Thoughts on Compassion and Politics

It struck me recently that when times get tough, people grow harder. Following the recession, the UK has shifted to the right and it's now considered OK to talk about foreigners as a swarm, whereas ten years ago this kind of talk would have sounded vaguely 'Third Reich.' It seems that it took the picture of a small child washed up on the beach to reawaken a bit of humanity in the world's fifth most prosperous nation. In the nineties politicians talked about 'education, education, education.' Now all we hear from them is 'immigration, immigration, immigration!'

When the proverbial brown stuff hit the fan, people were angry at bankers for being so reckless and greedy. They were also angry at politicians for wasting our public money on duck houses and moat-cleaning. In short, there was an opportunity for a return to the less selfish values of the fifties and sixties post-war dream. What happened instead was those at the top and their tabloid messengers found a handy scapegoat for all this public anger. Most were willing to have their ire channelled in the direction of, er, The Channel.

Firstly, let's face it, who sold the weapons to myriad dictators and volatile groups in the first place? Is it any surprise that when weapons are used for their intended purpose that people tend to flee to wherever they might think is safe? It's a testimony to this country that we are viewed as tolerant enough for people to want to come here.

Then there's the economic argument. People say we are bursting at the seams and that the country can't take any more. Then in the same breath we hear about a pensions crisis, where the baby boom generation are reaching old age with an insufficient workforce to support them in their time of dotage. Now what exactly is the truth?

It sometimes seems to me that the country goes in thirty year cycles. The nineties seemed like a rerun of the sixties with a more social ethos prevalent. UK workers were cushioned by a minimum wage for the first time for a start. However, wind on twenty years from the sixties and we get... the eighties – pure undiluted capitalism in all its pomp. In short, you are here.

This made me think about my place in the world. After all I was brought up with the values of the pre-eighties era, and this can make it pretty hard to succeed in the post-eighties era. Just how hard-nosed do you really have to be? It's often been said that psychopathic traits are more common in the boardroom than in an average cross-section of the population. Thus, it will be much easier for somebody who's been brought up with the notion that 'there is nothing wrong in taking somebody else's slice of the pie if they are weaker' to adapt to life in the modern world.

But politicians can't all be corrupt, self serving individuals, can they?

I would say 'no,' but I think what happens is a scaled up version of what I have observed locally for many years.

A number of villagers disgruntled by the decisions being made by their 'representatives,' decided to join 'the board' as I shall call it. I heard phrases like, “I'm a little bit stronger than you and will stand up to them without being forced off.” It appeared to me that these no doubt well-meaning folk eventually became part of the establishment, defending the kind of decisions that they had once despised when standing at the bar of the local pub.

It would seem that every organisation has an unwritten code concerning how one is supposed to act. Locally I observed that quaintness and protecting people's property prices seemed to trump providing employment and retaining public services virtually every time. I wondered if those who had joined the board at the time felt that this was expected of them and that it was simply part of what they were there to do.

The status quo at Westminster seems to be to keep the elite happy and the public content with as little as possible. This way the rich don't have to start paying taxes or anything depressing like that. There clearly won't be any scaling back of all that arms distribution any time soon either. Consequently, we will continue to see desperate people heading our way and plenty of traditional Daily Mail and Sun headlines for years to come.

Thoughts on Disposable Income and Rock Music Sites in London

At the time of writing I am a little bemused by a BBC news report I recently heard declaring that the average household has a annual disposable income of £17,000. Annual! Disposable!!

£17,000?! I wondered if I was hearing things, but like the average salary of £27,000, this is a classic example of how statistics can be used to make things look better (or worse) than they are. Of course an average doesn't lie, but it seems important to understand how it works, because reports such as this could leave most of us feeling hard done by and undervalued, and that's not a greatly inspiring message, right?

If there are ten people working for a company and nine earn £11,000 a year while the manager earns £901,000, the average salary will be £100,000. If the average is the only figure you are given, you will automatically think, 'Wow – that's a good company to work for!' but in reality it's only good for one employee out of the ten.

So to get a more representative view, we could look at the median. This figure is the middle figure of a set of figures if they are listed in order from lowest to highest. Therefore exactly 50% would be above this figure and exactly 50% below. Thus, we can all know where we really are in the great scheme of things, should we wish to know, that is!

Moving on, on the weekend of my fortieth birthday I decided that it would be a real treat to check out The Archway Tavern in North London. My fiancée was with me and we caught a bus from Oxford Street, which promptly broke down. Upon reaching Archway I was somewhat disappointed to find a boarded up pub with a load of junk inside. The pub (pictured above) was of course a famous haunt among fans of The Kinks, for the interior features on the cover of their excellent Muswell Hillbillies album (1971). It's really the next choice for doing the album cover tour of London once you've been to Abbey Road (Beatles), Battersea Power Station (Pink Floyd) and Berwick Street (Oasis).

Back to The Kinks, I recently read a rather gritty biography of Ray Davies, and having admired his songwriting for many years, I was somewhat surprised by the volatile and thrifty character I was reading about. As they always say, don't meet your heroes, although I might say, just don't try to go to their old pubs. In the end I'd say 'let the music do the talking,' and in my opinion the band's underrated classics like 'Arthur,' 'Village Green Preservation Society,' 'Lola versus Powerman,' and even 'Schoolboys in Disgrace' are up there alongside more well-known albums from bands of their era such as Sgt. Pepper and Dark Side of the Moon.

Catching a bus to the aforementioned Muswell Hill, we then decided to walk to Alexandra Palace, which is famous for hosting the world darts championship as well as being the site of the first regular public television broadcast in the world, made by the BBC in 1936. The view from its high vantage point is also well worth visiting for, with the various shards and gherkins pointing into the sky like surreal concrete fingers on the horizon.

There was a free bus service to Wood Green, from where we caught the underground to Angel for a delicious sushi meal. Sitting next to us was a famous bearded French chef, who I seemed to recognise from TV, not that I watch those cooking shows. The owner came over to him and opened the conversation with, 'Excuse me for saying, but I recognise you...' From this, our perceptions that we were dining in a place of quality seemed to be confirmed. And thus, I began my fifth decade on Planet Earth.

A Tale of Five English Pubs

Once upon a time, in deepest, darkest Kent, there were five 'Style and Winch' pubs all built to the same design in the first half of the twentieth century. One of these was known as The World's Wonder. It used to be one of a handful of 'locals' that I use but sadly bit the dust in September 2014.

Avoiding the inevitable invective against Government policy and taxation of the working man's place of refuge, I am just going to tell you that this former pub is located in the village of Warehorne, which is located near the larger village of Hamstreet, which is located near the town on Ashford which is located around 55 miles southeast of that big place called London.

I recently achieved something I'd planned to do for years, and this was to visit all four of the Wonder's 'twin pubs.' I remember discussing with the landlord the notion of completing this challenge by bike in a single day a few years ago. Sadly I only visited one of these by bike in the end.

The most southerly of these pubs is The Ship at Lade (pictured), tucked away in a back-street just off of the road along the Southeastern Kent coast between the seaside villages of Greatstone to Lydd-on-Sea - basically almost France, were it not for the water in between. This pub has been redundant for many years, and I took a mosey up there some years ago for the obligatory photo that I have since lost.

In November last year I set out to visit a pub of the lesser-spotted 'open' variety. I caught the train up to Swanley and set off on my bike along what must surely be the longest station access road in Kent! I followed the B-road to Dartford via Hextable. The scenery between the built-up areas reminded me of East Kent, consisting of expansive open fields.

I found my way to the centre of Dartford via a signed detour for bikes. Having been to Liverpool, the home of The Beatles, many times, I was profoundly disappointed by the former hometown of Mick Jagger. I could find no reference to either Jagger or the Rolling Stones in the town centre. I had expected a statue of Mr Jagger complete with pouting lips somewhere in the town and I thought at least one enterprising individual would have opened an alehouse called 'Jagger's Bar' and adorned it with replica gold discs and framed photographs of the group, but like Sir Mick, I got no satisfaction. I have since learned that there is a blue plaque commemorating the place where Jagger and Richards first met at Dartford railway station.

Dartford did however have a bustling market in its high street (as opposed to flinging it out as far as possible as though allergic to such trading like the similarly Kentish town of Ashford). I wheeled my bike past the impenetrable crowds and on via a pleasant park.

The town itself seemed dearly in need of some of its most famous ex-resident's money, but the park was pleasant enough. My aim now was to attempt to follow the River Darent southward. I rode some suburban roads and then found a footpath which brought me out via meadows onto the A225 near the A2 bridge. Just beyond this, in the village of Hawley, was the Papermaker's Arms. I chained up my bike and ventured inside.

The young barman was fascinated when I showed him the picture of the 'Wonder' on my village's hiking page on the Internet. This reminded me of the boy in the film 'A.I.' finding out that he was actually one of many identical models. However, where the boy in the film was devastated, this barman was overjoyed to discover that the pub was one of five!

After supping a local ale, I continued and turned off of the main road to go through the villages of South Darenth and Horton Kirby. The healthy quota of pubs in these Darent Valley villages was nothing short of impressive.

I eventually came out onto the A20 at Farningham and continued along the A225 to picturesque Eynsford where I watched a Landrover splash its way through the ford. Beyond the station, I took a lane to Lullingstone and rode a path by the river, northward again so I could look at the castle. I stood at the impressive arched gatehouse, admiring the stately home across the lawn, before continuing again. A little further, the Roman Villa seemed to be located inside a modern building, designed to preserve it. I feared a fee of some kind (although I was recently impressed by the Roman mosaic situated within the park at St Albans which can be viewed free of charge), and returned to the A225 heading south, making a detour to the village of Shoreham on the lanes, where I counted four pubs. Four!

My ride ended in another village, Otford, where I caught the train home and it wasn't until May 8th 2015 that I returned to the challenge. This time I had my fiancée in tow, having attended our legal preliminary meeting to marrying at Maidstone registry office. Yes, it's complex to marry somebody from outside the EU, although bizarrely if she was marrying somebody from outside the UK but from within the EU and living in the UK, none of the red tape would apply. Like most things in life, this simple meeting expanded to fill our day, as we had make a lightening-speed trip back home (around thirty miles away) in order to return with the photographs and additional line in our 'proof of residency' letter that they hadn't told us we needed.

We were pretty shattered after this and a little drive along to Barming to check out The Redstart Inn seemed to be the perfect tonic. Inside, the bar was lively and I kept hearing words like 'Miliband' and 'Farage.' I guess the recent election had meant a change from the usual pub 'staples' of conversations like football and smut! This particular 'Wonder' was up a quiet residential lane. There was a village feel here, in spite of being on the edge of Maidstone, one of Kent's largest towns.

Our final 'Wonder' would be just a photo, as The Bell at Coxheath is now an Indian restaurant, and dinner was waiting for us at home. This former pub stands beside the east/west B-road in the village centre which has a semi-urban feel. It's even got a set of traffic lights!

So, having completed this challenge a few years behind schedule, I'll leave you to ponder the merits of checking out more of my travel writing on Amazon Kindle or vowing never to waste time on this blog again. If your view is the former, the book 'Mud Sweat and Beers' by Adam Colton may be of interest.

Thoughts on Russell Brand and the UK Election

Be warned, this month's missive is a bit opinionated, for as 2014 draws to a close, I recoil with horror at the thought that we will soon be entering UK election year - yes, it's 'party' time! The airwaves will soon be awash with political rhetoric designed to bend the minds of even the most stoic viewer/listener into putting that all-important cross in the desired box of whoever is doing the speaking. I am going to refrain from mentioning individual parties, so as not to alienate any of my readers; instead I am going to talk about elections in general and how many people feel about them.

Many of you may recall comedian Russell Brand's interview with Jeremy Paxman on BBC TV's Newsnight. It's worth a watch on YouTube if you haven't seen it, but be warned there is one or two rude words in it (it's Russell Brand after all).

I have never been a fan of his comedy style, which I find a bit childish, but his despairing view of politics pretty much sums up how many people feel, irrespective of party divisions. The fact that the proportion who turn out to vote is steadily declining reflects the sad fact that more and more people feel that politicians simply aren't concerned about them. Only 65.1% voted in 2010, compared with 83.9% in 1950. It's a personal opinion, but I see no rush to correct this by any party – after all if it is possible to get into power with a third of the populace declining to vote, I guess it's not really going to be a major concern. But if more people are saying 'none of the above' than the proportion voting for any individual party, it's easy to see that Mr Brand's view could actually be that of the majority, in which case, what does democracy actually mean?.

Winston Churchill was once quoted as saying, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.” I guess we are lucky that 'those other forms' haven't been tried here for a very long time. No 'Hitlers' or 'Stalins' thank God, but the famous Milgram experiment worryingly points out how most people will obey authority figures regardless of morality, so I guess we need to keep our wits about us.

Personally, I always vote, for the simple fact that people died for the right to vote, so for me, it is more out of respect than any belief that where I put my cross is going to make a difference to anything, particularly that, without proportional representation, in safe-seat areas we can pretty much guarantee the outcome of every election before a single vote has been cast. All the other votes are discarded in the great scheme of things, rather than counting towards a national total. So this could one reason that many people may feel apathetic.

There was an attempt to address this, but I think the proposals for electoral reform were so confusing that most people opted for leaving things the way they are, but we know that this will mean more poor turn-outs and general apathy, so to my mind it's not a solution either.

Personally, I feel far more empowered when it comes to changing things by activities such as signing petitions, donating to worthy causes or trying to bank and spend in a way akin to one's own ethics. I have even taken part in a couple of protests, one of which the newspapers falsely branded as a 'pot-smoking rabble!' I guess this paper respects everybody's right to an opinion, as long as it's the same as the editor's!

As Mr Brand rightly pointed out, nothing is being done [by any party] about off-shore tax havens, and the drive for profit is putting basic commodities out of reach of an increasing proportion of people (food banks, anyone?). Can it be right that people are willing to fight so hard to protect bankers' “rights” to a huge bonus while hard-working people are having to choose between heating and eating. Is it any wonder people feel failed?

Those familiar with Jeremy Paxman's interview style will know that he is a pretty dogged interviewer, but I found myself almost cheering when Russell Brand pointed out that he of all people should be tired of the unfulfilled rhetoric that he would have heard during his many years on Newsnight.

Well, I guess that this interview has been largely forgotten now, but I still applaud Mr Brand's anger at the bizarre contradiction of poverty in the sixth largest economy in the world. I would describe this as a badly organised society to say the least. Some things like poverty are worth getting angry about, surely?

In the meantime I'm bracing myself for the propaganda onslaught. I doubt we will witness a lot of 'joined up thinking' – it's much simpler for politicians just to demonise anybody from overseas or in need of financial help. Er... didn't somebody demonise a section of the populace for his own political gain back in the late 30s?

Meanwhile, one thing they are not telling you about is the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership (TTIP). This secret trade deal could potentially allow private companies to sue governments if their profits are harmed by a country's policies. Surely the ultimate triumph of money-power over democracy. If this sounds scary, the petitions are out there online waiting for your signature. Personally I see politicians as little more than the PR wing of big business. If anybody wants to know what to get me for Christmas, I'd like some earplugs please!

Exploring Ashford - a Perambulation For Two

This month's post is a slightly revised article I wrote the Hamstreet and district parish magazine - a glimpse into village life down in Kent!

I have taken part in the Friends of Kent Churches sponsored ride and stride almost every year since 1991. Whatever your views about religion, the preservation of these historic buildings seems to be part of our heritage, and therefore I enjoy taking part in this annual event, which is replicated across many British counties. The aim to simply bike or walk around as many churches as you can between the hours of 10am and 6pm on a designated September Saturday. For me this event marks the transition from summer into autumn - season of mellow fruitfulness and all that! This year I was 'striding,' for my girlfriend was visiting from Moscow and is unable to ride a bike. I oversaw her one attempt along the towpath of our local Royal Military Canal which almost ended in injury/tragedy.

My day began with picking her up from Heathrow on another visit from Moscow. She generally visits me monthly now. I know of some same-country couples who see each other less, so apart from the onset of a new Cold War we are doing pretty well. Parking fees at Heathrow Airport are nothing short of astronomical, so I usually wait in a layby near the village of Stanwell until I hear that she has got through customs and then whisk round to the drop-off area for a pick-up. Security normally pounce if you're there for more than a minute, so this has to be performed like a slick, MI5-style operation.

We had a quick bacon sandwich and a hot drink in the little cafe in Stanwell (again circumnavigating the airport prices) before the long ride home. When we arrived back in deepest Kent we made an executive decision to drive to the town of Ashford, which is affectionately known locally as either Trashford or Ash Vegas, depending on your level of affection for the town. It's a bit of a 'Marmite' place I guess!

So what is Ashford famous for? Answer: the mathematician John Wallis (inventor of the infinity symbol), the philosopher Simone Weil and I believe it was once the home of the funniest James Bond, Roger Moore.

We parked up and made our way through the unremarkable suburbs of South Ashford. Suddenly, it seemed like a completely different day to when I'd done the frenetic airport run just two hours ago. Surprisingly, the suburbs were quite interesting for Katrina, as they are very different from Moscow suburbs, which tend to consist entirely of high-rise buildings. It's also a side of England you won't find in the tourist guides. Can't think why!

After this we headed for the town centre passing Victoria Park. The Centrepiece Church in Bank Street had a Nepalese dinner taking place and as we left we were simultaneously saying 'that smelt nice' and 'that made me feel sick.' Our next church was St Mary's (pictured) – the cathedral of the Ashford metropolis if you like. In recent years it has become a formidable music venue boasting acts as well-known as Fairport Convention. In the absence of a theatre this seems a good idea, although not everybody is in agreement. The local newspaper reported on a young man who camped in the churchyard to protest against the removal of a number of the pews during this adaption process.

Leaving with a cake, we wandered down to the Baptist church and then decided it was lunchtime, enjoying a delicious sushi meal at a new Japanese restaurant that had opened. Previously something of a culinary void, Ashford seems to be improving, as I understand that there is now also a tapas place in the centre of town. The town is tipped to become Kent's most populated settlement by 2030, overtaking the county town of Maidstone and the Medway town of Gillingham during its stratospheric rise from it's origins as a small market town. A few more amenities certainly wouldn't go a miss, although the powers that be seem to have an almost obsessional fixation with throwing all known outlets out onto the periphery for the exclusive use of those who want to drive everywhere.

Recently the road system has even gained the attention of Jeremy Clarkson who made derogatory comments (no surprise there) about the new shared space road scheme, an idea imported from the continent where drivers and pedestrians have equal priority. Often Mr Clarkson seems like he is playing a character on TV - a deliberately provocative stereotype. I wonder if he might be an environment loving, ambassador of equal opportunities in real life, in the way that comic actor, Steve Coogan plays the character of the TV and radio host, Alan Partridge, who has remarkably similar views to Jezza. Now I come to think of it, which came first?

Next it was up to the catholic church, and then more suburbs to go to the Quaker friends meeting place which is located in a back-street just north of the ring-road. After winding up a friend of mine by sending him a photograph of his workplace on his day off, we wandered along to the suburb of Willesborough, which (as well as three churches) boasts an attractive windmill and a hospital named after William Harvey, who famously discovered the circulation of the blood (he was born in nearby Folkestone).

Passing the designer shopping outlet, which is Europe's largest tented structure, even eclipsing the millennium dome in surface area, we bridged the mighty A2042 and called at two more churches in South Ashford before wandering back to the car, tired but contented. I was glad we didn't opt for the longer option of walking to the two churches in the northern suburb of Kennington as well. There was just enough time for a rest before more walking in the evening to a local beer festival two miles from my home. Funny how the walk back from these events always takes twice as long!

Thoughts on Teleportation and Fracking

Those who are familiar with the BBC comedy 'Only Fools and Horses' will know what I mean by 'Trigger's broom.'

The joke was along the lines of "He's had had the same broom for thirty years. It's had ten new handles and eight new brush-heads." So the philosophical argument is, 'Is it the same broom?' Most people would say 'no,' but now let's turn it around.

The human body is in a constant process of renewal, and scientists say that there will not be a single atom in your body that was part of you ten years ago, so are we the same people that we used to be? Or are we really just a new machine running to an old computer program (our brains)?

Similarly, I often used to puzzle about the science fiction scenario of 'teleportation'. The idea of this is that you step into the machine and it analyses you before destroying you and recreating an exact replica of you in a different location. If such a thing ever existed, I wonder if my consciousness would instantly transfer to the new me, or if I would simply cease to perceive anything while the new me seamlessly carries on with all my thoughts and memories and therefore no sense of being a new being. Funnily enough, I explored this quandary in one of my stories in 'The Kent-erbury Tales,' which can be tracked down on Amazon.co.uk - how's that for a seamless plug?

Changing the subject slightly, there seems to have been a marked rise in the glorification of war in recent years, so I was pleased to read a column in the local rag recently, highlighting the true human cost and that the only real winners are the arms manufacturers, who no doubt love a good war now and again to keep business ticking over. In short, we flog the weapons, and then when they get used we've got ourselves another war. I don't buy the argument that if we didn't make the weapons some other country would, as by this logic we may as well plough up the rape seed and start growing fields of opium!

Sadly most of our banks are instrumental in investing our money in the arms trade. We do have a choice though. The Co-op bank (although not completely white as we have seen) does not invest in this sector and neither do many building societies, so we can get our money out of arms if we choose to. If you want to see which accounts measure up when it comes to ethical investments visit http://www.ethicalconsumer.org/buyersguides/money for live updated rankings.

Sadly many of our politicians view the arms industry as important for jobs, when like many people I'd rather see the jobs shifted to creating a green revolution which would give young people real hope rather than the prospect of just more of the same (endless wars and a recession every 20 years, which will of course be somebody else's problem so short term savings and unsustainable 'solutions' seem to be the order of the day. Now that the plans for a huge hydroelectric dam across the mouth of the River Severn have been scrapped and 'fracking mania' has been given the go ahead, does that mean that the official line is that all the fears we had about global warming have just vaporised? Or has nobody read up on the 'greenhouse qualities' of natural gas? Joined up thinking hey, who needs it?!

Wendover, Wallingford, Watlington & Wetness - a Cycling Perambulation

This is a short resume of a cycling expedition that is featured in more detail in the 2016 book 'Stair-Rods and Stars' (ISBN: 978-1513605258) - available now on Amazon and by order from all good book shops.

My most recent cycling expedition took me along the Chiltern Hills and involved camping for two nights, as always eschewing the option of paying to use an official site, and instead diving into the nearest wood as things get dusky. I alighted with my bike at Tring station and headed southwest along a B-road which forms the Upper Icknield Way. I diverted down Tringford Road to join the towpath of the Wendover arm of the Grand Union Canal, but discovered that the gap on the map, which I'd assumed to be a tunnel, was actually a gap of several miles in the middle where the canal was allowed to dry up. I rejoined the B-road and bridged the A41 (pictured), which was the tenth longest road on the UK until the authorities decided to hack out the middle chunk and renumber it as a B-road!

After enjoying the impressive view, I descended Tring Hill and rejoined the towpath, which was hard surfaced here (as opposed to just grass) and very pleasant, winding beside the narrow, often overgrown waterway to Wendover. After a look at this pleasant town, which reminded me of Cranbrook in Kent, and visiting a micro-brewery (basically a pub in a shed) where I sampled the excellent Chiltern Gold ale at £2.20 a pint, storm clouds were gathering. Lightning flashed around as I continued southward on the bike. When the hail started, I was just outside Princes Risborough and had no option but to lay on the grass verge and pull the tarpaulin I was carrying over myself and wait half an hour for the torrential downpour to subside.

I then headed for the nearest Tesco (not something I make a habit of) and used their hand-driers to expunge the absorbed liquid from my clothes and stock up on a few supplies. I then headed for the hills to set up camp for the night. A tree groaned and creaked above me, and having seen what an uprooted cherry tree can do at my regular camping woods near Appledore in Kent, I decided to pick up all my gear at midnight and move twenty feet away.

The next day involved cycling the Ridgeway trail to Watlington. This runs along the bottom of the hills (unlike the western section beyond Goring) and passes beneath the dramatic M40 cutting.

Just after Whatlington, the Ridgeway departs as a footpath, but the byway continues as Swan's Way (reminiscent of Proust?). I then followed the undulating lanes to Goring on Thames, heading for the first pub I could find for a calorific breakfast. I was stunned to learn that this would cost £9.95 and didn't include a drink. So I opted for a £7.95 'smoked haddock and poached egg' instead. I think they call this 'nouveau cuisine' but I just called it small!

£13 lighter (I had two cups of tea), I had a wander up the Thames path and tried some crab-apples, before the drizzle sent me scuttling to the nearest bar, which was actually a hotel. The beer was £4.10 a pint - expensive in my book but maybe about standard for such a plush establishment.

I sat on some decking, watching the boats on the Thames, while a friend confided in me about his relationship troubles on the phone. I then decided to cycle the Thames Path to Wallingford. Eventually leaving the Thames to join the A329.

From a board in the centre of this pleasant town I learned that William the Conqueror had travelled here seeking to cross the Thames. Initially he was refused, but when he returned with something resembling an army, permission was granted and the town was rewarded with an extra hour of trading after the 8pm curfew. I also learned that the town doubles as Causton in the TV series 'Midsummer Murders', so I took a few pictures to show my mum.

On the way back along the bottom of the Chilterns, this time on a B-road, I stopped at the Red Lion in Chinnor. A 6-year-old boy called Adam seemed fascinated by my maps and kept asking where various places he'd visited were. Relishing the attention, I stayed there for another half an hour!

I ended up back in Princes Risborough and made a beeline for the nearest kebab van, opting for a healthy 'shish'. Then it was back into the hills, to join the owls for the night.

The rain began at 5am and my tarpaulin had puddles in it by 9am, so I hastily packed everything away and had a free bath as I cruised back down the hill into Princes Risborough. Thankfully, there is a clock tower in the centre of the town, which is on brick 'stilts', so I sheltered underneath until the rain eased enough for me to search for a cafe.

After a £6 breakfast which included a cup of tea (hurrah!), I had to dispense with my plans to ride the old rail line to Thame and head for the current rail line instead. The journey to Marylebone was quite pleasant; the bike ride to St Pancras less so!

Another hour and I was home again and ready for a well-earned snooze. A real bed never felt so good!