Swan Farm camping, a lawn behind the farmhouse, was serene in early morning sunshine, having but three campervans and two family tents whose children weren't given to screaming, nor parents to shouting, instead talking calmly between themselves. The father, his wife, two sons and a daughter-in-law working the farm, didn't have a moment to spare. The son said when I offered to pay the five pound fee, it'll do in the morning, and when I pleaded that I'd be leaving very early he said that wasn't a problem, he was an early riser; in the morning, the small reception house was abandoned, as they always had their hands full, feeding calves or other that in the end, I followed the father that was driving the telescopic-loading machine into the poultry house to settle up before leaving.

The sun which had shone earlier, was gone and all morning I cycled in cool blustery threatening weather; from Castle Bolton down through leafy lanes to the town of Leyburn; then west on a narrow winding A road with a steady flow of cars, some sweeping pass with seemingly inches between me and them. I was glad to escape, turning onto a narrow B road leading up a valley where I only met or was passed by the odd car or tractor, which done so with greater consideration for my safety. Although scenic, the stone walls, lush pasture with black and white dairy cows, broad-leaf trees by the river and valley-bottom, and the rocky crags above on the sparse hillside, it looked though unimpressive today as dirty grey cloud came down on the hills ahead. The road went up and past rough pasture and treeless upper valley, eventually out upon open exposed hilltop, a place according to my map wonderfully called "Starbotton" where at last I got caught in a scrawly shower like a hail of cold pellets in the face.

The rain had abated when with clenched teeth I came down to Kettlewell, a village with tourist appeal judging by the number of visitors milling about. While eating lunch of a cheese sandwich, I was for calling it a day and checking into the YHA hostel, as I was finding it hard motivating myself to go further because of the unsettled weather. After eating, I took a ride through the timeless cobble-stone grey streets; past craft shops, art and antic shops behind small pain Victorian-era shop-fronts. It was more nostalgia than real with few true inhabitants, but throngs of visiting sightseers giving it the air of an open-air museum. Unimpressed I returned to the bench by the river where I'd taken lunch and sat another while waiting to see what the weather would do.

I sat and looked on as lots of cyclist rode up over the humpback bridge nearby; light-loaded cyclists, also chaingangs of rain-cape clad racing cyclists with strong riders leading off the front of the group dancing on the pedals up the climb I had come down.

Opposite where I sat was the Blue Bell pub with "Est 1680" above the door. I was thinking for a while of a pint, but the time had come to get up, cross-over and go-in, if Is going to at all. There was a good fire going in the hearth at one end which glowed out into the dimly lit low-beamed room giving an Old English ambiance; spirit uplifting insofar as curiosity for old things go. Two couples sat around a table by the opposite wall having lunch and a young couple in hiking clothes at a table by the window were the only other customers. The barman when I ordered a pint of bitter was pretty stern and cheerless reflecting the day. I took my drink out and sat at a table out front, pondering the sky for breaks in the impenetrable cloud, finally deciding it wouldn't rain and so I could continue.

It did brighten up in the afternoon but it was followed by dark cloud moving in and Is caught in a horrible heavy shower a few miles short of the village of Threshfield where I sheltered under a hedge until it eased. Sodden and miserable passing through the village, it had rained itself out leaving splashing poodles in its wake. I rode down across the bridge and climbed up the street into the bigger settlement of Grassington where I found and got into the warmth of a cafe which had free wifi, a thing I've found to be a rarity in the UK.

Later, after having checked emails and read instalments on Crazy Guy, and while on the second glass of frothy Latte, the sun came out, streaming in through the window. Hastily packing away computer I went out and crossed the street to a grocery shop opposite; therein buying tuna and some vegetables to accompany rice I already had for an evening meal. Returning to the bike which I'd left outside the cafe, a family now sat round the table outside. The little girl looked at my trailer and asked me how does the roll mat stay on when I'm moving, a strange thing to ask I thought. Her father a big burly man that spoke with a strong Yorkshire accent quipped to his wife as they were about to get up and leave, "am goin naaw on tis by-ike"

He inquired where I cycled from and where Is cycling to. He didn't come over all amazed but was a practical man that understood there wasn't anything odd or incredible about riding so far. He went on to advise me on the local roads, saying whatever I do, stay clear of Skipton on the road south.