I am back on the highway this morning as I was making slow progress on the small byroads, that and the river: the red road shown on the map is the only bridge. I find the traffic not so worrisome, a few trucks and also cyclists.

It's now eleven o'clock and the sky remains cloudless and as I pass through a place of a few houses, I see a shop with a table out front with a sunshade awning making it look as though it's Southern Europe already.

Two donuts and a five-hundred-mil bottle of generic coke is what I buy after about a minute browse of crisps, soft-drinks and biscuits while the young woman behind the counter follows me with a keen eye. The donuts have their usual few-days' vintage and the coke taste of disinfectant.

With the map open on the table in-front of me, I look at the route ahead and work out how far south I could get today.

A tall man with thin face and watery blue eyes comes, thinking I'm lost; have to be when I'm looking at the map. All I'm doing is relaxing. He sits on the bench beside me and says something, motioning towards the map. I point at Siedice, the next town, thirty kilometres away, meaning that is where I'm cycling to. He begins talking " shis-sha.......Siedice" My Polish comprehension is improving as I get the jist of what he's saying straightaway while running his finger along the red line on the map to stop on Siedice. Easy language Polish. Then I tell him I'm from Ireland saying "Irlandska!" thinking that's how to say it: the sun sparkles in his blue eyes and he shakes my hand and calls out to his friend that has drifted over, a stocky man with true-cut and bushy black mustache who give my hand a hell of a squeeze while shaking.

A bank of black clouds had changed the day as I approach Seidice centrum in time for lunch. I see what I think is a small supermarket by the square. The windows are covered in big pictures of wholesome-looking Fruit and vegetables, meats, cheeses, breads and pastries. Behind the pictures inside, I find even less than usual of a selection. I went round the whole shop, careful not to miss anything. I was looking for spaghetti, but there wasn't any; no pasta of any sort in fact. I had bread and cheese leftover from the day before, so just bough crisps and a can of beer and a snickers bar for later.

Sitting in the square eating as the rain gets closer, it feels cold as I look across at a big electronic billboard on a building fasade adverting a Mobil phone company which then flicks to the local municipal with the time: 13.42: not 14.42, reminding me to synchronize my watch.

Riding on, the ring-road south was open and exposed and swung west into a chilling headwind as spots of rain pelted me. It changed when I reached the roundabout with my turning south; the worse of the black cloud and rain moved on leaving behind dirty grey sky.

Towards the end of the afternoon while passing through a string of small towns, I pass a roofing tile yard-"Dachowia" with a small kiosco type grocery shop attached. I instinctively turnaround and go in. There's a husband and wife team behind the counter, the woman straightaway come round and speaks "Prussa..." I have an idea she is saying "can I help you?" so answer "Spaghetti?" "Spah-ghatti!" she replies, then reaches along to a low shelf picking up a pack.

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