Lost in Gatwick

Arrived a little late into London, somehow managed to set up my new phone number without getting yelled at and once we breezed through customs, proceeded to catch the same lift up and down, over and over again as our designated pick up gave us instructions not suitable for our tiny brains to comprehend after 24 hours of travel and the torture of a Sandra Bullock movie.  Then, in a Harry Potter moment, and as if conjured up by a Hermione (pronounced Her Me Own) spell, we were at the car. Following was the next spell that actually fitted the all important bike, a suitcase big enough to fit Mad Eyed Moody, my small bag, the hand luggage, and 4 people, into the car.

In no time at all we arrived at our first port of call to drop off luggage, drink tea, or Pepsi Max for those who had travelled half way across the planet without our addiction, and had some chips (or should I say crisps?) and cold pizza. Home away from home.

To our B and B we then travelled and were so happy that the English love affair with stairs was still alive and well. I think I counted 30.
That exercise being not enough, I took a quick jog, in the wrong direction as Google maps continues to confuse me, followed by pizza and passing out.