Yahoo! I did it! But it was a tougher end than I had imagined. Still, I felt wonderful as I pulled to a halt by the harbour in John O'Groats. A real sense of achievement.

I woke early and pondered. In the cold light of day, it didn't seem such a bright idea, climbing Ben Hope. Alone, in cycling shoes, with a weak ankle susceptible to going over, without mobile phone reception. I'd dearly like to climb that mountain, but maybe some other day. Better finish the job in hand first. So I got up, struck my tent, and told the others at the campsite about my change of plan. Then I set off in search of breakfast. The local shop didn't have much in the way of choice, but they did have pork pies, which was a novelty breakfast for me on this trip. They also had Sabine's favourite biscuits, Choco BN, called McVitties BN in the UK. So, at last we wouldn't have to import them from France. A quick dash up to Sutherland would do the trick…

I finally got going at 9.45, after a brief chat with the driver of the Lairg post bus. Just as I pulled onto the main road up the hill out of Tongue, with the Kyle of Tongue glistening in the morning sun below, I saw a tourer trundling up the hill ahead. Tally Ho! The bike dangled in front of me for about a mile, but with the uphill drag I just couldn't make any headway. Finally the road flattened and I upped my pace and drew alongside. It was a solo girl riding through Scotland, though I wouldn't have guessed from the accent (though the bike looked the part). We switched into German and rode together as far as Bettyhill. Well, actually, we didn't ride together that much due to the hills around there - I renamed the area North Devon - so I'd go shooting off ahead on the downhills, and then she's catch up and overtake on the uphills. Our ways parted as she stopped at a shop in Bettyhill.

After Bettyhill there were loads of roadworks, and as I trundled uphill towards one set of works, cutting right to avoid sharp gravel on the left and in anticipation of the lane narrowing to single file traffic anyway, I was suddenly startled by a great big white Volvo squeezing in beside me, with the driver leaning over, pointing to the left and shouting something about cyclists belonging on the left. Within the roadworks, it would appear. So I told him that I disagreed. No I didn't really. I shouted at him to fuck off and gave him the finger. He steamed on ahead and bullied a car in front out of the way too. I memorised the number, G505NSA, and pondered whether or not I should bother report him to the police, or what I'd do to him or his car if I encountered him again. I came up with some pretty novel ideas involving the 2 great Danes in the back of his car and the yappy rat on his passenger seat. Other ideas involved putting a dent in his precious Volvo. Using his head. But after about 10 miles in a foul temper, partly due to this idiot and partly because of the exhausting, incessant steep hills, I calmed down. After all, what was the point in getting and staying upset. Might as well enjoy the remainder of the journey. I have a suspicion I know who the guy was anyway - he fit the description that the German girl had given me of the husband of the warden of the youth hostel in Achmelvich (I think), who apparently passes cyclists deliberately closely in order to keep them in their rightful position at the right-hand edge of the road. I do hope the police have a word with him one day. Or better still, that he has an unfortunate collision with a steam roller. So, any steamroller drivers, it was a white Volvo estate, registration G505NSA. Much obliged. Not that I'm a vindictive person!

At the summit of the last hellish climb before Thurso I encountered somebody walking the End to End. What a nutter - he'd been on the road since early April! He was now using the roads in order to make better time, hoping to finish 2 days after I met him. I pitied him as I coasted alongside him - it's so much easier to do it on a bike! After all, you don't have to put in any effort going downhill, unlike on foot. I left him and coasted down to Reay, where I bought lunch. I was just finishing lunch when the walker arrived. Yep, I definitely felt sorry for him - it had taken him a good 20 minutes against my 4. From Reay I took the back roads to Thurso, a route which was much quieter than the main road past Dounreay nuclear power development establishment.

The 11 miles to Thurso suddenly flew by on this flat terrain, and I rocketed down the hill into Thurso just as some schools were out, and town was very busy with kids giving me admiring looks (sounds like bragging, but it's true, honest!), so I had to give them a good show. The woman in the tourist office gave me the details of the Orkney ferries, but despite having only come 45 miles my brain was totally disengaged and I had tremendous difficulty working out the logistics of which ferry I'd need to catch when in order to catch the train back home on the correct day at the correct time. I got there eventually, and went in search of the station to book my return ticket. The station was easy to find, the ticket office less so, thanks to the massive rebuilding work going on there.

The woman in the ticket office was very friendly and helpful, though she did have difficulty explaining how come a first class ticket is cheaper than a second class on the Caledonian Sleeper. A first class single with own berth was £95, second class with shared berth was £86. Now, as a first class berth was £30 and a second class £20, this made the first class ticket without berth £4 cheaper than an equivalent second class ticket. Work that one out!

Everything booked, I set off on the final leg. There were loads more schoolkids around, with a lot of them shouting "Cool bike" and similar. A school bus went past, and everyone piled onto the back seat and waved and gave the thumbs up, while more arms giving the thumbs up poked out of the doors. I felt GREAT!

On the road up to Dunnet Head, the most Northerly point of the Mainland (and therefore the end of my South-North End to End from Lizard) I saw some baby Highland cattle, which were so cute I wanted to take them home with me. Of course, I wouldn't want them to grow up into full sized Highland cows (anyone who's been to my flat will tell you there's no room for bovine livestock), so I'd obviously have to have them stuffed…The climb up to Dunnet Head was a bit of a drag, zigzagging up the hillside, but it was worth it for the view of the Pentland Firth and Orkney. An elderly gent from LA, who was there with his Glaswegian wife, kindly took my picture for me. Then a pair of elderly English appeared on Tractors. They didn't have any luggage and hadn't ridden as far as I had though, but who knows, maybe I gave them ideas…

Right, this was it. A rapid descent from Dunnet Head, past my cute little calves, and the final 15 miles. As I approached John O'Groats I got my camera out, to see if I could take photos on the move. The answer was a plain and simple no, I couldn't. Not without risking ending up in a ditch anyway. I stopped at the welcome sign, and then coasted down to John O'Groats centre, pirouetted through the car park, slalomed past gawping tourists and ended up on the harbour quay. I'd done it. I'd run out of road. 6.05pm, I'd finished. It was a peculiar feeling, an odd sense of disappointment. I felt a bit deflated. This couldn't be it, surely? There must be somewhere left to ride to. But no, I had finished, and this fact took some time to sink in. There remained one thing to do. Well, two, come to think of it. First, the photo, but when I got to the signpost, there was nobody about, so I leaned Mercury against the signpost and took the photo. Maybe in the morning I'd be able to get an official one done. Then the second thing to do - a celebratory drink!

I went over to the John O'Groats hotel, where I'd noticed a few loaded tourers leaned against the wall. As I approached two cyclists came out, congratulated me, and told me of a good place to stay. A group of End to Enders were going to meet up for dinner at the Sea View hotel later on, and would I like to join them. Delighted to! Next, Matt and Stu came out, the guys I'd met at Urquhart castle, followed by Richard, whom I'd met down at St John Street Cycles! As Matt pointed out, this was all a bit surreal, like a scene from wacky racers, as we had all been bumping into each other along the way. The only person missing was the bloke doing it on a penny farthing, whom Matt and Stu had met along the way! We had a few drinks, and then I went off to find myself a room, though not before the hotel barman posed for a photo. I put on my See-you-Jimmy hat to ride off, making Richard think that somebody had nicked my bike as all he could see was the tartan hat and shock of ginger hair riding off on Mercury!

I checked into the Caber-Feidh guest house, across the way from the Sea View. Then I popped across to the Sea View to the bar, where Peter and Geoffrey, whom I'd met coming out of the John O'Groats hotel earlier, were already waiting, together with a couple of Swiss girls they'd met, Edith and Eva. Richard, Matt and Stu also joined us, and we all had dinner and got quite drunk before heading back to our respective beds. I popped into the Caber-Feidh bar on the way to my room, and ended up having a wee dram while chatting to a German tour guide who accompanied this awful looking bus through the Highlands all summer. It was this clapped out old Mercedes bus with a large trailer which contained little cubicles, about 80cm high, laid out in three tiers, in which the tourists slept. The locals called it the pigeon coop, though I'd sooner have called it the mobile mortuary. Not really my cup of tea.

I finished off by popping up the road to a phone box, as Cellnet were such a waste of space up in the Highlands, to tell Sabine the good news. Rather than congratulate me, she informed me that she and Nick and a few others had been made redundant by MTI (my former employers; I'd jumped before I was pushed) that day. I mean, how selfish can people get? Fancy being made redundant the day I finish the End to End, of all days?