Day 11: Lochranza (back) to Glasgow

Oh what to do? A night of countless bathroom trips for the whole variety of reasons. Woke up feeling positively dreadfull, one minute shaking with chills the next sweating like really sweaty thing. Cycling the alloted 105 miles to Fort William was out of the question so John sorted a taxi to the island hospital where they confirmed a urinary infection 'off the scale'. Ah, that explains it then. Sent on my way with a load of antibiotics and orders to do nothing and I should be ok again in 4 or 5 days. Hmm, this could be awkward. A couple of phone calls later and we'd made arrangements to stay with friends in Glasgow, Ann and Michael. I couldn't get there soon enough. Half a bowl of soup and tucked up in front of Britain's Got Talent wondering what happens now...

Day 10: Moniaive to Lochranza

Arran, beautiful...

The beautiful rolling hills of Ayrshire under a, for once, blue sky, with the mountains of various islands in the distance made this a perfect cycling day. I missed it as I was wrapped up in my own little world of troubles. The flu-like symptoms were getting much worse, and the effort to continue felt relentless as we were on a schedule to get the ferry from Ardrossan to the Isle of Arran. We made it, just. And on the crossing, while everyone was out admiring the view and looking for dolphins, I was crashed out wishing the pounding in my head would go away. The paracetamol seemed to have no effect and the last 15 miles around Arran to Lochranza seemed to take forever. It also ended in probably the toughest climb of the trip so far which I only just managed running on empty. The spectacular scenery was again lost on me as I had to leave John at the dinner table and retire for what was to be a very long night...

Day 9: Penrith to Moniaive

C'mon, let's get married...

Well the morning was lovely. A short hop up to Carlisle for coffee in the sunshine, before finding the nice new, quiet road that parallels the motorway up to Gretna and Scotland. Stopped for a pic and half a maltloaf at the Welcome to Scotland sign. The sign should have been prefaced 'Unless your name is Marco' as this was where things started, for me to turn for the worse. The route took us West and it was the extra effort required cylcing into the headwind that I thought was making me feel so bad. By the time we reached the town of Annan, I was in bits. Some soup helped for a little while, but by the time we got to Dumfries I couldn't speak. The final leg to Moniaive was torture. I barely had the energy to eat something before heading for bed, but this was just the beginning...

Day 8: Slaidburn to Penrith

Climb into the Dales...

Wow, what a great day's cycling. The Yorkshire Dales are probably not the flattest route north, but fantastic scenery and the everlasting descents (topping 40 mph) certainly made up for it. And the teashop had Bovril and Crumpets on special. When in Rome, and all that. Lunch in Hawes set us up for a hard section of headwind to the top of the next pass which happened to be the border into Cumbria. Arrived at the top just at 2 other cyclists were coming the other way - a couple of very friendly locals who told us about the Fred Whitton Challenge that they'd done the previous weekend. It's only a one day ride, but sounds terrifying - look it up. Another swooping but all too brief descent found us on the last stretch to Penrith. Top proprietor of our guest house drove us to Halfords that evening whilst making us wince with the stories of his blister problems the last time he did a bike ride. Well he was about 25 stone.

Day 7: Chester to Slaidburn

Ribble Valley. Do you know the joke about Country & Western in Preston...?

Leaving Chester what was for us relatively early (before 9:00), John and I said goodbye to Damian who was heading back to Bristol. A flat run up the Wirral saw us making good time heading for the Mersey Ferry. Until, that is, we met up with Alan the International Cycling Coach, Tourer, Film-Maker and generally all-round Bike Guru. Now John and I are generally a polite and patient pair but were unable to shake off Alan until he'd imparted his wisdom regarding routes, saddle adjustments and the like and he'd extracted our life stories from us. Then we were made to repeat everything we'd just told him as the subjects of his latest fly-on-the-bus-shelter documentary with a gruelling interview at a, well, bus shelter. Finally extracting ourselves, we made it to the Mersey Ferry crossing just in time for it to start raining. Nothing like Liverpool in the rain to cheer the spirits, and the 2 miles of dockside rubbish dump which we got to cycle alongside was an added bonus. A couple more hours of ever increasing rain saw us at the surprisingly pretty Southport, a town on the coast which seems to be mostly owned by a Mr Sillcott. At least, the Funland is his, as are most of the restaurants including the chippie we went to. At least over lunch the rain stopped, so we cracked on along a very unmemorable A road all the way to an even more unmemorable Preston. Luckily, we weren't there long and within 10 miles we were following the spectacular Ribble Valley into the Forest of Bowland under late afternoon sunshine. The world was once again a happy place. Arriving at the village of Slaidburn, the contrast from that morning couldn't have been greater.

Day 6: Presteigne to Chester

Quick, the sun's out!

Guess what. Yes, tipping down. And even though we were at breakfast for 8:00, we still hadn't started before 9:30. Faff is the killer. And didn't you think that there was something odd about that couple at breakfast? He was far too old for her... Still, after nearly getting locked in the hotel's garage we got started and managed about a mile before Damian exploded. Top tip, don't put fizzy lucozade in a sealed water bottle and start cycling down a bumpy road. Didn't take long for the rain to clean him down though and then, miraculously, it stopped raining for at least an hour. Time enough for us to reach the land that time forgot, or Craven Arms as it's also known. We managed to escape just as we were starting to turn into the zombies that habit the place, and nervously joined the busy, lorry-filled, A49 where our average speed doubled together with the chance of us not making 50. Followed this all the way to civilisation (Shrewsbury) where we sat in Starbucks and through the window watched a traditional dance troupe from Bosnia-Montenegro-akia, and a bloke with a really crap umbrella (he read John's lips and threw it in the bin). Also found the smallest and most useless bike shop in the world on the road out towards Ellesmere. Ellesmere itself however does do a marvelous line in bus shelters, big enough for 3 blokes and their bikes to wallow in luxury whilst ringing out their socks. The final leg, back on lanes, to Chester continued to criss-cross the Welsh border. I reckon we'd left Wales behind for the last time though once we spotted the sign for the Chester Polo club. Chester also hosts a Specialized Concept bike shop where you can go for a monologue which only the serious bike-bore will understand. And they will try their hardest not to sell you anything (in my case gloves, overshoes or saddle - yes, it's got that bad). Finally extricated ourselves and found our way to Christine and Steve's house for an evening of fine food and wine and excellent company. And made the most of the last chance to use a washing machine for a while.

Day 5: North Bristol to Presteigne

Crossing the Severn Bridge

This is starting to sound boring: it was raining. All the fun of the pub the night before seemed to evaporate at the breakfast table once we'd looked out of the window. With an increasing number of miles to do today we had to crack on so, leaving Paul to find his way to Bristol Parkway, Damian, John and I left in a Welsh-wards direction. This took us over the old Severn Bridge where, remarkably, it stopped raining for a while, before winding up past Chepstow racecourse to a lovely long, sweeping descent into the Wye valley. Great laugh tailing the bike in front, even if it meant getting a faceful of spray. John even managed to set off the speed warning device in Tintern, where we stopped for hot choc and cakes and the, by now, obligatory chat with a pensioner. The next long, winding stretch into Monmouth seemed to take forever, but this was just the starter before the main course of despair that was the afternoon. Continual rain, combined with Devon-like (Devonian?) hills on narrow lanes meant a definite lull in the banter. Until, that is, we came across a speed camera sign half way up a chevron (extra steep) hill. The irony of the situation almost had us falling off with laughter. Finally rolled into Presteigne to find the hotel not as plush as it looks on its website (shock!) and the room up far too many sets of stairs. John again managed to use various furniture items to fashion a drying rack for our clothers (or was it a sculpture?) then a quick tea and out to the local for a game of arrows, pool and a hushed debate on which country we were actually in. Didn't think it polite to ask.