The place I'd camped was on the innermost end of a grassy track through woodland by a gate into a hayfield. An almost perfect campsite with only the sound of birdsong. Riding onward there are other possible campsites in the many stands of wooded parkland. This morning there was a glimpse of sun early on, but now it is totally overcast. The road is a narrow single track asphalt lane between hedgerows and on the odd occasion, which isn't often, a car comes, both car and I have to squeeze in on our respective grass verge to pass. I pass a few fancy modern bungalows with overly manicured lawns and Legoland dwarf shrubs and trees and garden ornaments, a biological dead zone. The traditional farmhouses along the way are for the most part derrick, with the pungent smell of freshly fermenting grass silage from the still in use farmyard. Such is the itinerary between the western shore of Lough Neagh and the main road, which is a good way to the west until I reach the village of Ballyronan, where I join a wider Broad.

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Ahead looming above green hills is the grey bulk of the Sperrin Mountains. I had thought earlier to continue further to the north, following near the lake and then the Bann river and avoid these mountains, but my road atlas isn't too detailed, and in any case, I don't want to pass over territory passed over the weekend before last, when I rode that way back from the north coast.

I stop midmorning at Tesco in Magherafelt. On riding back out of the supermarket car park, a man unsteady upon his feet, greets me with "that's a brave bike!" Later, operating a grass strimmer at a gateway, an old man with only a few strands of grey hair left on his bald head looks up and shouts out as I pass "good man yourself!"

By this time I'm well into a valley of the Sperinns having passed through Draperstown, then Desertmartin where I lunch in a church car park. About a mile on, the road come to a split where the sign had been broken and I'm unsure whether to split off left, or continue on towards Dungiven. I ride slowly by, not turning left, thinking I should, as it looks to be the right way, but I'm unsure. At the roadside, a short stout old man wearing a flat cap, turns his head with his jaw dropped as I slowly pass. I suddenly swing round and ride back to face him and ask, is this the right way for Derry. He confirms that I should indeed turn left, then asks "and what part of the country are you from?"

I get caught in a shower of rain climbing up the mountain pass open moorland. The rain eases on the way down the other side with a pine plantation to the side, and I feel a relieve from the burning fatigue of all the climbing of late and plan on taking a couple of rest days on reaching the city.

Shortly after Claudy I join the busy A6, which has a narrow shoulder, but many steep inclines until finally descending to Derry. Having been to the city many times before, I don't have the usual bother of navigating around a strange city, so it doesn't take long finding a hostel.