End to End
by Richard Hopper

Day 1, Tuesday 12 June - Prologue: Penzance to Land's End
Travel down to Penzance was by train. M dropped me at Newton Abbot station: I'd been prepared to cycle the 7 miles into Newton, but she offered and this took some of the pressure off the day.

The train left at commuting time, but had a long wait in Plymouth of about 35 minutes. If I'd known I'd have got off and stretched my legs or bought a paper. The clientele changed: the students (one of whom was discussing her art work and its Egyptian inspirations at length and in a loud voice with someone I don't think she knew) and workers disappeared to be replaced by the grey brigade, many with walking sticks of one kind or another. Many of them got off at St Erth, which is a tiny place, so perhaps there was some special event going on. It's a lovely line down into Cornwall. The terrain is interesting and presents challenges to the railway engineer that demand short high viaducts across the tight, deep valleys and narrow cuttings through hillsides. The rhododendrons were out in force - always a lovely sight. And of course it's always a thrill to go across Brunel's bridge linking Devon and Cornwall. I can't travel these things without being mindful of the simple, brutal human labour that was necessary to construct them.

Cornwall is dilapidated. I often find that the incidence of corrugated iron is a useful index of the poverty of an area. When I first moved to Buckfastleigh, when it was in severe economic decline following the closure of one of the town mills, there was a lot of it around. Over the years it gradually got replaced as recovery took place. Besides the corrugated iron Cornwall has many derelict buildings, and the ones that are in use are tatty. Still plenty of asbestos roofing, and the real give-away: hand-painted signs that are amateurish and decaying. There were also signs of the funding resulting from the area's recent Objective 1 status. Every now and then you'd see a brand spanking new building that seemed out of place. At Cambourne station, for example, there's the combination of a tatty but repaired Victorian railway building almost next to a modern, incongruous, stainless steel passenger shelter.

Arrived at Penzance at 11.15. Bought a Snickers, a Bounty bar and a veggie pasty. Ate the pasty at the start of a closed footpath on the outskirts of Penzance. Aimed to find the B road to Land's End, but missed it and ended up on the A30. But here the A30, which is a horrible dual carriageway in the rest of Cornwall, is reduced to an ordinary two lane road. It could have been unpleasant, but in fact traffic was light, presumably because it was a bit early in the season. Bit of a head wind towards Land's End, but this was pleasing, as I would reap the benefit once I turned around to come back.

You become aware that you're reaching the end of the land as the light changes as first the sky and then the sea gradually take over your field of view. Towards Land's End the terrain gradually gets less hilly and there are fewer trees. It's obviously a windswept Landscape. Then the tackiness appears. Of course there's a First and Last pub, with 'Last Inn' on the side you approach from inland, and 'First Inn' on the side as you return from Land's End. Then there were various other enterprises that depended on tourists: bed and breakfasts, a backpackers' hostel, small shops and tea rooms. They all looked pretty deserted and there was an air of almost desperation about them. Foot and mouth was taking its toll.

About a mile from Land's End an enterprising farmer (?) has a large car park where you can park for £1 and walk to Land's End where the parking is free.

Land's End is tacky. Found the well-known signpost and had my photograph taken - not by the professional photographers who have corralled off the area immediately around the sign, but by an obliging couple who were nearby. As I walked around I felt a little special. There were quite a few tourists there, and no doubt some of them realised I was an End-to-Ender, but they didn't reveal it. There were quite a few foreign tourists there, who looked a little puzzled by the place. Bought another pasty and ate that, got my sheet stamped and I was off.

Land's End to Truro
Going from Penzance to Land's End had seemed a little pointless, knowing that as soon as I got there I would be turning back. But that raises the question of why cycle anywhere. With leisure cycling I always find that a goal of some sort, any sort, helps to give a focus and meaning to your ride. Going out there I just had 10 miles to do and wanted to get it over with. Turning back, I now had 1000 miles to go and this was a different ball game altogether. I relaxed into touring mode: no point in hurrying when you've got a thousand miles more.

Back to Penzance along the A30. I had planned to use one road one way and the other road coming back, but the A30 was fine and the B road would probably be more hilly, so I stuck to what I knew. The only disadvantage with the tourist traffic was the presence of foreign, and therefore left-hand-drive, coaches. They gave me the closest shaves, as if because they knew how little they could miss you by that's what they did. In Penzance I found the Post Office. I'd missed it on the way out and I had my passport application form to post. I could have done it at Land's End, but I forgot.

I missed the turn for Marazion so I had to stick on the A road for a bit. Then I overshot the turn I intended to take to correct this and had to navigate by guesswork through the lanes to Godolphin Cross.

On the road I met my first other end-to-enders: John, John and Joe from Manchester. There were taking accommodation as they went, aiming for 65 miles a day. We all missed the turn at Porkellis, where the instructions said take a left turn which was in fact a straight on. It was a mile and a half before we realised our error. There were several reasons. Firstly, we were all chatting and not paying as much attention to navigation as we might. Secondly, we both had small scale maps - if we'd had a 1/50,000 then there would have been no problem. Thirdly, it takes a while to settle into the style of someone else's route guidance. They give detail where you wouldn't have bothered and ignore what seem to you to be important advice. Of course, they would have as much difficulty reading your own notes, and would curse you for your omissions. And this was still the first day, so we were still getting used to it.

The terrain started to get a bit hillier towards Truro. Fortunately the route hit the main road into Truro more or less where my B&B was. Accommodation was a bit swish, with a bidet and a corner bath. The TV didn't work, but I wasn't bothered. Ann, the landlady, was rather unused to cyclists. Or, to put it more strongly, I was the first to have stayed with her. No shelter for the bike, but it was certainly safe around the back. She was astounded that I was doing the E2E, and even a little concerned. She gave me a packet of Werthers in the morning to help me on my way.

Evening meal: I was famished, but couldn't face cycling. I walked into Truro but only got as far as the Sainsbury's supermarket on the way in. I bought a sandwich and some salad and a drink and wandered over to a bench outside County Hall to eat it. I got slightly odd looks from office workers who left after working late, but I didn't care.

All in all, a great start. The weather had been more or less perfect for cycling: some sun, generally a little cloudy, not too hot, nor too cold. Quite a variation in temperature, though - I almost needed my windshirt at times - but otherwise a perfect shorts day. There was also that crucial factor for cyclists: a favourable wind. As I approached Truro in the late afternoon/early evening, the air had that comfortable warm feel in which you believe you can cycle for ever.

Day 2: Wednesday 13 June - Truro to Bude
I fell blissfully asleep at 9.30 last night, but awoke this morning at 5 o'clock. good breakfast, with Linda McCartney vegetarian sausages, of which Ann was very proud. The only other person staying in the B&B was a locum audiologist from Torquay. I waved goodbye to Ann, having stuffed the Werthers in my pannier pocket and set off. The day started dull, first of all with mist, then light rain. I began with my cagoule on but took it off after five minutes. The weather then cleared nicely. Some clouds threatened later around Wadebridge, but it became very hot.

I made my way to the centre of Truro to look for a branch of the Nationwide building society so I could pay a cheque in that was weighing heavily in my luggage. This was one of those tasks I should have done before I set off, but I was sure I would pass a Nationwide somewhere on the first day. I hadn't, so now I had to make a detour - irritating but necessary. I'm sure Truro has a Nationwide, but I couldn't find it.

Finding the route out was a bit tricky. After a mile and a half I found myself back outside Sainsbury's. I made some good guesses and got onto the route OK. Posted a couple of postcards. I met two other end-to-enders on the way to St Newlyn East. They were aiming for 18 days. Met them again after St Newlyn East - they'd been resting. In our brief discussion by a delightful little bridge it turned out that they had seen John, John and Joe pass by.

I had lunch in Wadebridge at the Swan Hotel. Ploughman's lunch - a bit pricey but quite good quality. The TV in the bar was on with the sound down, and I was puzzled by the programme they were showing. It consisted mainly of a blonde in a bikini doing the washing up while some bloke came and chatted to her at intervals. After a while I realised it must be 'Big Brother', which was just becoming popular after a shaky start, and which I had never watched.

I was cycling though the lanes at St Kew when I heard a cry of 'Richard!'. I pulled into the pub to realise it was J,J and J in the pub garden enjoying a lunch. I wouldn't have spotted them, as the hedge was too high, but they had seen my hat flying past and realised it must be me. (Another point in favour of the Tilley hat.) I had a pint with them and cycled much of the way to Bude in their company. John is 63, worked in the chemical industry. Joe, 67 worked for ICI and has run 80 marathons, including this year's London one. That would explain the legs like tree trunks. John, 57, leases out a saddlery shop to a dentist.

We bowled along nicely in the early summer sunshine until we hit the north Cornish coast hills. Boscastle! Crackington! Two 30% inclines. I walked. We had a pleasant tea and apple pie at the Spinning Wheel café in Boscastle.

J, J and J were suffering a bit with the hills, and mainly because of my lighter load, I decided to leave them just before Widmouth Bay. Time was getting on, and I was going to be late at my B&B. The chances of me losing my bed were obviously pretty slim, but I like to arrive by the time I say I will. I phoned the B&B from by the Tourist Information Office and got directions on how to find it. It was, of course, at the top of the town, up a fairly steep hill. I arrived at 7.20. Much of the terrace was given over to B&B, but there was that little glow of belonging to see a CTC 'Cyclists Welcome' sticker in the window. The landlord personally took my bike around the back to lock it in their garage. This certainly felt like service. I had just finished unpacking, when I heard some more people arriving below me - I had the room overlooking the road. It was J, J and J!

I was just about to have a shower, and they had gone out by the time I emerged. I was quite hungry, so I was quite happy with a fish and chip supper washed down with a vanilla milk shake at 'Sizzlers' Fish Restaurant just around the corner. After that, I wandered down into town (and Bude is one of those towns that's built on a hill, so you do go 'down' into town) in the vain hope of finding a branch of Nationwide. No luck.

I had obviously got a little dehydrated during the day, as I was very thirsty, so I had a cup of tea and a further drink of boiled water before I went to bed. The tea and coffee making facilities are one of those delightful features of B&Bs these days. I drank boiled water because you're never quite sure where the water in the kettle has come from. I had to fill it from the tap at the washbasin, and my suspicion was that it came from the roof tank rather than straight off the mains.

Day 3: Thursday 14 June - Bude to South Molton
I slept very well. I woke about 6.00 as usual, to the sound of grass being cut on the open space opposite the house. My legs felt OK, but I was glad I only had 42 miles to do today.

The day dawned brightly, but the forecast was poor, according to the landlady. She also reported that many cyclists felt that the leg we had just done of the CTC route was the hardest. This was encouraging, as, although it had been tough, I had been able to manage it without too much difficulty.

Nice to chat to the three Js at breakfast. Then, once mine host had delivered our bicycles to us, and a quick pause for photos together, we left at 8.30 on our way to South Molton.

In Stratton we were a little uncertain of the route into the town - we needed to get to the church to find the right turn - so we asked an old dear.

'Yes,' she said, 'this is the quickest way to the church. Where exactly are you going?'
'Torrington,' we replied.
'If you're going to Torrington that way, God help you!' she replied.

It was a fairly stern climb out, followed by a nice ridge road for a good distance. At one point we re-entered Devon, which felt very strange for me.

In Great Torrington John wanted the Tourist Information Office, but Joe got separated. I said goodbye to John, then bumped into Joe in town. Mobile phones should have solved the problem, but somebody had theirs turned off, so that didn't help. Eventually John and John appeared. I said my goodbyes again and hung around a bit to let them get away. (They were going faster than me, and I wanted to take it easy.) I found a bakers and a fruit shop and bought some food for lunch. As I was going around the town I suddenly recognised the St Albans Guest House that Margaret and I had stayed in a year or so before when we were doing the Sustrans Coast to Coast route. I had entirely forgotten that we had stayed there, or even been through Great Torrington, until I saw St Albans.

I climbed a bit out of Great Torrington and stopped in a field for a restful lie down and some lunch. The silage had been cut and lay in rows in the field. I could see rain approaching fairly rapidly, so I wanted to enjoy a little time relaxing and eating my lunch before I got on my way. I didn't expect to be disturbed - no-one turns silage in the rain, I thought. But I had only been there a couple of minutes when the farmer appeared. I felt very self-conscious, sitting in the corner of his field, eating my lunch, but he gave me a cheery wave and set about turning his silage. Then the rain began, and I had to give up eating for a while. This was a prolonged heavy shower. On a scale of 1 - 5, it rated 2 - 4, mostly 3. I got wet feet but felt happier moving on than standing still - it was a little chilly doing nothing.

The rain eased off and I ate my second sandwich in a different field, but then it started again. My mileometer got waterlogged near Umberleigh and stopped working, so I'm a mile or two down on my recordings. I fixed at the top of a hill in heavy rain (under a tree).

I idled into South Molton about 3.15 and set about exploring the place. I enjoy people watching, and just letting the world go by. I found the museum, which is a little gem with an eclectic collection of rural memorabilia and celebrations of famous sons of the town. (No daughters!) There was an entire old hand-pumped fire engine and a complete cider press. There was a detailed account of the battle for the capture of the District Commissioner's Tennis Court in Komira(?), India. This had been the key to stopping the Japanese flooding into India in World War 2. Local infantry had been a major part of the army involved.

There were tools from a bygone era: badger tongs, for removing said animal from its sett, a 'complete pig killing kit', a mangol fork and a dock root fork. A reference to a more sophisticated side was the box of HMV gramophone needles. These brought back memories of the two wind-up gramophones we had as kids. The strains of 'The Dam Busters' March' come flooding back as I think of that machine. (And the flip side was 'Lillibilero'.) That was the first clockwork thing that I took apart to try and understand how it worked.

I came out of the museum to see J, J and J go past! I felt a little awkward about bumping into them, having already said farewell, and half tried to avoid them. I had a cup of tea and a cake with them and we split up again. I was quite happy not to be cycling further, and I had my accommodation organised for the night, but they wanted to press on as they felt they were slipping behind their projected daily mileage. I didn't fancy their chances of finding accommodation further on, as they were heading into the less populated area of Exmoor. Not only that, but the weather wasn't particularly pleasant.

My B&B was about a mile out of town and was a working farm. Well, theoretically a working farm, as all their stock had gone with the foot and mouth epidemic. There were two other end-to-enders staying there. They had arrived first and got the bath before I did. The bathroom had one of those naff but almost charming signs on the door:

'Loo Laughs'
If you make a big noise
And someone's around,
Blow your nose hard,
It's a similar sound.
Llandudno

My room was large and a little bit chilly. It was right on the road but there was little traffic.

I walked into town - there was the threat of light rain, but it was otherwise a pleasant evening - and although my legs were a little tired, it was good to loosen them up. I ate in the Tiverton Arms, having a vegetable lasagne and baked potato, carrots and sweetcorn. Not very lively, but filling. Washed down with a reasonable pint of Abbot Ale.

The good news was that I found a branch of Nationwide. The bad news was that it refused to accept my deposit.

The B&B was very much a farm first, with the accommodation a sideline. As a result, you had a more integrated existence with the owners, compared with the sanitised standard guest house, where dividing walls and separate eating areas segregate the hosts and their guests. When I came back from my meal, we all sat with our hosts in the lounge. There were the usual photos of happy and healthy children, along with a lot of silverware won at badminton.

Talk was of foot and mouth, inevitably. They had been culled as a contiguous farm and were obviously very saddened by the whole process. They quite happily entertained conspiracy theories about the government deliberately letting F & M go in order to reduce the number of farmers. There was a deep sense of a strong town/country divide in their thinking. The husband had been out cutting his silage. He had no stock to feed it to, but what else could he do? He didn't want the crop to rot in the field.

The other two cyclists were also there, and I suddenly realised that they were the '18 day' pair I had met earlier. I just hadn't recognised them in civvies. The forecast for tomorrow was showery, not as bad as had been suggested earlier in the week.

Day 4: Friday 15 June - South Molton to Cheddar
Good early start. This being a farm, a 7.00 breakfast was no problem. I like to get off early, partly because I am an early riser, and partly because there is less traffic first thing. It also gives you more potential cycling time later in the day if this proves necessary, or alternatively, you have time to explore. And the breakfast was good. I'd half suspected Mrs Colman, as a farmer, would balk a little at vegetarian food, but no problem. We ate in their breakfast room, which was in the other half of the house - two buildings had been joined a little awkwardly.

The other two were heading off in a different direction to visit someone they knew on the way, who would also do their laundry.

The start was very humid. First I had a gentle climb of 80m up the valley road to North Molton, only to drop down again, followed by a sturdy climb of 315m up onto Exmoor. The weather was very showery, and I felt I was dodging showers for most of the morning, switching between just my cycling shirt, my Buffalo windproof top and my cagoule. But the scenery was worth it.

I arrived at Withypool at 10.15 having done almost 14 miles and stopped for quarter of an hour by the shop-cum-post office-cum-everything else. I walked the hill out the other side.

On the A396 I missed the turn as Witheridge Farm wasn't signposted as I had expected. I had to turn back for the right road and at that point the heavens opened. So I was quite glad that I'd missed the turn, otherwise I would have been caught in the open on the steep hill that goes up past the farm. As it was, I was able to shelter under some trees at the bottom of the hill until the worst had passed.

I walked up the hill past the farm and was rewarded with a beautiful ride along the Brendon Hills. However, the road seemed to go on a lot longer than I expected. Perhaps I had taken a wrong turning somewhere.

I stopped at Elworthy, hoping to find a pub, but no such luck. I checked my route: I'd done 33 miles so far, but the CTC figures only added up to 19. Perhaps I'd transcribed something wrongly, anyway this meant an extra 13 or so miles on top of 64. A total of about 73 for the day, and it was already 1:30 and I still had a long way to go.

I ate a Bounty bar and set off, knowing that once I'd got over the Quantocks it would be relatively easy. A strong tailwind developed and I made good time. I walked the hill just beyond Cothelstone.

I arrived in Bridgwater just as the schools were coming out, so the cycle path was full of kids. I stopped here at about 3.30, ate what turned out to be the last two sandwiches available in the town and sent a birthday card to my wife. I found a Nationwide to at last pay my cheque into, and I took out some cash to cover the next few days. The last time I'd been in Bridgwater was to buy the bike I was riding, from St John Street Cycles.

It was sunny and warm as I set off again, to the extent that I needed to apply sun cream. That was the last thing I had expected from the weather when I set off in the morning.
I made good time across the Somerset Levels but missed the turn for Chilton Polden and I went through Edington and Burtle.

Arriving in Cheddar I had a brief search for the Tourist Information Office and/or a map but couldn't find one, so I phoned the landlady for directions.

This was a more classic B&B establishment, with the husband working and the wife running the accommodation side during the day. My room was downstairs, with the guests' breakfast being served in a rather large conservatory just outside. The bathroom was upstairs shared with the family. As I was having my bath I slipped, causing a small tidal wave to swamp over the end of the bath soaking the carpet. It was more than I could ignore, so I had to go and confess, but they didn't seem too worried.

The landlady had a small chicken hutch on the road side of the hedge, where she sold eggs for a friend. She relied on an honesty box. I asked her whether people were honest. She said that mostly they weren't. People tended to take the eggs and not leave the money. A further nuisance was late night rowdies strewing everything, including the hutch, over the road. She was all ready to give it up.

Her husband recommended the Gardeners' Arms for a meal. It was superb - goat's cheese on rice and vegetables. Definitely not out of a microwave.

It was a short walk back and I stopped on the way to phone home. My wife reported that she had experienced a very heavy shower: even with an umbrella, she had got absolutely soaked in the 20 yards between our garage and the back door. As I looked out across the Levels I could see what was probably the same band of rain approaching me about 90 miles northwest and two hours later. It started just as I arrived back at the guest house. Craig Rich, the BBC's weather forecaster for the southwest, suggested that there would be heavy showers tomorrow, but with what I determined would be a less helpful wind.

Day 5: Saturday 16 June - Cheddar to Welsh Bicknor
No chance of an early breakfast today: 8.30 is their earliest. Partly I suppose because it is a Saturday. Their daughter returned from her night out while I was having breakfast and promptly left again to go to work. Before breakfast I lay in bed listening to half an hour of heart-sinking heavy rain pounding on the conservatory. By the time I left at 9.10 it had stopped, but it was still overcast with the threat of more to come.

The climb up the gorge is about 800 feet, fairly steady, with a steepish bit about 3/4 mile up. The rain began again at the top. Not surprisingly the going was rather slow. I managed 5 miles in the first hour. At the top I went past a rifle range on the right, occupied by an Army Cadet Corps group. The most disturbing part was their bugler who was practising out of a window. He certainly needed to practise, and you could hear him from quite a distance.

The showers continued on and off for a while. In Chew Magna their summer fete was just getting going; not a good day for it. I looked for a shop to buy something to eat and stopped first at the Post Office, where I bought some snack bars - they had no fruit. As I came out of the Post Office I realised that there was a Late Shop next door, and I had cycled right past it. Such was their determination to discourage raiders of one sort or another that it was barely recognisable as a shop. I bought some bananas there.

At Saltford I had my only really major navigational challenge of the whole trip. The instructions said turn right off Avon Lane to head north on the Bristol and Bath railway path. The only track I could find leading off Avon Lane was at the far end and it was closed due to foot and mouth. It didn't seem to be signed right anyway. I was expecting Sustrans signing and there was nothing like that. I was forced to navigate by the seat of my pants and the small scale road map that I had. I made my way through Keynsham (which, for people of my age who had listened to Radio Luxembourg, is always spelt letter by letter, thanks to Horace Bachelor) and then I hit problems because they had built a new road. I stayed on the cycle tracks, which was pleasant compared with the heavy traffic on the main roads, but they suffer from the disadvantage that they only ever signpost you to local places, so you're never quite sure where you're going. They also tend to take rather roundabout routes, so when they dive off in an unexpected direction you don't know whether you are going the wrong way or just avoiding a roundabout. Eventually I found the A420 and this end of the railway path. It looked quite busy.

I had lunch in the Griffin at the Pucklechurch turn off the A420. A jacket potato with tuna and a pint of Courage Best were very welcome.

Navigational problems continued. I made a wrong turn - entirely my fault - in Pucklechurch and ended up in Wick. I lost about an hour and 10 miles here. Fortunately the afternoon brightened up a little. The descent down to the Severn Bridge was a pleasant relief (it's much better to be going downhill in the certain knowledge that you won't have to come back up it) in spite of the light rain.

As I crossed the bridge and reached the other side a Bromptoneer dawdled to say 'Hello,' and 'Welcome to Wales.' I promptly got a puncture. Mike displayed that camaraderie of cyclists and helped me fix it. He had been touring in England and was on his way home via the station in Chepstow. He also gave me a spare bottle of orange juice that he had and lent me his mobile to give the warden at the youth hostel a ring. Unfortunately it didn't work, so I rang the hostel from the first phone I came to up the road. It was 5.45, I'd done 58 miles and the warden reckoned it was 27 miles from Chepstow to the hostel. It looked like I would miss the evening meal. So off I set, a little downhearted: the puncture, the distance to travel, the gathering storm clouds and the missed meal.

The clouds delivered an amazing electric storm with rain to match. I just had to grit my teeth and think of the dry bed that was waiting for me. However, in spite of the rain, I really enjoyed the descent to Tintern Abbey. I couldn't get any wetter, so being wet didn't matter any more. The descent just seemed to go on for ever. I must return one day and enjoy it again in the dry.

After crossing the river there was a steep climb. The junctions and the map didn't quite seem to agree, but somehow I ended up at the Hewelsfield junction. It had seemed easier to head for a place that I could recognise on the map rather than try and guess the best route through the lanes.

The rain got into my mileometer at Brockweir and I re-covered it with a plastic bag and elastic band, which did the trick. I'd done 65 miles at an average of 8.9 by that point. I don't think I missed much distance before I noticed the problem. By Coleford it was getting dark enough to need lights, so I had to spend a couple of minutes fishing them out and fitting them on.

Normally there's access across the river on a footbridge, but this was closed, forcing a few miles' ride up the river and back for the next bridging point. By this time I was a little tired, so any extra work really wasn't welcome. The access to the hostel is up very quiet roads and then down very steep tracks. It was just about dark as I arrived and I was at the limit of my braking ability as I descended. I almost knocked on the wrong building, partly because I was desperate to get in the warm and dry and partly because it was painted in something of the youth hostel style.

I had to rejoin the YHA, which took a few minutes. I bought a can of baked beans and a few slices of bread and made myself beans on toast. It tasted wonderful. I rang home before I retired to the dormitory which I had to myself. My usual routine involves having a shower and washing my shorts as soon as I arrive. I did neither. I more or less fell into bed without even bothering to clean my teeth and went to sleep instantly.

Day 6: Sunday 17 June - Welsh Bicknor to Ludlow
I left the YH at 9.40. Breakfast had been at 8.30 and was agreeably filling. The full English (Welsh?) part was a little on the slight side, but there was as much toast as you liked. My experience contrasted with one report of YHA breakfasts that I had read on an E2E site on the net while I was researching the ride, which had generally denigrated them. I regretted even more having missed the evening meal.

The bike having got drenched yesterday I took the opportunity to lube my chain as well as checking my tyres. I had less than 50 miles to do today, and was in no great hurry as I felt rather tired after yesterday. The climb back up to the ridge from the hostel was quite sturdy, and I certainly felt it in my legs. Going along the ridge I encountered a number of motorists, which was puzzling, as the road hardly goes anywhere. Then I remembered the sign that mentioned access to the church, and it was Sunday, and about the right time for a 10.00 service.

I took a picture of the road bridge. As I had come up from the River Wye last night the hill had looked horrendous, then, as you rounded a bend you saw that the road cut through the hill under this bridge. This was something of a relief until you realised that the road looped around and went over the bridge as well, so you had to do the climbing anyway. At least it reduced the gradient. According to the warden there were two other end-to-enders in the hostel, but I couldn't be sure who they were. I suspect they were the middle-aged couple I saw at breakfast - they looked fit and had the right sort of gear on. '64 miles today,' I heard one say to the other, which more or less confirmed my suspicious.

The day stayed dry, although some clouds threatened. However, it was overcast and surprisingly chilly. I soon decided to don my windproof leggings, and this is an action that involves me removing my cycling shoes, so I don't do it lightly. If there had been any chance of it warming up in the near future I wouldn't have bothered. I felt a bit conspicuous doing this in the turn-in to a builders merchants along the River Wye, but who cares. I never removed my windproof top the whole day, and even switched to my SealSkinz gloves early in the afternoon. And this was June, in England, and it wasn't as if I was standing still.

The constant headwind didn't help. My legs ached a bit and lacked power, two hard days having taken their toll. 50 miles seemed a sensible target for the day.

The terrain became gradually undulating; steady uphills rarely requiring my 28 tooth ring, coupled with good, fast descents that you could let run. There's nothing worse than building up a head of steam on a descent only to have to brake to a virtual standstill round a corner at the bottom, dissipating all that expensively acquired kinetic energy into heat in your wheel rims. The nicest stretch was from Ross-on-Wye to Brockhampton.

I stopped for a while in Ross. The route out was a little uncertain, and the picture map in the centre of the town gave good clues about the lane I needed to take over the motorway. There was an outdoor railway museum at one of the junctions, with a short stretch of broad gauge rail laid out on the ground.

I was joined for a while by a couple of cyclists out for a Sunday run. We stopped by a footbridge over the Wye and talked bikes and bits, motorists and road surfaces for a while. I gave one of them the tip about switching the RSI cables on the bosses on the down tube and crossing them over before the guides under the bottom bracket. This stops the rubbing between the cables and the head tube as you turn the handlebars. They went to watch the river from the bridge - part of their routine on this route - and I continued on my way.

I missed a turn and joined the B4224 just west of Sollers Hope rather than Fownhope. I hoped to eat in Mordiford, but the Moon Inn was fully booked for food: Fathers' Day was the reason, apparently.

I cycled on to Hagley and stopped at the New Inn. They had no food, but I was running low on energy so I had an excellent pint of Marstons and a packet of peanuts. That worked ok. I watched the village locals playing euchre and the England cricket team struggling against Pakistan in the one day test.

As I left I was asked where I was going. One bloke said he had done London to Paris and had thought of the E2E.

At Bodenham I hit a classic CTC route error (or was it my transcription error?). The distance given as 11ò4 miles to the turn turned out to 1ò4 mile. It looks further than on the map. In Stoke Prior the roads were certainly different to the map. I found a woman to ask. Her replies baffled me: 'Everywhere is difficult to get to from here, unless you have a car or a bike. You could go this way . . . or you could go that way.' I ignored her and relied on the signpost.

I arrived in Ludlow at 5 o'clock, just as the Tourist Information Office was closing so I was able to get a town plan. All three streets where my possible B&Bs were located were on there. I had pre-booked all my accommodation up to last night in Welsh Bicknor. I'd felt that I knew the terrain and my fitness well enough to be sure of how far I could get in a day and it also meant that I could get a feel for how easy accommodation was. Ludlow was the first place I arrived at without somewhere to stay. I rang the first one on my list, which was only just around the corner, but got an answering machine. The second one was the Cecil Guest House and I was able to book in there OK. He kindly directed me through the one way system, aware of how a cyclist can short-circuit some of the convolutions laid out for motorists.

The room was £20 for a tiny box room, but it was all right. Apparently a Japanese film crew had booked for two nights and cancelled on Friday. The bath was very nice - not en suite, but I had a choice of two bathrooms.

Ludlow had plenty of tourists, especially Americans, videoing and photographing everything, even an events board because it had a poster for Macbeth on it.

The B&B was about a mile from the centre, so I walked in for my evening meal. The landlord had recommended the Church Inn. He said it was the only one that really did its own home-cooked food. He'd seen the Brake Brothers vans outside all the others. I hadn't realised what they delivered, but apparently they supplied ready-made meals for the catering trade. Delightful little old pub. The Americans would have gone wild about it. Thankfully there weren't any in there. I had a quiche and salad which justified my landlord's faith in the place, and a pint of Brains, which was also very nice. Carter the butchers has a sign outside saying that it is the home of the Ludlow sausage. I didn't know such a thing existed.

The weather forecast looked more promising for the next four or five days. 'Summer's just around the corner,' the weathergirl said. I'd seen three dead badgers today, so no summer for them. You know when you're getting near one as they have quite a strong aroma.

Day 7: Monday 18 June - Ludlow to Market Drayton
I left at 8.50 after an excellent breakfast and straight into perfect cycling conditions. It was warmish and dry, with a slight tail wind.

Heading out of Ludlow I had some difficulty finding the small road over the A road. The only people in the vicinity were two old fellahs, both tottering along on sticks, enjoying the fine morning. Only one spoke. 'Oh, it's a long way from here. I don't know which road you mean. I've lived here all my life, so I could take you there, but I couldn't tell you!'

Anyway, I found the road, and it was a beauty, wending its way up the valley of the River Corve with Wenlock Edge on the left, then on to Much Wenlock, where I stocked up on provisions. Then came the whiz of the day: the A road down to the River Severn, then on past the power station to Ironbridge.

I had lunch by the bridge, sitting in some rather pleasant sunshine alongside a plaque erected by the American Society of Engineers, or something similar, celebrating the achievement of those who erected the bridge. This was the middle of June and there were a few tourists about, but not many.

Leaving Ironbridge on the small roads the signposting became a little uncertain. You had to make a choice, and I headed uphill. The road became poorly made-up, virtually a lane, then improved again, but constantly climbing. I rode through the Sunniside council estate to a junction. Down to the right seemed the best direction to take me to Little Wenlock. As I reached the bottom, the bottom of a big hill, there was a sign pointing to Little Wenlock back up the way I had descended.

After that there was some gentle climbing around the NE corner of The Wrekin, followed by a fast, enjoyable descent. I had a second lunch in a field near Great Bolas. The police helicopter was buzzing around for a long time, and I began to have paranoid visions of being carted off to jail for breaking the foot and mouth regulations by setting foot in a field and putting food in my mouth. A little way down the road, at Stoke Heath, I realised it was a helicopter training unit. I wouldn't like to live under that.

On to Market Drayton, where the centre took some finding. I decided this was far enough. The CTC mileage sheet didn't seem all that reliable. (How much was down to the CTC and how much to my transcription errors I'm not sure, but either way it was worrying to think there might be problems in the remoter stretches of the route.)

After my early encounters with other cyclists, especially end-to-enders, I was surprised not to see many more. Today the only one I saw was going in the opposite direction, fully laden with four panniers.

I got a map from the Tourist Information Centre but had no joy with the B&Bs I'd pre-selected. I went back to the TIC and got them to book for me - just in time, as they were about to close. Very pleasant B&B. The room was beautifully furnished - it was simply one of their bedrooms that they had converted into a B&B room by adding a toilet and shower cubicle in the corner. The dressing table had a silver-backed mirror on it, the wardrobe was a nice piece of burr walnut, etc.

The landlady was a pleasant woman. I guess you have to have strategies for dealing with the various sorts of people who come through your door. She told me of how she'd had a group of three young men staying (the room has three single beds), who had been working for MAFF on the foot and mouth cull. They had bilked: left without paying after three weeks. But she had a mixture of irritation and pity for them. She saw that one of them was quite a nice lad, and just going on with the others, and part of her pity came from the fact that they were stupid. They had left their timesheets in the room, so it had been a simple task to let their employers know. They would lose their jobs as a result. I think she found more shocking the fact that one of them had had a girl up in the room, and the worst aspect was that she discovered this when she went into the room in the morning and the girl was just stepping out of the shower. Cool as a cucumber, she was.

She worried about her family, all of whom were away. One of her sons couldn't get it together, and this tormented her. Her husband was a captain for P&O on the Rotterdam ferry, and they were just going through a 'rationalisation', with the strong possibility that he would be out of a job. There was a fine picture of him in his naval uniform overlooking the breakfast table.

I wandered into town for a meal and was happy to have some fish and chips. There was quite a queue outside the shop, which is always a good sign. It would appear that there were usually more staff than the two who were behind the counter. Instead of moaning and groaning about being rushed off their feet they kept up a constant witty repartee with each other and the people in the queue. It was a pleasure to be entertained while I waited. A shop in the town informed me that Market Drayton is the home of gingerbread.

Favourite sign of the day: 'Beware of the large furry dog!'

Day 8: Tuesday, 19 June - Market Drayton to Leigh
Left at 9.22 after a very pleasant breakfast chat with the landlady. In spite of summer being 'just around the corner' it had started to rain, so I dawdled talking for half an hour. She told me of another professional bilker. He was smartly dressed in a pinstripe suit, and would come downstairs in the morning with his suitcase, 'realise' he had insufficient cash and, leaving his suitcase behind, would nip into town to the cash machine. He didn't come back, and the suitcase was cheap and empty. She was puzzled why he did it - the time, cost and effort of acquiring cheap suitcases hardly made it worth it for the small amount he was saving.

I'm acquiring a certain arrogance that is hard to define. It's to do with the idea that I am on a mission - the end-to-end - and nobody has any right to keep me from my predestined path. Not so much arrogance, perhaps, as much as self-importance. These other road users are just on the road, while I am doing something significant.

The cycling today has been very easy, reflected in the higher average speed. The hills have been very gradual, to the extent that I haven't had to use my smallest chainring at all, and with what I call full-benefit descents: you don't need to use your brakes.

I stopped in Middlewich for lunch, at the Butty Bar. Middlewich doesn't have much of a middle, and the only street consisted mainly of takeaways.

After Middlewich I missed the B road turning. It had a different number, but I should have worked it out, as I had crossed the railway to the east of the town and the road was the next left. It looks obvious on the map, but it is amazing how things work out differently on the road. Translating the scale to the territory is one skill I acquire slowly each time I change to a different map scale. You might be distracted by something and have no idea of how far you've travelled since your last landmark. I try to make a mental note of the distance each time I pass a key navigational point, but sometimes I forget. This was one of those occasions, and the change in road number certainly didn't help. The other thing that happens is that, having made a mistake, there's a reluctance to retrace your steps, even if rationally it is the most sensible thing to do. By the time I realised that I'd missed the turn I was in Sproston Green, but I couldn't find what looked like a certain route to get me back on the B5081, so I continued to Holme Chapel. The stretch between Middlewich and the M6 was unpleasant, carrying a lot of traffic on this link to the motorway. It made you realise that the CTC route was pleasantly quiet, and worthwhile, even if you were paying with a few more miles and a few more hills. I was heading through the edge of the Manchester conurbation, but it never felt built-up for very long.

In the afternoon I crossed the Manchester Ship Canal, and this seemed quite a significant border. While I have cycled in Scotland, I have never cycled in northern England. And 'Manchester Ship Canal' is one of those phrases from A-level geography all those years ago in school, redolent with images of the industrial revolution and all things northern. As a cyclist I didn't have to pay a toll, which is always pleasing. Mind you, cars only had to pay 12p, but the satisfaction of not paying, of being a privileged road user for once, was worth far more than that.

I cruised into Leigh about 4 o'clock. I hadn't booked anywhere to stay, so I was a little uncertain how easy it would be. Most of my time had been in the country, where B&Bs are more obvious and more frequent. I had three addresses on my accommodation list, so I was moderately confident. On my way in I passed three B&Bs, which prompted me to think, 'This is easy.' Then I realised they were the three on my list. I called at one, but she was fully booked, and the only other places she knew of were the ones on my list. So, although I had plenty of time, this was a little worrying. I ended up staying at Farringdon Guest House, which was cheap, adequate and a little dingy.

I booked in for two nights as tomorrow was one of my planned rest days. The legs were going all right, but I suspected that if I pushed on it might get a bit tiresome. I was ambivalent about this: I thought both that the change would do me good, and that I was going well so I should continue. In the end, my original plans prevailed.

I ate in The Waterside, a rather empty pub that fancied itself as being a bit upmarket. The food was boring but ok.

Day 9: Rest Day
Breakfast was a bit more basic, but satisfactory. There were a couple of working men down at breakfast, who were obviously regulars, and Malcolm, who was attending a course in the area. One of the men had to leave the room to eat his breakfast. GMTV was on, and he couldn't stand one of the men who was on. I couldn't work out whether he meant Eamon Holmes or Richard, the slightly gay presenter who talks about soaps, etc.

One of the advantages of having two nights in one place was that I shouldn't have to pack. Unfortunately the landlady had warned me the night before that I might have to switch rooms if she had more guests arrive. She hadn't had a single room when I arrived, so I got a room with three single beds. As a result I half packed my stuff so that I could move it very easily if necessary.

I decided to spend the day in Manchester, a city I had only visited once before during a juggling convention (and you don't get much of a chance to see the city then). I'd checked out the bus times the evening before so I knew what time to get to the bus station for. I was pretty surprised to find that my return ticket to Manchester was only £2.10 for a day saver. And pensioners pay half fare, with a maximum of 40p. This compared very favourably with the prices that Stagecoach charges in my home area. The GMPTE certainly seems to have something sorted out well.

As I walked across the Town Hall Square I saw some TV cameras and wondered what was going on. It turned out that the enquiry into the murdering doctor Harold Shipman was starting today. A Granada team joined the other two later on in the day.

I wandered around the Arndale Centre, remembering that it had been damaged by an IRA bomb a few years earlier, and a friend of mine had been slightly injured. The centre itself was full of the usual city centre junk.

Went to the library - beautiful circular building - and did some German there, and found a useful book about self-massage for cyclists. Thought it might come in handy. Had lunch in a small quiet square and read some more German.

In the afternoon I eventually found the City Art Gallery, only for it to be shut until 2002. Chinatown was just around the corner, so I explored the shops there for a while, and enjoyed the tranquillity of a miniature Chinese park there.

The Museum of Science and Technology was charging £6.50 to get in, but it was late in the day and I didn't think it was worth it. Instead I looked for maps and guides to Scotland in Waterstones and HMSO, but the key maps were nowhere to be found.

I posted my German stuff home. I might be supposed to be doing the Open University course, but I just wasn't getting it done, so the added weight wasn't worth it. I decided I could always catch up at home.

I wear a Tilley hat, which looks slightly incongruous on a bike, but less so on foot. It's distinctive, and the makers encourage a certain camaraderie among wearers as part of developing their brand, so every now and then a fellow Tilley wearer will give you a nod or even pass the time of day with you, just because you're wearing the same hat. Silly, really, but I quite enjoy it. What was unusual was for a non-Tilley wearer to pass me in the street and say, 'That's a fine hat you've got there, sir!'

While I was in the city I took the opportunity to book in at my next B&B at Tebay for the night after next. This meant that if I had problems I had a whole day and a bit to sort them out. I also find it reassuring to know where I am going to stay that evening when I set out in the morning. It gives you a bit more leeway in the late afternoon, early evening. I also bought a pair of Coolmax socks to replace one pair that was giving out.

Horrible traffic out of the city in the rush hour.

Day 10: Thursday 21 June. Leigh to Slaidburn
I left at 7.53 and had my usual problem getting out of Leigh. The instructions said take the B road after 1.4 miles, but I hit a B road after only 0.4. It seemed to be heading in the right direction, so I took it. However, it brought me to a T-junction, and I realised I should have turned later, but was easily able to get back on the right track.

Although this was the rush hour the traffic was no problem, and I consoled myself with the fact that this was probably the most built-up part of the entire route.

I knew that route finding at the Lostock Junction area would be tricky - I'd checked it out on street plans in Waterstones yesterday. I crossed the railway bridge, which was now a one-way road, with part of the bridge sectioned off. I guess it was a weak bridge, but at least cycles were allowed to cross in both directions. Then the road turned east, although a side turning continued north - the general direction I knew I needed. I went east, came to a main road with no signs and guessed that left was the right way to go. I soon came to a well signposted junction.

The road round to the A675 was very nice, although it was a little demoralising to be overtaken on the hills by fell runners. One overtook me while I was checking the map. Another I gave a 50 yard start at the junction with the B6226 and only caught him at the top of the hill. He was doing a good 4mph up that hill! The road turned to the right and traversed along the side of the hill, but it was still high enough to have a sign that simply said 'ICE' - a reminder that I was a bit further north than my home county. And it was quite cold. I kept putting more clothes on, the promised heatwave not having arrived, so that by the turning off to Blackburn (900 feet above Leigh) I had my armwarmers, Ron Hill tracksters, windshirt and cagoule on. There was a moderate wind from the WNW that meant it was either across me or a headwind, but never favourable, so that didn't help. A couple of road cyclists prinked their way past me wearing far less. I guess their higher energy output made the difference. Looking back over Bolton from my vantage point I was reminded of the colours and textures of Lowry's paintings, and of course, Salford is just down the road.

Just before the turn to Blackburn was the village of Belmont. This reminded me of the incompetent managers where I used to work, who bought a neighbouring house of that name and decamped there. They wondered why they lost contact with their staff! A little further along I came across a small zipped nylon bag, perhaps for a compact camera. I could think of no immediate use for it, but I took it with me just in case. I was reluctant to throw it away.

Before I dropped down into Blackburn I could see the hills appearing on the horizon. This was obviously going to be a marked change from the Cheshire plain, but I was taking it steady, and didn't need my small chainring until the climb over from Cow Ark.

To the right before Blackburn was the town of Darwen. A former work colleague of mine came from there and was quite forthright about the difference between the two towns. The town sign declared 'Blackburn with Darwen', and the 'with' seemed a little odd. Was it a feature of northern English that I was unfamiliar with, or were they trying to hint at a relationship between the two places that was different from 'and'? In my ignorance I had always assumed it was spelled 'Darwin', like the place in Australia, and it wasn't until I was route planning and saw it written down for the first time that I realised my mistake.

On the outskirts of Blackburn I passed what I thought was a contender for the worst pub name in Britain: 'The Cemetery'. It was raining gently, but enough to be annoying, so I spent about an hour and a half in Blackburn, waiting for it to brighten up, but it never did. I provisioned at Marks and Spencer and Tesco, and watched the antics of the police, who were out in force guarding King George's Hall. Apparently the Duke of Kent was to arrive for some function or other.

Looking at my map I could see that I couldn't turn off the A666 directly onto the B6246. A detour into Whalley itself was necessary, but this turned out to be mainly on cycle paths and was therefore quite pleasant. I had lunch in Whalley, stopping in a delightful tiny little park. Unfortunately the bubbling water feature had been disfigured by pink graffiti.

I was now into the Forest of Bowland, and area of the country I had never heard of. The remainder of the day's ride consisted mainly of moderate but steady climbing. I heard my first curlew, and felt quite privileged, and spent a few minutes watching a heron fishing at Mitton Bridge. An exception to the steady climbing was the amazing down-and-up between Cow Ark and the B6478. (The top point along here was 245m above Whalley.)

I arrived early at the hostel, but a nice touch was the stuff for a 'Welcome Cuppa' laid out. I'd bought supplies in Blackburn because I was staying in a youth hostel, and it's always a little uncertain what the hostel shop may have in the way of food. Of course, this hostel had an adequate selection and the Post Office/General Stores across the road has a good range.

The wardens were temporary volunteer locums from London: there was the warden herself, a chap called Damian and a couple staying with her. The couple had four-month-old twins. They invited to join me towards the end of their meal, and I really enjoyed the glass of wine and strawberries and cream.

She explained how they had to go on a volunteer wardens training weekend, where all the stuff about Health and Safety regulations, chemicals in the cleaners, how to deal with weirdos, etc., had nearly put her off.

The only bad time she had had was with a private Jewish school who acted as though they owned the place and went on making a noise late into the night with entertainments they had arranged for each other. The problem was that the warden's quarters were in the middle of all this and wardens have to get up early in the morning. She and a friend, who saw themselves as libertarian socialists, ended up bellowing at them. The kids retaliated by singing songs in Yiddish, but she said she recognised the word 'warden' so she know it was about her and probably not very complimentary. Here, however, they'd had quite a good week.

They were off tomorrow, and someone else was taking over as warden. Tonight a group of hostellers called the Barnies, walkers and cyclists, had booked the entire hostel, that was probably going to leave quite a bit of tidying up for the new warden.

Three Scots end-to-enders arrived about 9.30. They hadn't eaten so they were pretty hungry. They tried the pub but food was finished for the day. They were offered the fruit and yoghurt that the warden's party had left over. They were on a two week schedule, constrained by work holidays and had come from Chester, doing about 90 miles because of some navigational problems. One of them had done it last year, one was doing it quite willingly and the third, with a beer gut had been taunted and wagered into doing it. They had opted for the youth hostel route, and we all agreed that this was a very nice hostel.

Day 11: Friday 22 June - Slaidburn to Tebay
What a beautiful day! Perhaps the heatwave has caught up with me. Two of the warden's friends had been up at 6 o'clock to enjoy the ride up to the Trough of Bowland before being condemned to the car journey home. Damian had left early to catch a bus. Doing my Tai Chi I discovered that the midges also appreciated the change in the weather, but there were only a few of them.

The three Scots were eating heartily to make up for last night's lack of food.

I left at 9.05 and had a hot steady climb of about an hour and a half, punctuated by a drop down of 90 metres, to the col west of Catlow Fell. At the previous top, just before the drop, I had that curlew moment. There were lots of them, and I could see them, and it was magical. There were also several pairs of black and white crested stunt fliers. (My bird identification is not very good.) I sat and enjoyed a cheese and tomato sandwich in the middle of nowhere. I'd seen not traffic virtually the whole morning, and now two vehicles colluded to arrive at the top at the same time from opposite directions. Could have been interesting, but it wasn't.

It was beginning to cloud over, so I slipped my windshirt on for the beautiful heart-lifting descent to High Bentham. This had all the hallmarks of a pleasant little rural town. Behind the flashy new sign on Barclay's Bank you could still see the imprint of its predecessor: Martins.

I took the wrong turn out of the town and ended up in Ingleton. I didn't realise until I got to the Tourist Information Office. This had been a bit of a climb into Ingleton, so I enjoyed the little market that was going on and bought some rolls to eat while I watched the problems caused by narrow streets and large delivery vehicles. The weather had cleared up now and stayed fine for the rest of the day.

I made my way along the A65(T) to Kirkby Lonsdale, which has an awkward one-way system. However, I had no problem finding the turn up the Lune valley. I'd decided that I preferred the look of the small roads to the west of the river rather than the A683 to the east. I dawdled up this pretty road, with lovely views of the fells opposite. I engaged in my favourite inactivity - lying flat-out in a grassy field on a warm day enjoying the landscape. I also enjoyed a banana sandwich. This is an item of food that I very rarely eat when I'm at home, but on the bike, with your body calling for calories, it seems just the ticket.

Now I was just pootling along when one of those things happened that makes cycling so special. At the edge of the road was a narrow bank of undergrowth and young trees. I just glanced to my left and there, sitting in a tree about ten feet up, was an owl. I stopped and watched, and it just sat there impassively. When I went to get my camera out it flitted silently away.

Going past Killington I felt as though I was playing dodgems with farmers in their tractors bringing their silage in. I'd already met several when I encountered a quad leading a convoy of three tractors with silage trailers. They were charging around in a hurry to get their harvest in, so there wasn't really any give and take; well, it was all take and no give. On the other hand, earlier in the day, when I had slowed down to let a car pass, I got what Bill Bryson in 'Notes from a Small Island' describes as a big gesture of recognition in these parts: the index finger of the right hand twitches slightly off the steering wheel.

Delicious whiz down the A road over the motorway into Tebay. Pleasant B&B: an annex to the little country post office, which the owners also ran. I was the only guest.

Day 12: Saturday 23 June - Tebay to Langholm
At breakfast there was much talk of foot and mouth. Their milkman in Orton, just up the road, had been culled yesterday. How was he going to continue if he had no cows? My host reckoned he had lost about £6,000 through the drop in tourist trade, but he couldn't claim any of it back through compensation schemes because he also had his post office salary.

Resources review: I ditched a pair of socks that had worn through - I'd bought replacements in Manchester. I also jettisoned the bag I'd found near Belmont. I just couldn't think of a use for it, and although my recycling instincts wanted to hang onto it, my 'if you don't need it, don't carry it' instinct got the better of them. My rear tyre needed some air and was looking a bit worn. I might need to replace it in Edinburgh. I put some lube on the chain. My derailleur system isn't working properly, but consistently, so I'm happy as it is. It's reliable, and I can get all the gears I need, so that's good enough for me.

I left at 8.40 and stopped in Orton to buy some bananas for the road. I passed the culled farms on the way in. There was serious-looking yellow tape up to deter visitors. Voices in the village shop were hushed - everyone was affected in this small community.

Quite a steady climb out of Orton - 160 metres from the river, which I managed in 37 minutes. The map had a chevron on the hill, so I made sure I loosened my legs up well by going for a twiddling cadence before I got to it. I thought, 'This is where I pay for yesterday's whiz into Tebay.' But no - I'd crossed the watershed almost before I knew it, descended the valley of the River Lyvennet, had a hiccough around Culgath, then went down the River Eden valley to Langwathby and Lazonby. By the time I reached Brampton at about 1.00 I'd done about 45 miles at 10.5 mph, significantly higher than my usual rate.

There was a nice little plaque explaining the origin of the two villages of Kings Meaburn and Maulds Meaburn. Apparently one of the knights who murdered Thomas A'Becket held the land. Done for treason, the king (Henry II) confiscated his land, but his sister (Mauld?) was able to retain her part.

In Brampton I bought a couple of sandwiches and a pint of milk and took a picture of the statue of the emperor Hadrian, a previous visitor. I noticed a distinct change in the accent between Tebay and Brampton, and I remembered that accent maps show a bundle of isogloss boundaries in the borders, a consequence of the minimal contact between the peoples either side - the result of the geographical frontier and the warring nature of the border reivers.

I took a wrong turning off the A6071 which led to a farm and had a gate across the road. This cost me 1.4 miles. When I got back to the main road I could see the right turn further ahead. I'm still making mistakes, but I think I'm getting better at monitoring my progress so I can find the right road turnings more often.

This section of the route runs across the grain of the valleys instead of along them but is still very pleasant.

More navigational challenges: I couldn't see the road that was supposed to go straight on at Haggbeck, so I ended up turning right thinking I was one stage further on. So much for being better at monitoring my progress! Fortunately I checked the sign at Haggbeck and noticed it showed Catlowdy to the left, so I turned up there.

Reaching Liddell Water there were a couple of river men checking the fish. This was the border between England and Scotland. Just across from the bridge was a sign saying 'Scotland Welcomes You'. I looked back into England. There was no sign; just the posts where a sign had been. I dawdled on the border, eating a banana in the middle of the bridge, one foot in England, one in Scotland. I could still turn back, but from now on I was a foreigner (although I'd received a Scottish five pound note in my change in Brampton). Several B&Bs on the High Street. I selected 'The Borders' Guest House.

Day 13: Sunday 24 June - Langholm to Edinburgh
Not sure where I'm staying tonight. My original plan was to make the hop to Peebles followed by a short hop into Edinburgh in the morning. I may well be able to make it to Edinburgh, but I'll get to Peebles and see how I feel.

A misty start. The landlady said it would probably burn off, but it didn't. I went across the road to stock up on road food, but all that Alldays had was one banana, so I bought the last banana in Langholm.

Over the river, passing signs to Lockerbie, a name forever linked to the terrorist air crash, then quite a stiff climb out the other side. I was only a little way up when I saw a shrew in the road. It had obviously tried to cross the road but couldn't get up the kerb the other side. It kept throwing itself up the kerb and bouncing off. I stopped to try and help it, but it scampered back over the other side. It emerged again and kept rolling over as it scampered around on the smooth tarmac of the steep hill. It looked like a speeded-up drunk trying to make his way home.

This excitement was followed by fairly steady cycling up the Esk valley, then quite a pull up to Castle O'er, just reaching the drizzle at the cloud base. The main disappointment along here was the swarms of motorcyclists. Over the hour or so I counted 76, more or less. I suppose it gave me something to do on the long climb, but I would have rather been without it. Although it was dull it wasn't cold, but I slipped my windshirt on for the descent to Eskdalemuir, a very small place. I passed the Tibetan centre just beyond this. The brightly coloured flags looked a bit incongruous in the wilds of Scotland. There was an enormous concrete stupa with a spiritual rewards offered for sponsoring bits of it. This reminded me of the medieval system of dispensations offered by the Christian church. The explanation of the symbolic meaning of each of the levels of the stupa was quite fascinating.

The wildlife was getting more interesting. I saw two buzzards, which are common in Devon where I live, but I had seen very few since leaving the county. I also startled a pheasant right by the roadside, and it went off in a blur of colour, squawking for such a long time it seemed almost that it was indignant.

Up the White Esk valley now, then the wonderful descent to Ramseycleuch. I decided to lunch at the Tushielaw Inn. The English landlord was just settling in a pair of guests who'd driven up from Southampton that morning (it was now just after midday). They were here for a few days for the shooting and fishing. Apart from them, I was the only other patron, although according to the landlord, the place had been heaving the night before. He'd had to stop taking food orders - and this place is in the middle of nowhere, or so it seems. There was a slightly old fashioned charm about the place, and about the landlord. It was quite an old building, and there was a rack of room service bells. He said they still worked, but you only got the resident ghost if you tried them. Discussing with the two other guests where they might be going during their stay, he ascertained that they were going to one particular spot, and asked if they might take something with them that had been left by a chap who'd been stuck in the inn for four days in a blizzard. He told me that Princes Street was 45 miles from the inn, so I decided that Edinburgh was probably on.

Very steady, even climb up the Wiss, then the five miles or so downhill whiz of the day.

At Mountbenger I witnessed an accident. At the crossroads a blue car with an old chap driving pulled out in the path of a red car driven by a young woman on the main road. She braked well, so the impact speed was only about five mph. He didn't seem too perturbed by it. I gave my name as a witness, although I hadn't quite seen the whole thing. I was about fifty yards up the road when I heard the screech of brakes, and turned round to see the impact. There were plenty of other witnesses, notably a bunch of motorcyclists who were sitting at tables outside the hotel there. What was sobering for me was that the driver of the blue car had been on the same road as me - inattentive drivers scare the hell out of cyclists. (We always come off worse.) I remember noticing as I had come out of the same junction, how bad the lines of sight were, and how careful you obviously had to be. The other interesting thing was that the police were there within five minutes.

Another steady climb - the road designers here send the road up the side of the hill at the most even gradient they can manage. There is little in the way of obstructions such as houses or rock outcrops, so this makes for very steady climbing. You find the gear and speed that suits and stick to it. You know you're climbing, but it's not horribly steep and the compensation is the full benefit descent on the other side. In this case it was the descent to Traquair.

It was a delightful run into Peebles. The main road runs on the other side of the valley, and so the B7062 has very little traffic. I could hear the motorcyclists giving it some stick on the other road and felt very grateful. This might have been a hillier route, but it was very pleasant.

In Peebles it seemed that everyone had congregated to enjoy the afternoon sun. Plenty of shops were open, despite it being Sunday. I bought a cold fizzy drink and considered my options. It was only 3 o'clock and Edinburgh was only about 23 miles. This would give me a whole day in the city and if I could get into the youth hostel it would be cheap. The roads, although they were A roads to Edinburgh, looked ok and had felt ok so far. Better to be on A roads on a Sunday afternoon than a Monday morning, which was the alternative. My legs felt up to it, so Edinburgh it was.

And the A roads turned out to be OK. They had light gradients and there was a favourable wind. I arrived at the hostel at 5.30, having had no trouble finding the hostel with the rather vague maps I had.

The hostel did no catering, but there was a 24 hour Spar shop on the corner, which obviously did good trade out of hostellers.

I met a friendly Canadian, who had been here since the beginning of May and was off to Glasgow tomorrow, flying back to Ontario on Thursday. He'd been all around the highlands and had a great time. He'd relied mainly on Sustrans maps. He showed on one of them how to get across the city to Route 1 that goes to Queensferry. We sat chatting on the hostel steps until about 10.30, and the sun was just setting. I won't need my lights in Scotland, or so I thought. Edinburgh Bicycle Cooperative's shop is just across the green; I didn't realise then how useful that would turn out to be.

Day 14: Monday 25 June - Rest day
My second rest day. I walked into the city, losing my way slightly by following a road with a gentle curve on it which headed me in the wrong direction. Spent a lot of the time window shopping. I had a good look round the Edinburgh Bicycle Cooperative - a proper bike shop. Edinburgh has plenty of cycle tracks and cyclists. I found a good outdoor shop called 'Outdoors', and browsed maps and guide books for Scotland in Waterstones. The Tourist Information Centre was both crowded and very commercial.

Bloody bagpipers are everywhere. For me they were completely outclassed by a group of buskers. They were a five-piece brass group - cornet, trumpet, French horn, trombone and a tuba-like instrument that I couldn't quite identify. They ran through a set of popular classics, and it's amazing what you can do with five voices. The overture to William Tell was their best piece. They didn't stay long, and I suspect they might have been moonlighting in their lunch hour, so to speak. On the Royal Mile another pair of buskers had a job finding a good pitch. They played the mandolin and guitar, and the mandolin was beautifully lyrical and fluid, playing Scottish dance music. They'd play for a while at a spot and then decide to try somewhere else. The bagpipers take it in shifts on the good pitches. Highland/regimental dress is obviously de rigueur. It encourages tourists to have their photo taken alongside them, which prompts them to give money, not for the playing but for being a photo model!

I had lunch in the Baked Potato Shop, a wonderful establishment that serves baked potatoes with a bewildering range of combinations of other foods. I'd discovered it when I had been in Edinburgh a couple of years earlier for the European Juggling Convention.

I walked back to the hostel. I could have taken the bus, but it isn't that far and it was a beautiful warm day. I arrived back to some stony-faced Europeans watching Martina Hingis being knocked out of Wimbledon.

One of the local parks has a mini golf links, and there were lots of young people playing it and taking it quite seriously. There seemed to be an interest in the game that is generally lacking in England.

I decided to book my accommodation through for the rest of the trip. I was now fairly confident of my abilities, and I have cycled in the Highlands before, so I have a good idea of what is in store. I enjoy the down to earth simple accommodation provided by youth hostels, so that's what I went for. The warden booked them for me and that was that. All I had to do was the cycling. There isn't a hostel near Crieff, so I booked a B&B there.

Apart from a shower at midday and a little bit of cloud, the day was sunny and warm. I was looking forward to tomorrow and getting back on the bike again.

Day 15: Tuesday 26 June - Edinburgh to Crieff I was breakfasted and all ready to go at 8.00, but my tool pack had disappeared. Either I left it on the bike in the bike store and someone stole it from there (but I'm sure I took it off", or it was taken from under my bed in the youth hostel (but none of my fellow residents looked likely to have done this), or I put it down with my bags in reception when I registered and forgot to pick it up when I went upstairs. I left the details with the warden - he had had nothing handed in.

Fortunately Edinburgh Bicycle Cooperative was just the other side of the park. Unfortunately they didn't open until 10 o'clock, so I went and got some cash out, bought some bananas and brought my journal up to date.

This is what I lost:
* the saddle pack itself - a cheapy made by 'Local Motion' which cost £2.50
* inner tube
* puncture kit
* tyre lever
* Kool Tool
* 32mm headset spanner accessory for Kool Tool
* bottle of Super Spray lube
* pressure gauge
* 8mm allen key
* front light: Vistalight VL400
* rear light: Knightlight
* cable ties
* Brooks saddle spanner
* hand cleanser in a film canister.

I replaced some of these at EBC. I didn't get a pressure gauge, as they only had digital ones at £15 which I thought was a bit steep. In place of the Kool Tool I got a Topeak Alien. I decided not to replace my lights, based on the way the evenings were drawing out. I was to regret this.

I eventually left at 10.27. I was OK finding my way out of the city as far as Murrayfield but then I couldn't find Route 1. I went along the A8 to see if I crossed it, but no. I decided to head in a general north/northeast direction to intersect with the Queensferry Road. I successfully managed this and felt rather pleased with myself. Nice cycle track. I got confused at Dalmeny - should I follow route number 1, or go to Queensferry or Forth Bridge. This added a couple of miles to the day's tally. There was a 15mph speed limit on the bridge.

I had lunch in Inverkeithing, and the weather was starting to deteriorate. I cursed my enforced late start - I could have been two and a half hours further up the road if it hadn't been for the lost tool wedge. The rain had started, coming from a bank of low black cloud that had been gradually heading north all morning. I'd done two miles more than the CTC distance and still had 50 to go.

There was nothing for it but to cycle in the rain. I donned my waterproof oversocks, waterproof gloves and my cagoule.

There was a steady climb away from Inverkeithing, which warmed me up. At Crossgates I took the Hill of Beath alternative, which had moderate climbs. I took the wrong turn near Drum - taking the turn before the village - but no matter. The riding was quite easy From Yetts O'Muckart to Dunning there was a proper glen climb, but not too steep and not very high. It was still a pleasure to descend, though. I saw another buzzard, this one had very ragged wings. Not only was it raining, but the cloud was very low, about 100 feet. This meant that there was a nice view of the lower parts of the glen, but you couldn't see much above the valley floor.

I arrived in Crieff about 6 o'clock and had a bit of difficulty locating the B&B. I Found the key landmark, which was the Somerfield supermarket, and thereby Burrell Road. I had to choose whether to head up the hill or down. I chose down and this was a mistake. Coming back up I could see the pub that the B&B was opposite, and wondered how on earth I could have missed it in the first place.

The rain had stopped by now and the surface of my cagoule was drying out. I took my overtrousers off before going to the B&B. I'd put them on as much for warmth as for anything for the descent into Dunning.

I was staying in Ardo Howe Guest House, named after two of their ancestors. This information was provided by a little notice in the dining room. They obviously had quite a few people asking where the name came from. The accommodation was small but adequate. It wasn't en suite, and lacked a wardrobe. Instead it had a hanging rail attached to the wall. The bathroom was verging on the palatial, and I really enjoyed a soak after the soaking of the afternoon. My measure of a wet day is whether my socks get wet. They had.

In the evening I ate in the Meadow Inn opposite. I had haddock and vegetables. I couldn't tell that it was haddock, but there was plenty of it. The bar had a claymore hanging over it and the pub was run by a great fat landlord and his skinny wife.

Day 16: Wednesday 27 June - Crieff to Braemar
At breakfast the other two guests said that the rain had been so heavy yesterday that they had pulled off the road, and that the M6 had come to a standstill at one point. So I got off lightly, really. Today looked much better; overcast, but at least it was dry.

The first part of the day was to get back on the official CTC route, as I had deviated a little to get to Crieff. So I was out along the A85 to the Fowlis Wester turn, but there wasn't a lot of traffic on the A road. This was an up and over to Buchanty, involving a 12% ascent. It was worth it for the beautiful valley route along the River Almond. This part of the route was carefully avoiding Perth, and did it very pleasantly.

It wasn't all that warm, and I had my windshirt on. I was just thinking about putting my leggings on when it got suddenly warmer near Moneydie. I saw both a deer and a peacock along this stretch.

I stopped for lunch in Blairgowrie. I bought in a branch of Alldays, partly because I was fairly hungry and partly because I suspected it might be the only shop in the place. The selection wasn't all that great and as soon as I got on my bike I passed more shops within a couple of minutes.

Out to the Bridge of Cally, then up Glen Shee. A steady climb. I stopped part of the way up to talk to an estate worker whose strimmer had broken down. I tried my spanners, but to no avail. He was clearing the grass from a five yard strip that had alternate larch and sessile oak trees. The house was visible on the other side of the glen about half a mile away. He worked for an absentee boss who was a Swiss banker, and who had insisted on having these sessile oaks. Unfortunately they weren't doing very well, as they don't grow well in these conditions. Each new year's growth got nipped by the frost. He and his mate had to clear the grass twice a year - about a two day job - and thought it all a bit pointless.

Now the road undulated over the side valleys of the glen, producing bang-bang descents followed by matching steep climbs. I had to use my full range of gears on each one, and it would be easy to overblow it on the up.

Then I had the climb up from Spittal of Glenshee. The gradient gradually picked up until it was steady bottom gear stuff. The cloud was still low and I gradually ascended into it, and visibility dropped to about 20 yards. This was the point where I regretted not replacing my rear light. I could really have done with it. I had some reflective armbands so I put those on. There wasn't much traffic, but some of it was big trucks and I felt rather vulnerable. I kept my ears peeled and pulled off to the side for a couple of vehicles that sounded particularly threatening. The climb continued steadily and I felt I was just about coping when out of the mist loomed a sign warning me of a 12% gradient. This was dispiriting, but I managed to just keep going. One of the worst features was the fact that because I was in the clouds I couldn't see the top. I had a rough idea how far it was from the map, but that was pretty vague. The climb went on and on, and I was just about to get off and walk when a car passed me, and just as it disappeared from view ahead its foglight dipped enough to show that the gradient was about to ease.

I had a second wind as a result and the relief that creeps into your legs as the gradient slackens is one of the rewards of cycling. It was now quite cold - I was 600m above Crieff - so the descent was a little chilly to start with. But I soon dropped down below the cloud level and it warmed up, then the beautiful view of the glen appeared. The contrast was very marked between the crawling climb up, that seemed to take ages in the cloud, and where I was denied the compensation of the view, with the few seconds it seemed to take to get out of the clouds on the way down, coupled with the glorious view and the effortless descent. This was an amazing downhill run of about 8 miles into Braemar.

I clocked the hostel on the way into Braemar as I went in to get some supplies for my evening meal. Later I walked into Braemar to phone home and enjoy the evening. A different sort of tourist trade here - a whisky shop and a sporran shop, amongst others.

My notes record that I passed two interesting signs during the day, but I don't know where. The first read 'Red squirrels crossing. Drive with care.' The second was in Gaelic but fortunately had a translation: 'Clan MacThomas meeting place.' This was a fingerpost that pointed off the road straight up into some woods. My mind was a little puzzled at the sort of meetings that would take place there.

Day 17: Thursday 28 June - Braemar to Grantown on Spey
The day opened nicely, with a mix of blue sky and clouds, and not much wind. The warden said the forecast was for even better weather this afternoon, which sounded promising, but in fact it soon clouded over a bit and cooled down.

I bought some provisions in Braemar before I set off, as there didn't seem to be much in the way of settlements for quite a way on the day's ride. The first part of the ride was absolutely beautiful: a downhill, downstream, downwind run to Braemar alongside the River Dee, fringed with scented pine woodlands. I clocked 11.8 mph average without really trying. There was a glimpse of the royal castle off to the right.

No problem finding the B976. This was a single track road with passing places, so I didnÕt really expect much traffic. I was a little perturbed when a coach turned up the road after me. The road didn't look as though it could take it. This was quite a stiff climb - 195 metres in 35 minutes - and the morning sun was still there to warm me up quite considerably.

This was followed by another fairly sturdy climb beyond Gairnshiel Lodge. The initial 90 metres up to the chevron on the map took 12 minutes and the next 120 metres a further 26. I find monitoring these things helps to take the sting out of the climb - any form of distraction would do, I suppose.

On the descent I stopped in the lee of a patch of trees to consume a couple of cheese and tomato rolls. The ascents must have taken more energy than I expected, as by the time I reached the left turn at Colnabaichin my legs had that empty feeling, so I stopped at a tea room in Corgarff and had a pot of tea and a slice of flapjack. That did the trick. I was the only guest. The tea room also sold knitwear under the brand name 'Goodibrand', I think. It must have been good stuff, as they had a royal 'By Appointment' sign in all its glory outside. This looked a little incongruous on this wood clad building, not much more than a shack, really. There was an interesting notice in a frame about Scottish flags that suggested that flying the lion flag was technically illegal, but they were flying one outside anyway.

It wasn't very far from here to Cock Bridge, but I faced a strong head wind that made it fairly slow going. Lecht Road, up from Cock Bridge has four separate chevrons on my map, so I knew it was going to be hard. I got up the first part all right, but then as I turned the next hairpin this took me straight back into the wind. I would like to think that it was the wind that did it for me, but I suspect I would have walked the next couple of hundred yards anyway. This was a climb of 235 metres and took me 43 minutes, including 10 minutes for photo stops. There was a horrible mess of ski lifts and a kart track at the top of one of these hills, this one I think.

Still, the compensation for the climb lies in the descent, and this one towards Tomintoul was a good one. I stopped a couple of miles before Tomintoul at a nice picnic spot just off the road on the Glenlivet estate: Blairmull Forest, or something like that.

From Tomintoul there was a 70 metre climb over to Bridge of Brown, then a long climb that was pretty continuous, but which mixed steep sections with something more comfortable. This took 43 minutes to climb 125 metres, but in one 15 minute section I only gained 5 metres; that was the comfortable section. Near the top I met a fellow cycletourist. He was a young German or Dutch lad, judging by his accent, and he was grinding up the hill on a very low gear. This was because he had a fully-laden bike: four panniers and barbag. He suggested walking along the military road nearby. He'd camped down there the night before. Again I was rewarded with a lovely descent at the end of the day into Grantown on Spey.

I stopped into the Tourist Information Centre and had to chase after a couple of portly Canadian ladies who had bought some postcards but left them behind.

I stayed in 'The Stop-over', an independent hostel, and very nice too. The warden lives next door, and I had the place to myself. This was the foot and mouth effect again. I was enjoying a very relaxing hot bath when I heard the warden showing some other people around. I'd stripped off in the dormitory and just slung a towel around me to go to the bathroom, so I tried to choose my moment carefully to return to the dormitory. Of course, the moment I undid the bathroom door my fellow guests emerged down the stairway. They were three Aussies from London touring the highlands by car.

Grantown on Spey is no doubt a fairly quiet town, but the local youth enjoy burning their cars up and down the main drag.

Day 18: Friday 29 June Grantown on Spey to Inverness
The hostel was a lovely old granite-built house with a substantial kitchen with a Rayburn and a six ring hob to match. In the morning I washed my polo shirt and hung it in front of the Rayburn to dry. I waited until 8 o'clock to nip along to the co-op for some milk and margarine. Chatted to the Aussies over breakfast and then made up some tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches for the road. I noticed in the hostel visitor book that someone had complained that the hostel was overpriced and the manager not very encouraging. Both of these conflicted with my own experience. I suspect that whoever wrote that is in for a life of perpetual disappointment.

I was quite glad not to be in a hurry. Yesterday had felt fairly hard, so today was pleasantly comfortable - about 37 miles and easier terrain. I left at 9.30.

It had rained in the night and it was dustbin day again. (I seem to have encountered more than I might expect by chance.) The weather was generally cloudy, but cool rather than cold. Pleasant cycling conditions for me, as I'm not all that keen on blazing sunshine.

The first part of the day was a 105 metre climb up onto the exposed moorland. This was generally twiddleable with a few harder bits. I like to warm my legs up with fast light pedalling to start with, and this was fine. The moorland was barren, and rather like Dartmoor that I know so well, except that there were more trees. Fortunately I had a favourable wind, and I knew full well that on this exposed terrain it would have been quite tough to ride against, as there's no respite.

As I turned towards Dulsie I stopped by a little bridge to eat my first sandwich. The bridge was a delight. It had been bypassed by a new bridge and was a relic of a bygone age, what I assumed was a packhorse bridge. The surface consisted of lumpy stones and it had a beautiful curve.

Approaching Dulsie a red deer bounded across the road about fifty yards ahead of me. There was a distinct sense of the wildlife changing as I was going further north. Hares had begun to feature more prominently among the road kills in recent days. Thirty seconds later at Dulsie Bridge itself I scared two birds of prey that were feeding on something on the bridge. They were about pigeon-sized, but I couldn't identify them with my limited knowledge.

The terrain was now mainly lumps and bumps, with nothing too strenuous. On either side of the road was lots of forestry and mixed woodland that were a delight to cycle through.

Near Kirkton of Barevan a heavy shower developed in a matter of seconds and I was fortunate in two ways. I'd just passed a barn so I could nip back and shelter under its eaves, and the wind was so strong that it blew the rain almost sideways and I escaped almost dry. It passed as quickly as it arrived, and going down the hill from here I met two Bromptoneers with fluorescent front bags and jackets to match. They'd obviously caught the shower full on. Signs declared that this was Sustrans route 1, so I wasn't surprised when a few minutes later I met a couple of Canadian cycletourists.

I called in at Culloden Visitor Centre. After seeing some Scot dressed up as a redcoat, touting for business, I decided against the £4 fee to tour the battlefield. It didn't feel like my history, but of course it was - the English were just as involved in the battle as the Scots. It's just that it has more significance to them. I browsed in the gift shop. The standard souvenir booklet had a lurid picture of English redcoats bayoneting highlanders. I felt a bit awkward about opening my mouth to be revealed as one of the English scum. The souvenir shop had a wonderful range of semi-nationalistic Scottish material. The one that I enjoyed most was a cassette tape of 'Scotland's Tartan Top 20', which included 'Mull of Kintyre' by Paul McCartney and the improbable 'Sands of Kuwait'.

It's a big site, and a sombre thought that so many met their deaths here. And Cumberland was obviously pretty nasty: he chased the remnants all the way to Inverness and that's a long way on foot or by horse. I was intrigued to see that the line-up of the battle shows either Campbells or Camerons, I can't remember which, fighting on the English side, so the simplistic notion that the English slaughtered the Scots at Culloden is another convenient myth that people tend to grab hold of. What puzzled me was why they chose Culloden to fight at. How do armies pick their battlefields? I couldn't see any particular reason for this particular site.

I ate some lunch in the centre cafe, under a picture of the battle done in 1796, from the English point of view, explaining how the clans got what they deserved.

I arrived ion Inverness at three o'clock. I deviated from the CTC route, which was designed to get you over the bridge. I followed the B road in from the Visitor Centre at Culloden which aimed me more effectively at the centre of town and the youth hostel. I headed for the centre, passing a sign for the youth hostel on the way in, which was reassuring.

I dropped into the Tourist Information Centre and enquired about bike shops. I had a job finding the nearest, even though I had a map from the Centre, and then realised that it was just a newsagent that happened to hire bikes. I'll try to find the other one tomorrow.

The town had a pleasant summer's afternoon feel to it. Plenty of people were out shopping and there were quite a few tourists about (including me, of course). Anticipating I might need to post my bike back from John O'Groats I bought some strong adhesive tape in Woolworth.

The hostel is big and ugly but functional. It was originally built for the boarding pupils of the secondary school next-door who came in from the remoter parts of the country, the islands in particular. It looked as though it was built in the 60s, and a change of policy had led to it lying empty for a while before the SYHA took it over.

I met a charming Tasmanian Scot called Tom Pearson. He was one of those vigorous older people who you can't help admiring. He was 78. He had walked about 500 miles of the Appalachian trail in '98, only giving up because of diarrhoea caused by a giardia infection. It had taken him 18 months to get over it fully. He had cycled the Victoria Challenge cycle event, I think he said it was from Melbourne to Sydney. 1700 kilometres in 17 days, including two rest days. He said he missed his bike over here. He was doing some walking, and had experienced tremendous thunderstorms on the ferry over to the Orkneys. This sounded like the same day I had the wet ride up to Crieff.

Day 19: Saturday 30 June - Inverness to Invershin
Met Tom again at breakfast. He is a keen golfer, and his handicap had been as low as 5 but had now crept up to 20. He described where he lived in Tasmania, how idyllic it was. He was on a world tour, looking up old friends again.

I left the hostel at 8.30. I decided to try and get a pressure gauge in a cycle shop in town. I had plenty of time, for today's mileage was modest and, I deduced from the map, easier terrain. I tried 'Highland Cycles'. 'We're never asked for those; try Inverness Cycles.' They had one, but only in the Schraeder valve version, having sold out of the Presta version. 'We sell a lot of those - we get a different type of cyclist, especially tourists.' On to my last resort: Halfords. I was tempted by combined pump and gauge but eventually decided on the gauge only. I called in at Safeways for food for the day and eventually left Inverness at 10.00, with three miles on the clock from touring cycle shops.

The wind was generally favourable, but over Kessock Bridge it seemed fierce, and I mean fierce. My hat has a chin strap, so I wasn't too worried about losing that, but it felt as though my glasses could have been blown away if I glanced downwind. My mini map case was rattling around in the back pocket of my cycling top, and that too felt as though it might go at any second. I paused by a stanchion to let a cyclist coming the other way pass. He looked none too bothered, although he was cycling straight into it. It must have been from just about south, and was producing white horses on the water below.

Over the other side, on the Black Isle, I took the cycle path down into North Kessock. A couple of moderate climbs followed: 70 metres in 9 minutes and another 170 after 43 minutes more. It was quite sheltered, with nicely wooded and hedged roads, but still quite a bit of help from the wind.

From Culbokie there's a lovely view of the bridge below and an equally nice descent straight down to the A9. The bridge here is a low level affair, but still presented similar problems with the wind. Once over the other side, and turning NE, it more or less blew me up the A9 to Evanton, which was just as well as the traffic was a little unpleasant.

I stopped in Evanton for my first lunch and dawdled to let my digestion get a head start as I could see serious climbing ahead. A little girl called in at the shop and then returned home on her bike, all the while doing oh-so-proper hand signals. She looked like the product of a cycling proficiency course and it was charming to see. An old chap wandered past and passed the time of day by saying, 'Warmish for you? Great to have some good weather.' I felt the weather was nothing out of the ordinary, and I'd felt the odd spot of rain in Inverness and over the top on the Black Isle.

From Alness there was a climb up the Struie Hill of 190 metres in 47 minutes and another 60 metres in 11 minutes. It was fairly gentle, and I was up much of it before I realised how far I'd climbed - the tailwind effect. I would have hated to ride against it. The main disadvantage was that this road was a magnet for fast car nuts.

The road opened out beautifully for the view to the east across the sea. I stopped at the viewpoint at Struie Hill. I looked up the valley and then at the pointers on the panorama. Carbisdale Castle was mentioned, so I looked again and there it was. Without the sun on it was virtually indistinguishable.

I sheltered in the lee of the wall of the viewing point to have my second lunch. I also wanted to get a photo of the valley with the castle visible, and this meant waiting for the next patch of sunlight to move over it. I decided this was worth it as a band of showers were heading from the NW (the wind must have veered) and had I continued I could see I would have got wet.

A woman in a yellow van drew up with strawberries in the back for sale, and two kids in tow. When there were no takers she drove off again. Two cyclists from Derby stopped for a chat. They had been up on Jura but were having a day off in the car. They'd got very wet in the morning.

Got my photo and rolled down into Ardgay, which still had two shops open, and followed the signs to the hostel. It was about 5 miles and took 30 minutes. The last part up the drive is a bottom gear job. Although I must have cycled this before on my previous visit years ago, none of it seemed familiar until I got to the castle itself.

The hostel has recently been refurbished at a cost of £600,000 and is very smart. People are just knocked out by it, although I find the Italian marble a bit naff. There was an interesting bit of information about the Battle of Carbisdale, where Montrose (?), a royalist, was routed and his army slaughtered. He escaped to be betrayed/captured by a Mcleod, hence Mcleod the traitor.

I opted for the evening meal which was simple and stodgy cauliflower cheese, but with plenty of calories. You were recommended to use fruit squash to disguise the colour of the peaty water.

My room-mates are a party of walkers from a walking club at an Edinburgh FE college, including a Spanish student who was talking ecstatically on the phone in our room when I returned from my shower. I say talking on the phone in our room, although he had had to step through the window onto the small balcony in order to get a signal. They'd driven up from Edinburgh that day and it had taken five hours, which really brought home to me how far north I was. They were going to be in Achmelvich hostel next: that would be a bit of a change from Carbisdale.

I booked into Tongue Youth Hostel. This would give me about 12 miles less tomorrow, and the same amount more on Monday. Going for the Youth Hostel also meant I clocked up seven nights in hostels and qualified for a free night, which I could use in John O'Groats.

Day 20: Sunday 1 July - Invershin to Tongue
The Edinburgh crew are also going to Tongue today, getting some walking in on the way. Pleasant breakfast. Lots of toast.

The key to progress here is the footbridge across the river that avoids the 10 mile detour back through Ardgay. For some reason I'd assumed that it was about half a mile back along the road, but the path to it was only 50 metres from the drive entrance. It's narrow, with stinging nettles, so I had to negotiate it with care. The bridge is a boon, and takes away the temptation that people often succumbed to previously of crossing by the railway bridge itself. The bridge was built with European money, as were a number of other road improvements I cycled through in Scotland. You'd come across a sign with the European flag on it and wonder what it was all about. Some of these stretches were only a hundred yards or so.

Across the other side in the layby was an account of the building of Carbisdale. It was built for the Duchess(?) of Sutherland. There was a disputed will and she was jailed. Eventually there was agreement with the other members of the family that they would build her a house outside Sutherland. Here was her opportunity for insult: she built right beside the railway line the family used to reach their estate, and the clock tower has no clock facing Sutherland. (She wouldn't even give them the time of day.) The family used to pull the blinds down in their railway carriage as they passed the castle.

The weather was dry and cool, but a little humid. I stopped at the Falls of Shin, which are nothing much really. There were just a couple of fish floundering around without really running the falls. I hung around quite a while, as I'm in no hurry today. The visitor centre reminded me of the tourist attractions in Devon that exaggerate their charm - Becky Falls, for example. It's obviously one of those places that people visit just because it's there and convenient for the road. There was an interesting poster in the entrance to the visitor centre for the North Sea Cycle route, the first I'd heard of it.

I had a pot of tea and a banoffee pie in the cafe. This was a little expensive, but worth it. I had a peanut butter sandwich I had made up for myself at breakfast, but it being a Sunday and the region sparsely populated I was a little unsure where I'd get anything substantial today.

Continuing past the falls I passed someone working the forest who was wearing a midge net over his hat, but I wasn't troubled by them at all.

I passed a nice little derelict watermill by the side of the road. I'm not sure what it milled. I noticed the empty leat first, thought this was a bit odd, and turned back. These are the things that you see on a bike that you don't in a car. On the way up to the Falls of Shin were several mini falls and a delightful river that you would just flash by in a car.

Light rain started just as I arrived in Lairg. Bought some chocolate bars in the newsagent as a further defence against hunger.

Beautiful long steady climb out of Lairg up the Strath Tirry: 100 metres by 48 minutes and 165 metres by 1 hour 28. This was rewarded by a lovely long easy drop down the Strath Vagastie into Altnaharra. The area was a very barren landscape: open moorland with a few very scattered farms, then down though some forestry. The rain eased, then came on again - drizzle for an hour, then light rain again - but never enough to warrant more than the windshirt.

I'm pretty sure I saw a golden eagle on this stretch. It was perched in a tree on the edge of a copse by the road and flew away at right angles to the road as I approached. It was certainly bigger than a buzzard, with which I am familiar, but not as big as I expected. Perhaps it was not fully grown.

At Altnaharra my original route would have taken me east along Loch Naver to head north up Strath Naver to Bettyhill, but I was continuing north along the A836 to Tongue. Two pillars guard the entrance to the A836 at this point, reminding me of 'Ozymandias' - 'two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert'. Stood on square plinths they served no obvious function.

Getting over from Aaltnahara involved a climb of 150 metres in 31 minutes. There was a lovely boathouse by the edge of Loch Loyal, which was very well constructed and had a turf roof. By now the weather had cleared somewhat, and I lay out in a sheepfold between Loch Craggie and Loch Royal.

It was along this road that I startled a mouse which, instead of diving straight into the edge, decided to run along the road. It probably scuttled for about twenty yards before I caught up with it and it made a sharp left turn.

After my rest there was a short 55 metre climb across Cnoc Craggie, which I had been able to anticipate from within the sheepfold as I could see the angle of the road across the hill. To end the day was a great drop into Tongue, with the sun playing beautifully on the valley to the southwest. I looked over the settlement, trying to guess which building was the hostel, and I was right. The settlement is in two parts: one higher and the other a 65 metre drop (or climb) and a mile and a third lower, and the hostel was in the lower part, on a peninsula of land that stretched out and carried the road onto the bridge across the Kyle of Tongue.

This was a lovely little hostel, in the full tradition of simple hostels that I love so much. When I asked the warden if he wanted me to lock the bike shed he replied that they didn't bother. 'We don't get much spontaneous theft around here,' he said, 'or any other crime, for that matter.' And it was true - the area had that feel of rural peace that townies can only dream of.

I cooked for myself tonight, using up one of the mushroom flavoured rice and vegetable packs I'd bought in Edinburgh. The Edinburgh crew from Carbisdale turned up about 7.20. They'd had a very wet day, up in the cloud on the mountain they were walking up for nearly the whole time, so no view and wet through in the bargain. It was now a fine evening. I cycled back up to the village to phone home and of course I didn't need any lights. I was writing my journal in the hostel at 10.20 with no lights on. Sunset is about 10.30 at this time of year, but the downside is that it is about 3.30 at the December solstice.

Today I broke the 1000 mile mark on my journey. There's a sense of excitement about finishing, but also sadness that it will soon be over.

The weather looks promising for tomorrow - a west or southwesterly wind of 35 - 40 mph, which should blow me along to John O'Groats quite nicely. I finished the day with a bowl of the warden's delicious lentil soup and a roll; I had a gap that the mushroom rice hadn't filled, and this did very nicely, thank you.

Day 21: Monday 2 July Tongue to John O'Groats
An indicator of my all round fitness is my waking heart rate. I take it as a matter of course, and have established that the norm is about 52. At the start of this ride it was up to 57, a reflection of the lack of exercise I had had beforehand. The highest was 61, the morning after that long and arduous ride from Cheddar. It's been gradually getting lower since then, and this morning it was down to 46, which is about as low as it has ever been.

The weather still looks promising, with bits of bright sky but plenty of cloud cover, some of it quite dark. The wind is from the southwest, which is helpful, but rain does look likely.

I left at nine o'clock, calling in at the village post office and shop for provisions for the day. This was Tardis-like - much bigger on the inside than it looked from the outside. There had been several extensions, and you kept turning a corner to find something extra.

The route today runs west to east across the northern headlands, and in doing so it runs across the grain of the streams and rivers running into the sea. The result is a slight switchback ride, quite demanding in stamina, although most of the climbs are not what I would call a huff-puffer.

Between Tongue and Bettyhill was one exception. On my small-scale map it is marked with a chevron, and progress up was fairly slow. What made it maddening was a cloud of flies that plagued me to the top. Because of the hill I couldn't outrun them, and the need to keep your hands on the handlebars meant it was dangerous to brush them off when they landed.

I was just cresting the top when I met two cyclists coming the other way. She was walking, but he called out, 'You can sit back for four miles now.' He was right, and the bang down was made all the more pleasurable by the relief of leaving the flies behind.

This stretch of road is single track, and it's a pain, as there's enough traffic to force you to have to stop quite often, and this interrupts your rhythm. Beyond Bettyhill the road had been widened and the gradients smoothed, I guess, with Objective 1 European funding, proudly proclaimed by the signs, and progress was more steady, albeit still quite demanding. Looking back there were beautiful views towards Ben Loyal, etc.

The hills began to flatten and the temperature to rise as the wind shifted to the east. I was glad it was this way round, as a head wind would have been more trouble on the hills in the morning. Between Drum Halliston and Thurso there were a large number of quarry lorries rumbling both ways, the sort of traffic I had avoided for most of the last three weeks. This may be a remote area of Scotland, but there are very few roads, so you have no choice but to share them with everyone. There are no easy rural detours.

I passed Dounreay nuclear power station, a real blot on the landscape and the roads started to get busier still as I rode on to Thurso, the birthplace of the founder of the Boys' Brigade. Here I encountered my first set of traffic lights for several days, which reinforced the remoteness and splendour of the countryside I had been through. I stopped in Thurso to eat some more.

Travelling on it was quite inspiring to see the Orkneys in the mist, just visible, obviously not very far away and quite attractive and alluring.

I ignored the temptation to go to Dunnet Head (the most northerly part of the British mainland) as it was an extra 5 miles each way and I just wasn't bothered. The terrain gradually flattened out and felt a bit like southern Ireland with small fields and scattered farmsteads. This impression was reinforced by the stacks of peat turves outside some of the houses. Soon I passed the sign for John O'Groats and I was there.

I arrived at 5 o'clock. I had a mixture of emotions. I was proud that I had done the ride, and pleased with my ability, but there was no punching of the air as I crossed the finishing line. The main reason for this was that the goal was not John O'Groats itself but to complete the whole journey, so each part of the trip was just as important as any other. 'The ride's the prize', as an advert form some charity ride had it. It was doing it that counted, not having done it. This was an area developed for tourists, but without the razzamatazz of Land's End (although the two are owned by the same company). I got my photo taken by a tourist and then headed off to the youth hostel to the sound of someone practising bagpipes in the distance.

Nice little hostel with a very friendly warden. Its only drawback was the lack of cardboard boxes. It had been rubbish collection day that day, which didn't come as a great surprise. My strategy for getting home was to parcel up my bike and send it by Parcel Force and go home separately, either by coach or by train. I decided to try the train from Wick the next day.

I phoned home, which wasn't as easy as I had hoped: the phone box just outside the hostel was out of order and the next nearest was a twenty minute walk towards Huna. I reported the fault.

Also in the hostel were two guys from Yorkshire who had done the end to end. They had taken four weeks and 1300 miles, taking in more of the Highlands and Islands on the way. They'd had bike problems - broken spokes, and a wheel bearing. They were riding mountain bikes but were well-laden: panniers, handlebar bags and hip belts.

Interestingly there were two Swedish women who were doing the North Sea Route that I had seen advertised in the Falls of Shin visitor centre. They had come up from Berwick and had taken two days from Tongue. They were off to the Orkneys the next day. The warden had a leaflet/poster for the route, so I picked one up.

There's a £33 round trip by ferry and coach around Orkney, taking in Skara Brae and the other sights. It looks very tempting, but I can't really afford the time. I decided that I'd hang the expense and take the train. With good luck I'd be able to get the 12 o'clock from Wick on Tuesday, or perhaps have to take the Wednesday one. If the latter I could take the Orkney trip.

Epilogue: Tuesday 3 July - John O'Groats to Wick
I left the hostel with the two end-to-enders at 8.30. No luck at the station: an efficient but slightly disgruntled assistant tried all the options but couldn't find anywhere beyond Haymarket with cycle capacity. 'Bikes are supposed to be booked well ahead,' she said. Even trying Wednesday or Thursday produced no better results.

A woman end-to-ender arrived: she was booked on the four o'clock. The four of us went for a cup of tea and something to eat at a local cafe.

So, back to Plan A. I found a B&B, organised Parcel Force to collect the bike the next day and got some cardboard boxes from Safeway. They were quite an awkward load to carry, and the B&B was about 3ò4 mile out of town. Dismantling the bike was a little tricky. All went ok until I came to the right pedal. The 15mm spanner on the Alien tool wasn't up to the job, but fortunately my hosts let me use the tools in their garden shed. Even then it took the extra oomph from a hammer to shift the pedal. I had just enough cardboard but I soon ran out of tape, so I had to traipse into town to get some more.

Having packed it up I went back into town and bought a large cheap holdall to take my panniers, together with the handlebars and saddle off the bike. I checked out the bus times and point of departure for tomorrow and chilled out in the park.

Wednesday 4 July - Wick to Ashburton
Parcel Force didn't come. I rang up to discover that Wick needed special arrangements and the earliest they could be there was the afternoon. Almost a disaster, as this would mean missing my coach and staying another night in Wick, but my landlady stepped in like a trooper and volunteered to hand the bike over to them when they came.

The bus journey was very enjoyable. The first part was down the coast along the A road. I was very glad I hadn't come that way. The traffic was quite heavy and there were some fierce hills.

At the National Express depot in Glasgow I discovered that all the coaches for the next day or so were full, so off I went to the rail station. A helpful assistant got me onto a sleeper going to London, although just in the seated accommodation. That was fine by me. Then another train to Devon and I was home. I had done it, but I felt a bit lost without my bike! It was like greeting a long-lost friend when Parcel Force delivered it the next day.