Uff, what a day. It had started innocuously enough, I just got carried away towards the end. The sun shone on my tent, warming it up after a cold night, and stifling the air. I had to get up. Anyway, there were strange noises coming from outside. First, there was a sound not unlike deer grazing next to the tent. A little later, there was a very odd sound, as though magpies were shredding my tyres and trying to make off with my rims. Well, that's what I wrote in my diary. Writing this now, 5 months later, I really can't remember what the sound was like. 

Well, I got up early enough, so much so that the shop wasn't open yet. I hung around, dreaming of bacon sandwiches and gathering my things (other than cooking, stuff, of course. When the shop did open, they had no bread - being the off-season, they just didn't get enough call for it. I was to hear this in several more campsites. So bang went my dream of bacon sandwiches - a bitter blow. I packed up and got ready to leave, and the guy in the tent next to mine came over. An odd chap, he claimed he was recuperating from a long illness. Still, I mustn't malign him, as he held Mercury as I loaded him up (there being nothing to lean him against).

Leaving the site I popped into the shop once more for my breakfast - a flapjack and an oasis drink, which became one of my favourite drinks along the way in the absence of still Lucozade Sport. I consumed these a little down the road, and headed across the Levels towards Cheddar. Once again I saw Evita stalking me, but this time when I called out to her she flew away, pretending not to know me. Miserable cow.

The problem with levels is, they have to end, and invariably they do so by going up, not down. And this is what happened here. As I approached the village of Wedmore, the road rose quite sharply. Time to try out my new Megarange cassette. MC meet steep hill. Steep hill meet MC. Well, my knees still didn't like it, but they screamed less than before. Maybe the hill just wasn't steep enough. Naturally, Wedmore lies tucked away on the other side of the hill. Can't they build tunnels instead of taking roads up one side and down the other? Wedmore had added significance to me. Not because King Alfred signed a peace treaty with the Danes there. No, because I spent more than four dreary years working in Wedmore Street in North London, so I have always thought the name Wedmore accursed. Actually, the village does not live down to its namesake road in any way. It's a very pretty little place.

I popped into the charming little village post office for stamps, then moved on to Cheddar. Finding an attractive pub in Cheddar wasn't easy, indeed, finding anything attractive in cheddar was asking a bit much, but I eventually found one with a pleasant enough garden, and had the inevitable cheddar ploughman's for lunch, which was alright rather than outstanding. No doubt the cheddar had been made in Venezuela or somewhere like that.

The famous gorge itself unfortunately was not on my route. But that sort of technicality has never stopped me in the past, and it certainly didn't stop me this time. The shops at the bottom end look pretty hideous - original Cheddar this, oh tourists please come in here to get ripped off that, you get the picture. Fortunately, tourists being what they are, relatively few of them actually ventured into the gorge just beyond. This must be one of the most spectacular bike rides in the country. Unfortunately, most cyclists do it on the wrong type of bike, and therefore don't notice this fact. After all, hunched over a set of handlebars all you really get to see is tarmac. Good quality tarmac along this stretch, but grey and dull nonetheless. On the recumbent, you just pop into a low gear, spin away, sit back and enjoy the view. Oh, and ignore the knees issuing a formal protest. Traffic was light, but this was probably just as well, as the corners can be rather blind, and the road is not too wide at certain points thanks to enormous rock formations either side of the road.

Halfway up I encountered a bunch of creatures not unlike mountain goats. If any naturalist happens to read this, and knows what they are, please don't hesitate to get in touch to inform me. I await a flood of emails saying "they're mountain goats, stupid" with baited breath. Whatever they were, they were very shy, and didn't want to pose for a photo (though I did ask them nicely). Once at the top of the climb, I rested for a moment and then flew back down the road. Less time to concentrate on the view, but tremendous fun. I recently read that there are now signs on the descent advising cyclists to dismount on account of the steepness of the road. If this is the case, these must be the most idiotic signs ever erected. Or alternatively, the person commissioning the signs is a rotten miserable spoilsport.

Passing back through Cheddar, I found the little road to Churchill by way of Shipham. This road was nasty. A steady climb for over a mile to the top, not as steep as many climbs of the first few days, but sapping nonetheless. Once over the top, though, the descent was blinding. From there the road was relatively flat all the way to Clevedon, and once on the minor country lanes the going was good, though there was something of a headwind at times. At Clevedon I joined the Avon Cycleway, which was supposed to get me to the great bridge over the river Avon to the West of Bristol (I had avoided large cities thus far, and was not about to get out of this habit here).

The Avon Cycleway (another Sustrans route, I believe) generally follows minor lanes, though occasionally it makes use of shared use paths. It's not altogether bad, less hilly than I had anticipated, and by and large quite well signposted. However, it is a hell of a lot more circuitous than the motorised alternative (the M5 motorway). Why do we cyclists have to all around the houses just in order to accommodate the cagers' direct route, when they expend no physical energy except perhaps dialling a few numbers on their mobile and gesturing obscenely at their fellow inmates, er, drivers? Let them go up and down and round and round, and pay for it as need be! There, rant over.

Going along the Avon Cycleway, at this point a narrow lane covered in stones and dried out mud, I encountered my first roadie of my whole journey. "You're looking very laid back there" came a voice from behind, and shortly afterwards an Erik Zabel lookalike rolled up alongside me in Telekom shorts and a German champion's jersey. We exchanged pleasantries before he upped his tempo and disappeared down the road. Well, I was no match with all that luggage! And then it happened. Embarrassing Fall Number One (EFN1). It's one of my basic cycling rules: don't fall off where no-one can see you. Save your efforts for an appreciative audience. The road dipped a little, and I was nervous of all the loose sand and gravel at this point. I applied the brakes, and Mercury was decidedly twitchy over the slippery ground. Then a car came my way, and as I was near a suitable passing place, I unclipped my feet from the pedals and stopped with both feet acting as stabilisers. The lady in the car passed by and waved thanks. And I set off again. Except I didn't. I hadn't changed down a gear or seven as I stopped, and as I tried to set off, right foot clipped in, pushing the pedal but going nowhere, I could feel the bike beginning to tilt to the right, and could do nothing to prevent it. I slammed down hard on my side, but hurt nothing but my pride (and my wrist, as I discovered later). The woman leapt out of her car to check I was alright. I assured her I was. But my pannier had come detached, and I had to remove most of my intricately interwoven gear to reattach it. Eventually, I got going again.

As the Cycleway approached the Avon bridge, things got silly. It went through a car park, the cycle exit of which was blocked by a parked car. Commendably, I desisted from vandalising the car, and exited by way of the main road. Then the track crossed the main road and went up what had evidently been the old course of the road, which was now being left for nature to reclaim, and to serve as a cycle track. Nature has so far only claimed just over half of it anyway. And at the top of this short stretch they have erected a barrier to deter cars, motorbikes and touring recumbents. It took me a couple of minutes to manoeuvre Mercury through this gap. And then, finally, I got to the Avon bridge. Halfway across I was passed by another roadie whom I had met going the other way earlier on. Again, we exchanged a few words, and then he too was off. I just hoped I wouldn't fall off again as I did after my first roadie! The bridge itself is spectacular to ride across, but roadworks made it a bit of a bumpy ride. I was glad of my suspension by the end of it. This was the first time I had ridden across a motorway bridge, and I must say the noise from all the motor traffic does ruin an otherwise pleasant experience. I descended the other side, and opted to carry on by way of Avonmouth, having not really pondered the route beyong the Avon. Industrial, busy with heavy goods traffic, but the road was wide, and I had a tailwind for a change. Combined with the flat terrain I made excellent progress.

Come the Severn Bridge, I decided to check out a campsite near Chepstow. Well, I had been to England, I was heading for Scotland, so why not add Wales to my trip while I was at it? I'll tell you why not in a minute. Crossing the Severn Bridge was ever so exciting. Well, within reason. It's quite a long bridge, believe it or not. And that's the old one. Us cyclists aren't allowed to play on that new toy they've built downstream. Still, at least it's free for us. There is a pedestrian route on the seaward side, and the cycle route takes in the upstream side of the bridge. The only tricky bit is accessing it, by way of a huge roundabout which serves as a motorway junction in its spare time.

Well, what a mistake. Once across the bridge, a somewhat blustery journey, I headed up the cycle track alongside the main road into Chepstow, then descended the rather large hill into the centre. Some oaf in an XR3 with the apparent IQ of a small slug passed by with the most gormless look I had seen in ages, shaking his head. Sadly it didn't throw him enough to make him crash into a lamppost (one could but hope), but I doubt he was far off. I shadowed him all the way down into Chepstow, which I think just upset him more. I then passed him at 38.5mph, which should have upset him even more. Me, petty? Never! Out the other side of Chepstow, and back in England (South Wales is the only place that makes me glad to be back in England) I went in search of my campsite. Supposedly it was somewhere near Beachley, on a peninsula sticking right into the Severn. This peninsula was one of the most unattractive places I visited on the entire End to End. Well, I got to the tip of the peninsula, right underneath the Severn Bridge (so close, yet so far), with no evidence of a campsite. Hideous villages, yes. Army barracks, yes. Campsite, no. And I needed the loo. I found Offa's Dyke walk, which had bushes, so at least that problem was solved.

Back into Chepstow, I couldn't be bothered to find accommodation there, although the town did look quite attractive, so I gave up on Wales as a bad loss. An inept gear change threw my chain off as I attempted to tackle the big hill, and forced me to stop. I hadn't been looking forward to riding up the 11% hill anyway! At least this was an excuse to walk it instead, as I stood no chance of getting going again on that hill with all the luggage and a thrown chain. Best sort it out on a flat section at the top. The return to and across the bridge was quite pleasant, first downhill, then wind-assisted. I headed for the village of Aust, where there was, allegedly, a campsite. I found the pub which supposedly had a campsite, but it was nowhere to be seen. I asked a local farmer, who directed me across the nearby A road to a farm. The description didn't sound appealing, so I gave up on the idea of camping and opted for the B&B option instead. Thornbury was only about 9 miles away. Time was pressing on fast, and my energy levels were beginning to run low, but the terrain was flat and the wind behind me.

On the road towards Thornbury I saw a sign to a 17^th century inn, which sounded nice. As I headed up the road I was overtaken by a couple on road bikes, going home with their shopping. They said there were a few places doing B&B, but reckoned the inn was a bit pricey. When I reached the inn it looked exceedingly appealing, so I checked it out. Pricey, yes, but not excessively so. The rooms were in a converted outbuilding, and done up very nicely. So I decided to stay. One chap having dinner there said he's passed me on the road up there, and complimented me on the bike (grin). His mate came out to have a look at Mercury, and kindly helped me to unrig him. Mercury was going to sleep in the bottle shed that night. I warned him not to overdo it, and left him to his own devices. 

Having checked into my room, I hung up my wet washing from Glastonbury, phoned Andrea to check her availability in Kidderminster that Thursday (none, as I had expected as she had just become an aunt and her parents' house sounded rather busy at that time), and went to dinner, which was very good. I could see why the place was so popular - this was, after all, Tuesday evening, and the inn was packed. I went to bed early that night, quite tired from the ride. Well, it was my third-longest ride ever.