Right, time to make some serious progress. Up early and on the road early. Well, that was the plan. I did manage to catch the weather forecast for a change, and then grabbed a packet of Weetabix in the shop. At last I had some breakfast stuff for any subsequent camping nights too. And even with taking breakfast at the campsite I managed to get going by 10am, which was surely my earliest start after camping so far, and one of the earliest starts at all. Practice makes perfect!

The guy from the caravan next door came over as I prepared Mercury. He said something to the effect that he had noticed that I had folded Mercury up at night to render him unridable. Well, no, this was actually how I rode him! I had removed the seat, but that’s all you can do! Clueless bugger – well, he was only a caravaner!

The journey started well, with a fast ride on quiet roads through Leyland, but then I hit the main road into Preston, which was quite the most ghastly road I had cycled on up to that point. It was a busy, fast road, with a feeder lane coming in from the left to form a dual carriage way, going uphill. This left me stranded between the two lanes, with traffic buzzing by at 40mph on either side, and none of the brain-dead drivers (unnecessary repetition?) bothering to let me pull over to the left. I could almost have been back in London! I can’t say I enjoyed this stretch very much.

Preston is not a nice place. Far from it, in fact. The road into the centre was depressingly dreary, though the road on the way back out was considerably more pleasant, thus depriving Preston of any chance of challenging Wigan for the grimness crown. I passed quickly through Preston and made a beeline for Lancaster.

The A6 beyond Preston is an excellent road, wide, well made, and quiet, as most traffic now uses the M6 which runs virtually alongside it. Let me rephrase that. The A6 used to be a tremendous road for cycling, until some gargantuan pratt decided to make it more cycle friendly by fitting high visibility cycle lanes. While these are well and good, they disappear wherever the road narrows. Or where they put chevrons in the middle to accommodate right turn filters. They narrow when they put chevrons in the middle of the road to visually narrow the lanes to slow down traffic. In other words, the lanes are only in those places where they are not needed, while they vanish as soon as they could be of any use for cyclists’ safety. What a waste of paint!

I passed a café along this stretch, outside which were propped the bikes of the tourists I had met the night before. I told you I’d see them again! Well, I nearly saw them anyway! I popped into Garstang, mainly in search of a loo, but also as this route looked shorter than staying on the A6, which bypassed the village. Shortly after I regained the A6 there was trouble ahead. I had already seen an air ambulance pass quite low overhead, and now a traffic jam was building up ahead. A policeman started directing all new arrivals down a wee country lane, and I followed this route, wondering how long a detour it would be. Trying to follow the route taken by oncoming traffic (assuming this would be the shortest way back to the A6 in the absence of any useful signs) I eventually got a little lost, and found myself back on a completely deserted A6. No traffic coming either way – what a stroke of genius! Meanwhile the helicopter had come back and left again. It really must have been a serious smash, as it took some time for traffic to start overtaking me again. I didn’t notice a greater level of care taken by passing drivers over the coming miles – usually even the most thick-skinned motorist tends to smarten up his act for at least 5 minutes after he’s seen the result of a huge pile-up. Then again, it could never happen to them, could it?

Lancaster at last. Riding in towards the town centre, past the university, I overtook a student type on a tractor, who exclaimed "That's a wacky bike, man" as I rode by. Then I made a big mistake. I followed the cycle route signs to the town centre. The route took me on a great big loop up the largest hill Lancaster had to offer. And then deposited me back on the A6 at the end of it. Brilliant. Inspired planning. I got to the centre, dismounted and wheeled Mercury around, looking for some decent food. A bakery doing hot sandwiches caught the attention of my nose, and I opted for a chicken, sage and onion roll. It was very tasty. I think I found the town's central square, and rested for a while. Being lunchtime, the place was heaving, and Mercury drew a fair bit of attention. My advice to any person aspiring to a recumbent is this: don’t do it if you can’t handle the attention it’ll arouse!

I had planned to take the B6254 from Carnforth to Kirby Lonsdale, but opted for the nearby A683 instead, as the route looked shorter and flatter. It was certainly a pleasant, quiet ride, but after a while I once again felt the urge to go to the loo. All the pubs along the route were closed, and I started getting desperate. Come Kirby Lonsdale I finally found some public conveniences, across an old bridge by which all the bikers from North of Watford had assembled. I leaned Mercury against the bridge and went for an ice cream. Not far to go now. A gaggle of bikers came over to investigate this superior piece of machinery, and I had a lengthy chat with a couple of them.

The final stretch of the day’s journey, up to Dent by way of some pretty minor lanes, was idyllic. It was everything that cycle touring should be. It started off with a gentle climb through woodlands, along which my noisy 2-wheeled friends passed me with cheery waves. Then the road rose out of the woods and onto bleaker moorland, and the incline increased. After a while, the road flattened out a little, and undulated (with more ups than downs) and wound through beautiful landscape with hills rising high on either side. As long as the stream remained at my side I knew that I still had more climbing to do. But it was pleasant climbing, so I didn’t mind. It was worth it.

And then there were the sheep to dodge. But my name isn’t Chris Boardman, and I had a bicycle bell on Mercury. I survived without incident. The bell serves only one purpose: to warn sheep of one’s impending arrival. I found that if I approached a sheep silently, it would bolt suddenly, likely as not across my path. I’m not sure what caused this – the unusual shape, the flag, or just my sudden, silent appearance. Pinging my bell a fair way before I reached the sheep, they were warned of my approach, and generally stopped and stared at me. Then just as I was upon them, they’d suddenly bolt, likely as not across my path…

Nearing the summit of this climb I passed a group of farmers repairing a dry stone wall. "Crikey" was all one of them could muster. Then a tractor carrying a farmer and an assortment of young children (his own, one would hope) approached shortly before the descent started. Rather foolishly, I let him pass, only to be stuck behind him for much of the descent. Well, maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing, as it kept my speed down on a steep, winding, narrow descent. Eventually he pulled over to let me pass, and I waved thanks before shooting past (I’ll never cease to be amazed by Mercury’s acceleration downhill when fully loaded). I remained cautious though, and never let my speed exceed 30mph. On a straight descent, it would have been a good 10mph more. It was at least a 1 in 7, after all.

On the edge of Dent village I found a sign to the campsite, High Laning Farm Caravan and Camping Site, and entered a large, deserted field. This couldn’t be right, could it? There was a structure at the far end of the field, and I ground my way tortuously across the field. It was some kind of washing block, but there was still no-one around. Then, across the road, I found the campsite proper. This was just the overspill field! Not that the campsite proper was much busier. A couple of French bikers had their tents there, and there were about three caravans, plus me. I checked in and pitched my tent in a sheltered corner, and hung up my still-wet washing. Then I went to investigate Dent village, a very attractive little place. I returned to my tent to catch the weather forecast and I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue. Unfortunately I had no radio reception (added to no phone reception, a luddite’s paradise!), so, shucks, I had no choice but to head for the Sun Inn, home of the Dent brewery. It was only 6pm, and I was in the pub. This could hamper tomorrow’s riding considerably! Still, I managed to behave myself, and only had three pints, culminating in their T’owd Tup stout (6% abv), though even this, after a day’s ride, left me feeling quite drunk.