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with. If you can forgive us this one mistake, I can promise you that it was the first and last
of such instances on the trip.
The novelty value ofcycling in thick woollen suit trousers had wornoffsoonafter leav-
ing Land's End, and nine days later I had grown to hate them with a passion.
I had rolled each leg up as far as my knee, which did help aerate my lower leg, but the
disadvantage was that it created a tight, thick band of fabric that rubbed and chafed, and
completelysealedinthetophalfmyleg.Inasense,mylegwascookinginanenclosedbag
of hot sweat. I appreciate that this is not the nicest of descriptions, but it's the only way I
can convey the discomfort.
To make matters worse, as the trousers were about eight sizes too big for me and had to
be tied with bailer twine and rolled over at the waist band several times, they cut into my
flesh like the string on a joint of pork. In the blistering sun, my exposed love handles had
become pork scratchings.
Despite the discomfort, we had an easy afternoon's cycling with the terrain rarely alter-
ing from its even plateau. The mood was sombre, though. We both agreed that meeting our
families had been a bad idea, in hindsight. It was great to spend time with them, but it had
broken our focus. After nine days without such contact, we had become used to not know-
ing who we would meet each day, where our next meal would come from and what sort of
experiences we would have. Having that brief experience back in normality made us both
feel far more isolated and lonely than we had before.
'I tell you what,' said Ben, 'it's made me more determined than ever to get to John
O'Groats as soon as possible.'
'Me too. It's depressing to think that they will all be back home now, sitting on the sofa,
drinking tea, making whatever they like for dinner. Here we are, sitting on a grass verge
by the side of the road in the middle of fuck-knows-where not having a clue where we're
going to sleep tonight.'
'The weird thing is that from what they were all saying at lunchtime, it sounds like they
are all very envious of what we're doing and would prefer to be here than at home on the
sofa.'
Fortunately, this moment of despondency only lasted about two hours. As we started to
devour the miles through the charming Shropshire countryside, things suddenly felt much
better.
It was clear that accommodation would be hard to find as civilisation was almost non-
existent. The village of Little Ness was, as you would expect, very little, and Stanwardine-
in-the-Fields should be renamed One-house-in-a-Field.
About 20 miles beyond Shrewsbury we reached the small town of Ellesmere. It was
7.30pm and just on the outskirts of town we passed a narrow-boat marina.
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