Wet. Very wet. No, incredibly wet. I daresay, this was the wettest day of my life. Water must be the uniting theme of this day's account. When I wasn't sheltering from it I was being covered with it, dreaming of it in a warm format, wringing it out of my clothes, evaporating it or just purchasing large bottles of it in sparkling format. In cycling terms, the day was a complete wash-out. Pardon the pun.

I woke to find it was raining. Hard. Quelle surprise. So I ignored it as best I could and went back to sleep. I woke again at 8.30. But this was different - this was the hardest rain I had encountered any morning so far. And the most enduring - it certainly didn't appear to be in a hurry to move on. Neither was I. I had planned for quite an easy day, maybe 40 miles at most. Before that I had to visit the main reason for my venture to this far-flung corner: Tintagel castle. So I slowly prepared my things in order to be ready to load the bike and strike camp at a moment's notice. Then I could go and look at the castle if and when the rain subsided, and be off shortly afterwards. A nice plan.

I popped into a café for breakfast. One more pasty coming up. Then onward (and downward) to the castle. The most striking aspect of this castle is it's absence. Being in such a bleak and exposed position, much of it has crumbled into the sea over the years. The weather was perfect for a visit to Tintagel castle - huge waves crashing against the rocks sending fast plumes of white spray into the sky. And then there was the rain. Glorious, ever-present rain. Who'd want to live here? Certainly not "King Arthur", that's for sure!

I headed back to the campsite, hoping to take advantage of a brief lull in the rain. Better get packed and going before the next wave arrived. I had just got the tent down and packed when the rain started again. And got heavier, and heavier. The bike was almost fully rigged-up when the hail started, so I took some shelter in the washing block for a while. But what was the point? I was already wet, so was the bike, so what was the point in sheltering now? My seat had a plastic bag over it in a vain attempt to keep it dry. But the hail had embedded itself at the back, and as it melted it soaked into the foam pad. Drenched in no time. I took advantage of a brief lull (well, the rain got lighter anyway) and set off. By the middle of Tintagel (about 300m) the rain was lashing down again. No shelter anywhere in sight. I sat there for a short while, hood up, but it was pointless. I couldn't ride with my hood up, as it severely restricted my vision. So down it came, and off I went.

I could hardly see a thing, but that wasn't so important, was it? My lenses were soaking wet, and steamed up at the drop of a hat. I carefully threaded my way to Boscastle. Why do villages have to place themselves either at the tops of hills or the bottoms of valleys? Tintagel was high up, so obviously the neighbouring village is at sea level, surrounded by monstrous hills on all sides (except the sea, though that, too, was towering high that day). I found the information centre and headed straight for shelter (ignoring the one-way system in the car park - if drivers in their warm, dry cars wanted to complain, they could get stuffed). Inside the information centre I shook off any excess water and stood for a while, waiting for the rain to ease a little. At that point someone pointed out the weather forecast. The forecast for that day was dead accurate - very wet. Then it went on to say, "If you think this is wet, wait till tomorrow". Great. And the outlook to Thursday was wet too. But never mind - I'd be in the Midlands by then, not wet, hilly Cornwall.

I contemplated going to one of the B&Bs in Boscastle advertised in the information centre. But that would have been ridiculous. Boscastle looked very pleasant, nicer than Tintagel, with little whitewashed cottages perched precariously on the hillsides surrounding the little harbour, but I had only come 4 miles! So I resolved to fight my way through to Bude, come hell or high water (well, frankly I had endured both already, so it couldn't get any worse!) so at least I'd have achieved something that day! I rang the place in Bude advertised in my CTC guide (Sea View Guest House, highly recommended for any passing cyclist), which had a free room. I warned them I would be a little damp around the edges, and that I'd be there in 2-3 hours.

Leaving Boscastle was painful. Still raining, I had to walk up, and up, and up, my overshoes constantly slipping on the wet road surface. Eventually I reached the summit of Mount Boscastle, one of the great Himalayan peaks, and remounted Mercury. The road was wide and deserted, and finally started sloping downwards again. Just as I picked up some speed I saw a lone cow playing chicken on the centre line. It was walking straight towards me, bang in the middle of the road. What was I to do? I decided to turn early, and pass it wide on the right. Of course, it promptly shadowed my move. So we were now on a collision course. Explain that one to the doctor in A&E! "I was doing about 20mph on a heavily loaded recumbent in the wet, with about 30% visibility, when I was attacked by a large bovine monster." Seconds before impact I braked sharply, brake-blocks squealing, and the cow scarpered. So I told the cow that I thought it was mad, and pedalled like a maniac, just in case it decided to come after me. It certainly uttered a very strange sound, unlike any I had heard from a cow before. Probably something along the lines of "And don't come back!" But by this time I was on more downhill, and out of udder's reach.

The A39 was a good road, once I reached it. Wide, quiet (well, who in their right mind would be out in these conditions?) and undulating relatively mildly (by Cornish standards). I felt the knock with about 8 miles to go, stopped briefly in a lay-by (no shelter anywhere in sight), and soon set off again as I got cold the moment I stopped. My only slightly hairy moment was some roadworks, when I just caught the lights at a contraflow section. The road rose a little at this point, and there was a huge juggernaut waiting at the other end. So more maniacal pedalling saw me get through just as the lights at the far end changed. Why do temporary light sequences never take cyclists into account? Oh yes, because everything in our society is geared towards the car and stuff anyone else. How silly of me to forget.

The road into Bude was another long, gentle descent, and I found the B&B without difficulty. I was shown where I could store Mercury, in their garage (a luxury for him after three days' camping), and then I dumped all my things in their porch to drip dry. EVERYTHING was wet. Even a few of my clothes at the bottom of my waterproof panniers were damp. But the amenable landlords kindly allowed me to drape my wet things all over the house. In my room, the study, the dining room, on numerous clothes horses which appeared instantly without my asking for them. My shoes went on the boiler to dry, as they, too, were completely drenched by now. And they were my only pair.

Naturally, the moment I got all my things inside, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the remainder of the day was glorious. Typical! I grabbed a hot shower (as if I needed more water), watched the cricket world cup (South Africa looking invincible) and wrote some postcards. I also rang Chris and Jenny in Bampton to tell them what I was up to and see if I could impose myself on them for a night. Jenny is an old school friend of my Mum's. They were out, so I left a message and hoped they'd ring back. Then I went in search of some food. Most eateries in Bude looked pretty awful, but I found one delightful fish restaurant which enticed me in - Villa Restaurant, the Strand, Bude. I had a scrumptious dinner of local scallops en gratin, Sea Bass from Paignton and a smashing chocolate mousse to finish. All washed down with a half bottle of Sancerre. I fear the owner suspected I was a critic or something, as I spent most free moments writing in my notebook. Then again, dressed the way I was, I couldn't possibly have been a critic! Actually I was just updating my diary! Anyway, the service I received was first class. Afterwards I decamped to the pub next door for a couple of pints.

On my way back to the guest house Jenny rang me back. We arranged for me to stay the following night at their house, and they were even going to move Sunday lunch - an institution in their house - to dinner in my honour. I felt very privileged indeed at this, as I really didn't want to be any trouble.

Oh, and the rain returned at this point. Like a long-lost friend - not! When I got back to the guest house Eric, the landlord, was still up. We ended up chatting for the next hour or so, and I didn't get to bed until about midnight. Not exactly the best preparation for a long, tortuous day across mountainous North Cornwall and Devon, all things considered - a late night, a few drinks, and a non-carbohydrate-intensive meal!

I'm sorry that there are no photos to accompany this stretch of the ride, but it was far too wet to get my camera out!