doha she flies on to Cairo to be with family and friends and then she comes back to a new job. Currently, she's at OSU (Ohio State University). It was a short flight and there was a little turbulence at the end, but soon we found ourselves in JFK looking for somewhere to have lunch before the transatlantic night flight to London Heathrow. Our choice of restaurant was O'Neal's and it wasn't that brilliant. I ordered a chicken burger with fries and a no-alcohol beer and Catherine had a vegetarian dish of some sort and a Coke, it might have been a vegetable-based burger.

There was no menu, just a QR code on the table. The idea was that we ordered on our phones. I'm thinking about buying a Nokia 3310 so that they have to provide me with a paper menu or I'll take my custom elsewhere. I can't stand it. Tech complicates everything. I can't go swimming these days without logging in to an app, so I don't bother going. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a technophobe, it just annoys me when people put blind faith in technology. Even placing a boarding pass in the 'wallet' on my iphone is crap, especially when the phone runs out of power and I have to ask for a paper boarding pass. This happened recently in Helsinki.

I wandered around the airport and found a food court area just to sit down and write a few things in my notepad. Catherine was elsewhere doing her own thing and we met up later at the gate and sat there chatting for around an hour before it was time to board the plane. I was in seat 18C, which offered a lot of much-needed legroom, but there were two people sitting to my left and in front of them was a couple, meaning that in terms of legroom I had the best deal.

It turned out the flight was around six hours, which was brilliant and I passed the time reading Sonic Life by Thurston Moore, which is an excellent book. I never watched television or listened to music and as the flight was so short I focused almost entirely on pondering what I had just read. There was no turbulence.

We landed around 0640 having been scheduled to touch down around 0740. There was a slight delay after the plane had come to a halt as they didn't appear to have any buses. I quipped with a fellow passenger that the first negative voice we heard had to be English and of course I was right.

The plan was to get an Uber home, but I wasn't sure how it all worked and then considered waiting around for a 'normal' taxi or jumping on the Heathrow Express to Paddington and then travelling on the Underground to Victoria. But no, not after a transatlantic flight, so I hoofed it back to the third floor of Heathrow's car park and then waited for an Uber. There were problems on the M25, something to do with a bridge, and this meant going through London: Hammersmith, over the Thames on the Wandsworth bridge, through South London and home. I was feeling fine and sat around chatting for a short while, but then decided it would be good to get some sleep so I hit the sack and woke up around 1600hrs. We took a drive early evening to Oxted for an Italian meal and then I sat up until 0100hrs watching Clarkson's Farm on Amazon Prime. 

I slept well, woke up, had breakfast and then around mid-morning headed off to Knole for a breath of much-needed fresh air after a bowl of pea and mint soup and a chocolate chip cookie, not forgetting a pot of tea.

It's almost 1800hrs on Sunday evening and the sun is shining, the trees appear to be in full bloom, my lemon balm plant is out and so is everything else. Summer arrived while I was away. I left a cold and rainy United Kingdom and returned to a sunny, warm country. I'm feeling pretty tired so I'll stop writing now.

Starbucks across from the Aloft Hotel, Columbus Ohio.