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I WISH I hadn't stayed in that hotel. There was nothing wrong with the place itself and its unrivalled views of the bus station across the road. But I had neighbours from hell.

It had been a hard day and I was tired and dehydrated. Because of that, I had trouble getting to sleep. It felt just ten minutes later that I was woken by shouting, screaming and laughter next door. It was one in the morning.

I did nothing, in the hope that tiredness would overcome it, but at the same time my resentment ruled it out. I resented the incivility of people with so little care for others.

No midnight policeman could have done it better. I hammered on their door firmly and slowly. Ominously. The noise didn't die down but a moment later the door was opened by a tiny, slim girl with pale blond hair and a face that hid her age but acknowledged there was an angry man at the door.

I used my Stern Voice, one that has quelled campers around the world.

"It is one in the morning," I said. And stared at her, defying her to argue.

"OK," she said. My meaning was clear even if she didn't speak English. The door closed again. But the noise went on. This time I banged still harder, twice, four blows in a row. A female voice shouted "Good night!" in English, which sounded promising.

Of course, they didn't fall silent immediately. They were top high-spirited. They were quieter but they were still talking and by now I was so irritable that even heavy breathing would have made me cross.

Well, I wasn't going to fight a battle I couldn't win, annoying myself and making it impossible to sleep. So I got out my sleeping bag and stretched out on a couch in the dining room. Breakfast was at seven so I'd be good until six-thirty. But no. Instead, a kindly woman came in at five and shook me gently and showed not the least surprise that I was there.

I went back up to the room and picked up the phone. My plan was to ring the girls and hang up when they answered. Then let them get back to sleep and do it all over again.

But the phone didn't work.

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I expected to have a rough day after that, but I felt fine. I even enjoyed what happened when both my map and my GPS demanded I turn right up an unsurfaced path. I believed neither and went further. Perhaps the satellites were in the wrong place. But, no, there was no other path.

Well, small roads bring big delights and off I went. Mud flaked from my tyres and stuck to my shoes. It clung to the bike and spattered my legs. I had to walk for a while. And then the path turned right and ran into a farm. There was mud and nothingness all around. Only the farmer used this supposed road, so for a while path and farm became the same thing.

I must have been visible from afar. The farmer was waiting, pretending to be doing other things but really just curious who this might be. He was a powerfully built man of 60, with enormous hands and still bigger wellingtons. He had grey hair that went its own way and a smile that said "Well, that's a mess you've got yourself into!"

He walked towards me.

"Dzień dobry!", I called. And then, in the improbable event that he took me for Polish, I said: "Nie Polski!"

This he thought very funny. "Oh, ha, nie Polski! Ha, ha. Nie Polski!"

I got out my map and pointed at the unpronounceable village I'd hoped would be at the end of the trail.

"Ah, tak!" he said. And off he went in a three-minute salvo of Polish, not a word of which I understood but which I couldn't explain.

"Doe shbenski polloroke kurumkaravi... Brobi pellerizki zippity doo-da."

Well, there were two options. One was to go back the way I'd come, which he didn't seem to be indicating. The other was straight on. So, when he stuck out his left arm, I stuck out mine. When he laughed, so did I. I looked serious when he looked serious. And from all three minutes I grasped that I had to carry on to the end, turn right and then left. Which, add them up, is 11 words.

And I got there. And there up a concrete track up a hillside was a garage. I went through the same routine to find just where I was, only to be rescued by a portly woman driving a green car with a GB plate.

"It's a friend's," she said. "I live in Ireland." She pronounced it Oir-l'nd, an effect, she said, of having lived near Dublin for 15 years. And then it was easy. Down the hill, left at the crossroads and then 15 rolling kilometres to join the main road, which had now swung east-west. I rode on until I'd had all the fun the day was going to offer. And for the first time I realised I could no longer feel my broken rib.

Tonight I am camping wild, on a shallow hill overlooking tomorrow's road. I am in Purgatory, for tomorrow I shall be in Hel.