Uff! I hadn’t realised how tough this day would be. The mere fact that it was 65 miles, my second-longest day so far, doesn’t tell the full story. There was a heck of a lot of climbing involved, starting the moment I set off in the morning. Still, the distances were mounting daily. First 55 miles, then 60, and now 65 miles. Obviously the next day I’d be doing 70 miles. Now, where would that get me to?

As usual, I slept through the alarm. My latest sleeping tactic was to draw the hood of my sleeping bag over my eyes, which certainly helped keep the light out for a while. I finally forced myself to get up just shy of 8am, and went to the farm shop for some milk. There was no-one around, but worse, they had no fresh milk, only UHT, so I beat a hasty retreat before anyone appeared at the counter. With hindsight, there were dairy cattle in the field behind the campsite, so they probably did have fresh milk somewhere on the farm, all I had to do was ask! Still, foregoing breakfast meant I would get away earlier. And indeed, come 9.30 I was on the road – all the way to the village shop, where I stopped for food. But what to have? I settled for some Eccles cakes and a lemon Oasis. I stopped down the road to devour these, and discovered that Eccles cakes are actually rather tasty cycling food.

The road climbed steadily up to Cowgill, from where I planned to take the minor road to Garsdale Head, rather than go down the valley to Sedbergh and take the hilly A683 to Kirkby Stephen. This route might rise higher, but it would be much quieter. Along the road I got some magnificent views, both of Dent back down the valley, and of the surrounding hills, including the rear of Great Whernside, which I had climbed with a group of friends only about a month earlier during our 3 Peaks Challenge. As I got to Cowgill I heard a train and looked up. To my horror I saw the train passing by, halfway up a huge mountain. Whoever built this railway (the Settle to Carlisle Line) certainly knew how to impress, and dishearten, the traveller. Consulting my map, I discovered that the station lay at what appeared to be the bottom of a huge climb. This was going to be a lot of fun!

I turned the corner to take the Garsdale road, and was confronted by a cliff face of a road. "Troop, diiiiiiiiiis-mount!" What followed was pure torture. The sun, out all morning, was beginning to heat the day nicely, too nicely, if you ask me. The climb was long, unendingly long, and the road was at least a 1 in 4, though at certain points in the sharp bends this must have been increased to 1 in 3. I took most corners as wide as I could in order to stick to the least steep bits. Frequent stops were needed to help me cool down, and to admire the stunning view down Dentdale. I was struck by the lushness of Dentdale, something I had noticed when we were up Whernside comparing it with much bleaker Ribblesdale on the other side of the mountain. Eventually, I made it all the way up to the station. For the second time, I was tempted to cheat (the first temptation being the funicular in Bridgnorth) and take the train to Garsdale Head (or even Carlisle). But I could never have lived with myself, and also I would have missed out on some great views and descents. Besides, I’d only just missed a train! As I followed the Settle to Carlisle line for most of the day’s journey, frequently passing stations, the temptation did recur once or twice.

The sign at the station was disconcerting, warning of a 1750ft summit and dangerous conditions in winter. Great! Still, it was too late to go back now. Onwards and Upwards! After crossing the railway bridge I remounted as the climb actually flattened out from there. The countryside grew bleak but beautiful, and the road remained wonderfully quiet, with only about three cars passing me on the whole stretch between Dent Station and Garsdale Head. The sun beat down relentlessly. Upon reaching the summit I felt I deserved a rest, and collapsed into the road. Then I prepared for the descent. Another layer was called for, as one sweaty layer can get quite cold on a fast descent. Zip up, on with a hat, and goggles, and off we went. The trouble on the descent was, the road surface was very bumpy, so I had to brake for much of the descent in order to retain control, even on the straight stretches with good sightlines. What a waste!

Upon reaching the bottom at Garsdale Head the road rose promptly once more - couldn't they have brought the road up a bit higher up? The next thing I knew, I was in Yorkshire (and shortly afterwards, a sign informed me that I was entering Richmondshire), which was strange, as I had never envisaged including Yorkshire on my route. Not that it lasted long. Before I knew it I was back in Cumbria, or rather, in Westmorland, as some pedant had affixed a sticker to this effect to the county sign. Well, why not; if it pleases the locals, who am I to quibble? The road to Kirkby Stephen started out a continuous series of ups and downs, the downs being great fun, but the ups generally getting in the way, especially after such a tough start to the day - let's not forget that my average speed for the first hour on the road was 5.9mph. Supposedly I came past a castle at Outhgill, a few miles short of Kirkby Stephen. I never spotted it!

Kirkby Stephen was pleasant enough, but I only stayed long enough to have an energy bar and a drink. Appleby beckoned, and as it was one of the main attractions on this stretch of the route, it would have been rude to keep it waiting. The road there was so-so, first the bumpy B6259 and then the busy A66 up to Appleby. I was glad to get back onto B roads as I screamed down the hill into Appleby.

Appleby-in-Westmorland, to give its full name, is a very pretty little place, with a charming high street running up a hill to the castle. I stopped off in the local Spar for a banana and some biscuit bars, and sat down in the shade to devour them. A gaggle of old biddies, on some kind of organised visit, were hanging around, and one of them accosted me. She turned out to be quite difficult to shake off, as she went around telling everyone in the group that I was riding Land's End to John O'Groats, and wasn't it marvellous. But they were all very friendly, and mostly harmless, I guess.

After lunch, time to visit the castle. The lady in the ticket booth agreed to look after Mercury, as long as I locked him up in a specified area, so she could keep an eye on him and shout at any children approaching him - the whole place was swarming with school children. The keep was quite small, but nonetheless a fine example of a late Norman square keep. While there was little to see inside, the views from the top were magnificent.

Right, onward to Carlisle. The best route appeared to be the A66 to Penrith, and then the A6. I had been assured that the A66 was quite wide along that stretch, as the prospects of riding along a narrow road with all those juggernauts didn't appeal to me (The A66 is the main link road between the A1 and the M6 North of the M62, and carries an extraordinary amount of heavy goods traffic).

I was lied to. For sure, the A66 is fairly flat between Appleby and Penrith. And, as mentioned, it is also busy. But one thing it is not: wide. After 7 stressful miles along this road, about halfway to Penrith, I gave up on it. It was not that HGVs were harassing me, nor were they passing too close by (there isn't enough room for an HGV to pass a cyclist safely if there is an HGV coming the other way; invariably, on this road, there is an HGV coming the other way). I'd actually say that the HGVs were driven impeccably. But it's still not nice riding along for 7 miles with a queue of HGVs sitting on your tail, and having to stop at every available lay-by to let a string of traffic get past.

So I opted for the longer, hillier route by way of the back lanes. I reached Langwathby, to be confronted by signs to Eden Ostrich World. This I had to see. The place had everything - an ostrich farm you could visit, a gift shop and a café. I ended up having an ostrich omelette (which, to be honest, didn't taste any different to an ordinary one, but as it cost the same as a normal one I'm not going to quibble). The café owners came out to inspect Mercury and have a bit of a chat. Apparently, a couple of Dutch guys on recumbents had passed through a few days earlier. So there we have it. Recumbents are like busses. You don't see one for ages, and then three come along in a row.

Back on the road again, the B6412 to Lazonby was being resurfaced, and as usual, drivers were ignoring the signs warning of loose chippings and restricting speed to 20mph. Well, they aren't the ones having the stones flying up and hitting their hands, are they? Thanks anyway! I guess that's a drawback of recumbents, or at least those with under seat steering - too close to flying gravel! The sharp descent into Lazonby was a beauty, the interminable climb out the other side less so. I ended up on some minor road leading to the A6, across a very bleak but unusual plateau. Was this the last of the day's climbs?

Alas, no. The A6 may well be empty, but it's far from flat. By the time I was on the outskirts of Carlisle I was quite exhausted. A car came by, tooting its horn maniacally and the driver waved enthusiastically. He had a bike rack on the back, but no bike. Entering Carlisle I saw him parked in a lay-by, and waved back. I caught a glimpse of his T-shirt, and thought I saw something about an End to End, but I could have been mistaken. A support vehicle, perhaps? Well, by the time all this had registered there was no room to stop, and I was gliding downhill, so I was disinclined to go back. I found Abbey Court Guest House, into which I had booked myself back in Appleby (I needed a bed that night), not far from the centre, with a covered area in the locked garden at the rear for Mercury (he just about fit through the gate). The room was small but comfortable. I phoned my aunt in Kilcreggan to let her know the latest on my schedule - I was hoping to get to her house on Thursday, or Friday lunchtime at the latest.

After relaxing for a while (and getting into the severe danger of falling asleep) I went into town. It appeared to be some kind of necropolis with all the atmosphere of Ramsgate. Was this the vibrant centre of North Cumbria? I passed a nice bike shop which was displaying a beautiful Giant TCR2 in the window, a mere snip at £1200. Who would spend £1200 on a bicycle?

None of the pubs I found looked worth entering, and I ended up venturing into a pleasant Italian restaurant next to the Tourist Information, called Franco's. I opted for a risotto for a change, having grown sick of pasta. On my way back to the guest house the pubs still looked dull, and anyway I was tired. I ended up watching TV, my limbs exhausted but my mind still very alert. I hate it when that happens. There was some rubbish on TV called Roar, all anti-Roman propaganda with action and plot much in the same vein as Zena, but with the hero played by some blond heartthrob rather than a lesbian icon. Still, it did the trick of sending me to sleep.