I'm not sure which is the highest hill in Cornwall, but I'm pretty certain I rode over most of the contenders in the first couple of days of my ride. And didn't my knees know it! Well, at least my tendons weren't giving me any trouble anymore.

I woke up and was astonished to find it wasn't raining. OK, it had been raining, but that's not the same thing. The weather forecast on Radio 4 said that a band of rain was crossing from the Southwest, but had already cleared Cornwall. Good news. The bad news was, the forecast was for showers across the country for the remainder of the weekend. Just as well I had all that Gore-Tex…So I got up and immediately hung up my washing, and then lingered around for a while hoping the stuff would dry. Some hope! The shop had no bread - well, it had very little of anything, to be honest - so breakfast on-site was off the cards. Rather than waste time going to the shops I figured it would be best to stop off in Truro for some breakfast on the go. The site manager gave me instructions for the best route into town, and waved me on my way.

There was a brand new cycle path alongside the A39 - as yet unopened; they hadn't even got round to installing the obligatory broken bottles and dogshit yet. They had, however, already placed some enormous boulders in the middle of the track. Probably to deter cars or something. Trouble was, they also deterred fully loaded recumbents as they left precious little room to pass in places! This route soon rejoined the A39, but there was a parallel side road which descended beautifully for quite a long stretch.

Unfortunately, the third rule of cycling is "What comes down must go up". (Rule one is that the destination is always higher up than the starting point, and rule two is that the wind is always against you.) And this was a particularly vicious climb. Well, that's what my knees told me just before they said "stuff it" and went on strike. So I had to dismount and push. Easier said than done - getting off a rear-heavy recumbent on a damp, greasy surface on a 1 in 4 is an acquired skill (which I had not yet acquired), as the front wheel has very little grip, and I'm used to dismounting while holding the front brake lever. Trying to change this routine on a steep incline is ill-advised. But I got there in the end, and soon discovered that Mercury could be steered quite easily by twisting the seat to the left or right. Just as well I didn't have that trailer…

At the top I rested a while and made a couple of phone calls, then descended into Truro centre in search of food. I found breakfast in the shape of a large and very tasty pasty. Truro is a pleasant, medium-sized town dominated by its cathedral. I was sad not to have made it this far the night before, as I should have liked to have explored it in greater detail (such as its pubs). I allowed a small amount of time for digestion as I took in the townscape, then pressed on. The road out of Truro climbed yet another hellish drag of a hill, which culminated at a set of traffic lights. Fortunately most traffic turned left onto the A39 here, leaving my chosen road, the A390, fairly quiet, while wide enough for even lorries to get past me without trouble. The road descended for a couple of miles along a series of graceful curves before bottoming out in a river valley.

Shortly afterwards I turned North onto the B3275, which was a delightful little quiet road which rose gently, but not dramatically, enabling me to cruise along at about 10mph or so. The only annoying thing was some incessant squeaking coming from my rear derailleur. I had noticed it the previous day, but it was just getting worse. All that rain must have washed out what little lubricant there might have been in there. The road flattened out, and my speed rose to about 14mph. At Fratton I passed over the A30. Now this is the standard quick route to John O'Groats. But no thanks - this road was three lanes of motorway-speed traffic here. Not really my thing at all.

After Fratton, a village of no recognisable features, let alone merit, I moved back onto minor roads with local signposting. The trouble with this is while it's very good, it tends to be too local. I don't need to know the name of the nearest village along a particular road, I need to know where it will ultimately lead me to. Scrabbling for a map at every junction is both time-consuming and frustrating. The lanes may be delightful, the scenery more relaxing, but at the end of the day I have a destination to reach. Oh, and minor roads invariably to go over the highest points in the landscape they can find. Nice for views, but not for knees.

Foxglove. I'm probably not the first person to discover this, but it appears to me that foxglove flowers earlier in the South than in the North. Evidence? Well, ride Land's End to John O'Groats in June. As you head North, you'll invariably encounter foxglove along virtually every lane you ride up. Unless, of course, you can't stand foxglove. In which case I'd suggest you ride north to South, as you'll catch only the faintest glimpse of the stuff as it heads North. Personally, I quite like the stuff, so I was happy to ride up lanes lined with purple/pink blossoms of various descriptions. I'll now sit back and wait for some botanist to inform me that foxglove blossoms across the UK for the whole of June, and that I am a complete ignoramus. Which, in the case of foxglove, I am.

I did somehow manage to find my way through the labyrinth of local lanes without running into the local Minotaur, following my originally mapped route with remarkable accuracy considering my infrequent stops to double-check with the map. At the foot of a particularly vicious-looking ascent (you know, the type with a scar on its cheek and "love" and "hate" tattooed on its knuckles) I stopped for a food stop, and lo, it started raining for the first time that day. But not for the last…So I donned waterproof gear (minus overshoes), and the rain promptly stopped. But the clouds remained threatening (huddled in a group and glaring in my direction), so I kept on the overtrousers, leading me to overheat on the very first climb.

Consulting my map, I discovered a slightly longer route which followed the river all the way from Rosenannon to Wadebridge, so I decided to give my knees a break and take it. However, I then followed the wrong signs to Wadebridge and ended up taking the originally mapped route - unfortunately I didn't realise this until I was halfway up the North Face of the Eiger. I do wish I paid more attention when planning routes: wind farms are rarely built in river valleys; and flat lands don't tend to have names like St Breock Downs; this route passed both, and a long barrow as well, which I was half tempted to visit, had it not been half a mile down a farm track. Pain, sweat, suffering - for what reward? What could possibly make it worthwhile? If ever you ask yourself this, take a bike over the road from Rosenannon to Wadebridge. The ascent is slow and tortuous. The summit is windswept and bleak. And the descent defies description. Non-stop all the way into the centre of Wadebridge. When I got to the bottom I was beaming from ear to ear, and was sorely tempted to ride back up to do it again! It was sheer bliss - a wide country lane, with excellent road surface, and long sweeping bends, so very little scope for unpleasant surprises lurking around the next corner. I must go back someday!

Wadebridge is an odd town. It seems to be dominated by the end of the Camel Trail, a Sustrans recreational cycle route to Camelford. The town is full of cyclists, but the wrong type. All over town there were tractors (i.e. MTBs) ridden by people with all the road sense of a drunken hedgehog. Which is worrying, as most will have driven to get there. And they end up caked in mud as no tractor-rider has ever heard of mudguards. Why do it? What's wrong with the road? Especially when there are roads like the one I'd just come down! What an awful place. What's more, a town that attracts cyclists invariably ends up building cycle lanes or tracks. And these invariably are useless at best and deadly at worst. Another reason for avoiding Wadebridge.

I made a beeline for one of the bike hire places and asked to borrow some lubricant for my errant derailleur. All I could get was GT85. Well, that wasn't what I'd call lubricant, but it would have to do for now. Lunchtime. I found myself an agreeable bakery, grabbed some sandwiches, and headed for the bandstand type of structure by the main road. It was drizzling intermittently, so I had to share my space with a bunch of mudslingers and their tractors. One or two engaged in a wee bit of conversation, so one had to remain polite. After lunch, off to Tintagel.

I decided to simplify things by following the B3314 rather than cutting cross-country. It was a bit longer, but then again, I wouldn't have to stop at every junction to check my map. This was probably not my best decision of the day. The route was considerably longer, and at least equally hilly. Furthermore, it was a narrow, twisting road, with a fair amount of traffic. And to cap it all, some complete tosser from France (Haute-Savoie plates - what do they know about cyclists?) decided to pass me with centimetres to spare for the second time that day (he had already pulled that trick on the road after Truro). I saluted him accordingly, and vowed to have words with him if ever I saw him again (e.g. if I encountered him in Tintagel).

Shortly before Tintagel I opted for the more scenic approach road. Too late did I realise that it went down too far - far too far. Those readers who have been to Tintagel know that it lies on top of a cliff. So any road that delivers you to a harbour area has gone down much too far. Still, at least I learned a new definition of fear: take one overloaded recumbent, send it down a 20-25% descent, add a damp, slippery surface, allow the brakes to start slipping, and place a T-junction at the bottom. OK, that isn't fear. It's blind panic! Thus I ended the day with another long uphill drag to the finish, for the third day in succession! I had some trouble locating the campsite, indeed I rode halfway to Boscastle before realising I had obviously gone the wrong way in the village. Descending back into the centre my hat blew off and landed in the road, but at least it didn't get run over. Then, finally, I found the campsite, Headland Caravan & Camping Park, at the other end of the village. It was quite a nice site, but very exposed. I hung up my damp washing to dry in the gale, then went and showered, shopped for dinner, cooked my chili-in-a-sachet, washed up and did some more laundry. Then hung that up to dry and went to the pub(s). Naturally while I was in there sampling the local delicacies the heavens opened, so my washing would be well rinsed but otherwise back at square one…