Day #1: St Pancras to New Malden via old haunts, then New Malden to Tooting. 23 miles in total. Legs: fine. Butt: pretty much fine.

I’m cycling to Berlin to raise money for the RNLI, in memory of my Dad, Adrian, who died this summer. Dad loved the sea, and never quite made it to the land of currywurst,

I initially planned to go via northern France, via Normandy and other War related places – my dad, in a jarring contrast to boomer norms, was really into World War Two (or 2 World War 2 Furious, as I prefer to call it).

But due to life events, I needed to be back in England earlier than expected, so had to cut France and Belgium from my route. No matter: my Dad was always more interested in Zhukov and the eastern front than the Americans and their nylons. And I definitely can’t cycle to Berlin via Stalingrad. Not in today’s economy.

The compromise route: the Harwich ferry to Hook of Holland, then across The Netherlands, into Germany, and, eventually, Berlin.

Day one was always going to be emotional, as the idea was to visit some of Dad’s old haunts before fleeing these increasingly sorry shores.

St Pancras station [1] felt an appropriately psychogeographic place to start. Those steel lines between London, Nottingham and Sheffield may not be of the ley variety, but they link Dad’s work, in Sheffield, with the two places in England he lived, London and Nottingham.

The station of my memory is still the smoky, pre-Eurostar one. The station then was dirty, underused, and, to those child eyes, impossibly vast. [1]

After posing for photos by the trains offering a much quicker journey to Europe, I cycled off.

I met my friend and fellow cyclist Chloe outside Charing Cross station, as she had kindly agreed to accompany me for the trip down to New Malden.

But first, some central London dad haunts: the Harp pub in Covent Garden, The Civil Service club in Whitehall, The Sherlock Holmes [2] pub, the Westminster Arms, and then a cycle across Vauxhall Bridge to the flats where he grew up.

These flats do not exist any more. The light industrial park that replaced them is now a shiny student housing tower, as post-Blair, a lot of universities make their money through landlordism and fleecing international students.

Vauxhall is a place of dizzying change, and it was hard to find many places that he would have recognised. Pubs, home – even his old school is now buried under the endless dance of regenerating London. We did at least visit the house where my mum and her friend Wendy lived when she and Dad were – ahem – courting, and Vauxhall Park, where he no doubt went to fight with next door’s school, every term that is the rule, and so forth.

We did, however, make a pilgrimage to The Oval, both being cricket fans. I can’t say my dad cared much for the game, but he did see The Who perform there in 1970, and would come along to the occasional county match with his friend Chris Meyer, provided the entry was free and the beer was flowing in the John Major bar.

While admiring the Graham Thorpe [3] mural, Chloe spotted my favourite current England player, Moeen Ali, emerging from the ground’s Alec Stewart gates. And we managed to convince him to pose for a photo, on this, the day of his retirement from international cricket.

“Congratulations on your retirement, Mo”, I said, shaking his hand. Is that what you’re supposed to say? Is it not a touch passive-aggressive? In any case, what an honour to meet such an honest and stylish cricketer. Cheers for the memories, Mo.

From here, we cycled down to New Malden, via the route of the northern line: Clapham, Balham, Tooting, Colliers Wood, South Wimbledon. Chloe was on a Lime bike so I actually found it hard to keep up with her on occasion, what with her electric motor and everything. But cycling with company is so more joyous than cycling alone. It’s the closest thing I know to flying, while someone you like is flying next to you, like some kind of slightly less a) dangerous and b) impressive than the red arrows.

In New Malden, we went to The Glasshouse, and then I sent my friend home to her daughter before meeting friends and family at The Royal Oak, venue for Dad’s wake and many a family wedding. We talked, and were silly, and even tried to teach Nathan about cricket. But I left before the last orders cock crowed: I had to get back to Tooting and an early bed. For tomorrow, we take Harwich.

[1] it’s very well depicted in Douglas Adams “Long Dark Teatime of the Soul”, though it isn’t a portal to the realm of the Norse gods, so far as I’m aware.

[2] Big tourist trap these days, but we did book the upstairs room to celebrate my Dad’s MBE back in the day.

[3] Legendary England cricketer who took his own life last month, impacting the wider cricket family very significantly. Go well, Thorpey.