The morning was grey with a hint of drizzle in the air at first but there was a good forecast for the week ahead. I said my farewells. I'm in my mid-forties and my mother whom I have been staying with is in her early-eighties, though acts as if she's half her age and still thinks I'm a teenager leaving home for the first time, emptying the food cupboard and filling my bag with such things as bread, boiled eggs, cans of tuna and cans of baked beans. The cycle to Belfast was mundane having done it many times previously. Already on the way into the city I suddenly felt the rear wheel wobble and the rim began quickly to bump along on the rough street. The puncture was a fairly big pinhole and so was easily detected and patched without the need to use a spare inner-tube. It just happened to be my last patch so the next stop would be a bikeshop to buy a patch-kit.

I had forgotten to buy gas for my stove too; so after coming upon a bikeshop a short way from the place I'd punctured, where Is sold an extremely expensive £2.50 repair-kit, more so since it only contained six patches, I found an outdoor shop amongst the pedestrianized streets in the city-centre which were thronged with shoppers, where a busker strummed a recognizable tune, and in another place people gathered around a silver coloured performer stood as still as a statue. I lent the bike against the window outside the shop and entered and instantly came out again to lock the bike because the shop's camping department was upstairs on the first floor. Upstairs there was the wherewithal to equip any adventure with a good range of quality tents and sleeping-bags and all the different stove types where I found the screw-on gas canister for my stove. At the counter the friendly shop assistant seeing me in cycling clothes asked, was I cycling far.

I had to find the ferry terminal. I cycled toward the cranes and the waterfront, all the time following the signs with a car and a truck inside a ship until I'd cycled for quite a bit without seeing any ferry terminal signs. Where was I? I asked myself. Before long I'd cycled what seemed like miles along drab dockland streets with haulage depots and industrial units. I saw a post-van driving out from one of the fenced in buildings just as I drew level with the entry. I asked the way and the postman directed me thought a couple of turns and then said "just follow the signs wee-man".

The ferry crossing to Scotland was one of being couped up with Summer-holidaying families with screaming young children. Glad to disembark in Stranraer, I cycled around town a bit until I found my way to the London Road where I also spotted a Morrisons supermarket. At the supermarket I bought apples, milk, water and a chocolate to keep me going until I'd stop for the evening. At the checkout I thought maybe I would not be able to pay with the Northern Irish bank notes I'd in my wallet. I asked the girl did they except Northern Irish money, she confirmed at they did and I continued, they don't except them in England. The man behind me in the queue was listening and piped up "thay dinney ex-sapt ur notes nayther". I paid with my twenty pound Northern Irish note and received a ten and a five in Bank of Scotland notes in change which reminded me somewhat of dollars as both have an eighteen century gentleman wearing a white curly wig.

The London Road is numbered the A75 and is a busy narrow single carriageway toward the town of Dumfries. So I only remained on it for five miles after leaving Stranraer and turned-off inland toward the hills at a place called Castle Kennedy. I was soon cycling along a narrow country road with only the occasional passing vehicle with sheep pasture and fields enclose by stone walls on either side. The road climbed gradually up and I crossed a cattlegrid which took me out upon moorland with rows of wind-turbines just visible in the low cloud along the top of a hill on the left. Sheep on the road scattered as I approached, but small hardy looking cows with their calves stood their ground defensively, looking at me as I past. It had been a long time since I met or was past by a car, and there wasn't a house to be seen anywhere. The road was open and exposed and the wind had gotten up. But as it was blowing from the south west, it bowled me along in the direction Is going, though I wouldn't be going much farther, as it had gone seven o'clock, and so Is on the lookout for a sheltered place to camp.

The only shelter looked to be a plot of forestry that covered a hillside ahead, but when I stopped and had a look, it was boggy in amongst the trees. I past the plantation by and a mile farther on there was another plot of forestry land but it too was boggy. I cycled on by and across more open moorland until the road reached and entered a large forest which had lots of unpaved access roads running off on either side. Most were muddy and rutted by forestry machinery, but then I came to a lane-way with a postbox out by the road with a sign which pointed to a cottage a mile off. I cycled in along it and after what wasn't more than a hundred metres came to an opening in the pine-trees to the side. There was a load of tipped gravel high enough to hide the tent should a car drive along. I put the tent up but the midgets soon were a terrible problem prompting me to get into the tent quickly and zip it closed so I could make supper of beans on bread in peace, unmolested.

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