Early this morning at my quarry campsite the sun shone brightly, but it was short lived, becoming dull and on the road across to Tees-Dale the morning looked increasingly like rain.

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At nine thirty in the town of Middleton I sat on a bench outside the Methodist Church looking at my new map, wondering would Swaledale North Yorkshire be doable in a day. The town was full of holidaymakers, many in shorts and some had rain-capes as spots of rain splotched the flags. Decorative bunting steamed across the street and there were gay painted signs for a fancy dress fullday. At one point the minister came out, said a cheerful good morning while setting up a sign for a cake sale before returning back into the Church. Meanwhile on the map I had decided on a B road from Barnard Castle across the fells to Swaledale.

The rain held off as I cycled down Teesdale to Barnard Castle, though it drizzled a bit on the way into town. The town was totally congested: traffic barely moving. I had thought to stop and have a coffee but all the coffee shops and tearooms were full and in any-case it would barely be possible to move with my trailer on the crowded pavement. So I rode on between the queue of near stationary traffic and the parked cars at the side down the steep main street to the bottom of town where I saw the castle in the town's name up on a small steep hill. Perhaps that is the big attraction.

The road straight on was a busy Trans-Pennine road and there was no way Is going to take that. The road on the left was to a place called Reeth which at the time I hadn't noticed on my map and if I had, would have realised it was in Swaledale where I wanted to go. I turned that way anyway expecting that the road I'd seen on the map would lead off it. Confused I rode for what seemed quite a bit not coming to any turnoffs. I was thinking Is on the wrong road and should have consulted the map then but didn't. At last I came to a turnoff. It didn't have any road number on the sign, but I turned onto it anyway as it looked to be going in the right direction. In a short distance, I passed through a hamlet called Boldron, which, glancing at the map looked to be in the right direction.

A man walking his dog was all I saw in Boldron. He didn't look sociable so I didn't attempt asking directions. A half a mile further there was a sweeping bend after which this nice quiet road went up an incline where at the top I could see it join a busy road, the Trans-Pennine that I wanted to avoid. The swishing din of cars and trucks passing the top of the road in both directions was constant.

I would have to ride back and try and find the right road, but the bend Is at was a square corner on the outside with a generous grass verge and big Ash trees in the hedge overhanging the road. It was still a little short of noon but as it was still looking as though it would rain any minute, I thought I would eat here and get it over with, and if it did start raining, the trees would provide some shelter.

I sat on the grass verge at the side of the road and opened a can of sardines, making a sandwich while waiting for water to boil to make tea. Then just as I bit into my sandwich, the rain came on big time. The tree was providing good shelter at first, but it was raining too heavily for that to last long. Anyway in no time a river washed in at my feet prompting me to gather up everything with great urgency and put them away in the bag. Leaves which hitherto had provided shelter began dripping heavily down and I moved in and stood tight against the tree trunk in an attempt to delay total saturation.

It rained and rained. The road was fast being flooded. The cars and trucks now passing the top of the road, did so in a splodge of spray. Then the world lit up, and seconds later a deafening crack of thunder came from the heavens, followed by a lingering rumble. Dangerous as it is to shelter under trees in thunder and lightening, I didn't have much choice because the rain was pelting down harder than ever. People get burned alive when lightening strikes a tree they've sheltered underneath was going through my head. Perhaps it won't happen to me I consoled myself while water ran down my neck; for sure, I was slowly but surely being saturated, wet through and shivering cold. Suddenly there was a flash lighting up the day, then an almighty bang that looked like a firework ricocheting of the road, followed by another flash illuminating the tree above me as an angry rumble rolled cross the sky.

It flashed and rumbled thunder then died away eventually going quiet after an hour, when it seemed not to be raining as hard. The sky was lightening up in a grey sort of way. I was shivering standing under the tree so it would be good to move again.

I rode up to the corner with the busy road as a river flowed down pass me. Although it was a dual-carriageway, I saw on getting there that there was no shoulder which I'd hoped for, making it suicidal especially on such a bad day.

I stood shivering pondering the way, deciding that there was only one, namely back; the way I came, so rode half-hearted back to Boldron, thence the road from Barnard Castle to Reeth. It rained steadily as I pressed on five or six miles until a turnoff which had Middleton where I'd been that morning nine miles on the sign. I had seen a campsite there which was a good thing seeing that everywhere was waterlogged but a campsite might have a not so wet place to pitch a tent. But I was hoping not to cycle back to Middleton as I could already see a village ahead up the road. The village was called Bowes when I got as far and it was striking how deserted the street was: nobody was out on such a day as I rode up the street. I didn't see a sign for a campsite but did see the pub which had quite a few cars parked outside. Perhaps that's where everybody has taken refuse.

I leaned the bike against the wall and entered. Most of the people from all the cars outside were holiday people and they took up most of the tables inside. The interior was Old English or perhaps it was fake, though the oak ceiling beams looked authentic enough, and so too did an open fire grate in which a charred log smoked amid molten coals. A fatman stood leaning on the bar with a pint before him chatting to the barmaid. I politely interrupt them and ordered a pint of John Smiths which typically is a red cloudy beer, commonly called bitter, has a creamy head like Guinness and doesn't make you feel heavy and wobbly on your feet like lager. I moved into the one remaining seat and savoured the taste, enjoying the moment with the smell of the wood smoke, the low soft light of low ceiling and chatter at the other tables.

Back outside the rain had for the moment abated. It was cold starting off down Bowes steep main street, where at the bottom it went uphill again and so I wasn't long generating a glow of body heat. The rain came on again, persistent though soft. I didn't much care as Is warming up and it wouldn't be too long until I reach Middleton, the campsite and a warm shower.

Later I sat in a cafe in Middleton writing my diary. I just came in to have a cup of coffee but seeing the big plates of delicious looking home made food on other tables I ordered food myself. I had fish and potatoes with a generous helping of vegetables and another pint of bitter. Afterward as I lingered over my pint, I was a fly on the wall as the cafe owners, the jolly mother in her Rumpelstiltskin outfit having returned from the town's funday, and neighbours sat having an interesting discussion on the pros and cons of Kinda e-book.