Wind

In the afternoon we entered the flat fenlands of eastern England. The wind whipped across the fields and made our progress by turns torturous, by turns divine. When it was behind us we barely needed to pedal. Like Anthony Hopkins in ' The Fastest Indian' we only had to concentrate on keeping our machines under control in a straight line. But when it was against us we were more like Scott of the Antartic, fighting for every inch of ground gained. The wind played with our minds, and you'd find yourself repeating random snatches of songs, or conversations, or jokes, just to keep yourself sane. Me, I sketched out lists and complaints, against the confused state of the National Cycle Network, against the lacklustre cafes we'd visited between Thurso and here, and against the slow death of the British village. The day's destination arrived not a moment too soon. We made ourselves at home and, when my sister Julie got back from work, spent the evening eating and drinking, talking and laughing, and almost forgot that there were still two days and 150 miles to go.