Go for it part two.

Another sharp bend called for another rest and taking in the view. A drink of Scottish spring water and an apple. "There goes my last supplies", I thought echoing Scott, or Amundson. The cycling had taken on epic proportions.

Far below the N116 roared intermitantlyas large and small bugs sped east and west. The sun was bright burning back the misty dampness.

The dusty track flattened out now confirming the map. Peddling became easy. On the right towering on another hillside a ruined building sttod grey and forlorn. A high tower, or the remains of a large chimney loomed over the scrubby autumn thorn forest below.

A golden rule I have found in these parts is never take the path that looks overgrown and abandoned. It always ends abruptly. However, the wide dusty track turns a slight right and up over another low hill. To the left a grassy track runs alongside an unusual wire fence. It's downward very steeply and once again I dismount. Entering a shady wooded area it becomes soft underfoot. "Is that a tarmac road?" I peer across the narrow valley and slightly upward. "Is that a distant car I hear?" "No its the black of granite!" "No surely its tarmac."

I take another gamble and continue downward. To find a ford. Deep and fast flowing in the shady hollow of a deep ravine. Large boulders make cycling through the water which I guess would come to the bottom of the forks. I don't fancy getting my feet wet on this chilly day. I work out several stepping stone options, leaning on the bike and stepping on the not so submerged larger boulders. Emerging from the other side succesfully with a marginally damp left foot I start to peddle up the now almost completely overgrown track. An opening in the undergrowth confirms the large possbility that there is tarmac at head height on the right but a steep bank bars the way. "Yes, but it could be just a random bit of tarmac not going anywhere."

Along the path and round a bend all hopes are confirmed. Not only deep black almost unused tarmac but there within a few roads the sign confirms that this is the D13, the road back to Vinca. Cycling round here is emerging into a pattern. In South East England you get used to ups and downs. Sometimes slightly more ups than downs. Always moderate. Sometimes more downs than ups. Always cycle towpaths downstream. Similarly railway lines. These are gentle slopes.

Here you spend the morning going up. relentlessly upward. Steeply agonisingly upward. The downslopes are almost unforgettable. For 90 minutes I have been generally going up. Now high on the D13 I start to go down. The bike picks up speed easily. Life is sweet. The view of the valley is immense even through the misty cool bright air. Like a mature sensible lover the wise cyclist takes the pleasure slowly, cherishing the moment as if it may be the last. I stop to take the view and save a photo of the bike with my mobile phone.

Downward again and picking up speed. The bridge is in site and a last dash in high gears will see me up the ramp to the start of the bridge. I'm across the high roadway notcing the meandering river below and the greyness of the dired up resorvoir bed. Old summer sunken walls and roads are revealed. In front I can see the lights of the railway level crossing marking a return to civilised life. A thought crosses my mind and I dismiss it instantly. I pedal slightly quicker. "Ding" I gasp.

"Ding Ding Ding" The red light flickers and the single barrierstarts into downward motion. I pull up and rest my foot nonchalantly on the crash barrier on my right and wait for the afternoon express. It speeds past empty. the barriers lift and I take a calm moment before starting off up the steep slope, acorss the main road and left along the long drag back inbto the village. Mestres dogs are lieing in the sun motionless. I decide not to wake them up with a deep bellowing "ruff- ruff ruff ruff".