What do they say about only mad Dawgs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun? They’re not far wrong. Crumbs, it was hot today! And the heat appears to be bringing out our crazy side.

In fact, there’s a very good chance that the rigours of a 16-day tour with no-one but ourselves to talk to might be sending us over the edge. What is the sound of three men slowly going off their rockers? I’ll tell you. It’s bursting into The Beatles’ “Long and Winding Road” at every (and I mean every) bend in the route. It’s hysterical laughter at the idea of Ike and Tina singing about “Knutsford City Limits”. It’s remonstrating with the wind so violently that nearby children are rendered speechless by the colour of the language. It’s doing increasingly surreal impressions of the various characters we’ve met on our journey so far – from the American cycle tourist lost in the wilds of the Western Isles with no-one but his bike, Bob Jackson, for company; to the gnarled old Scottish cycling pro warning of the terrors that await in the Trough of Bowland. Bailey and I seem to be particularly afflicted with this; to be fair to the Dawg, he’s not really said anything too weird yet – which is, in itself, strange. Either it’s a sign of increasing maturity, or evidence that he actually lost all his marbles long ago, and now has none left to lose. I’m going with the latter.

We packed up the tent and left Pontesbury early, with the intention of putting in another big shift. Our original destination was Hereford, but we decided to push on to Monmouth if we could, the thinking being that we would leave ourselves a short day tomorrow in order to maximise time with friends and family at our overnight stop back home in Bristol. After an unconventional breakfast of pain au chocolats and pasties, we set off into the Stiperstones AONB and began making our way down the English/Welsh border. The scenery here was beautiful, but it was offset somewhat by two of the toughest hill climbs (in terms of steepness) we’ve yet encountered. On the plus side, they did give us about five miles of descent – much appreciated given we now have close to 800 miles in the legs!

At lunch we stopped at a cracking pub in the village of Leintwardine, overlooking a lovely river with a stone bridge, before cracking on again through Hereford and down to Monmouth. Again, the ride was beautiful, but as the day wore on the fatigue was really starting to set in; the last thing we needed to see was a two-climb into Monmouth that nearly killed us.

I think all those miles are finally beginning to take their toll. Bailey, in particular, was struggling with his knees today – ironic, given that the Dawg seems like a different person since reaching his nadir on Arran. The last few days he’s been tearing into the hills, shaking off the shackles of his knee support strapping like a young Forrest Gump. Pedal, Geoffrey, pedal! In fact, I’m convinced he’s performed some sort of black magic trick, as his upturn in fortunes seems to have coincided precisely with Bailey’s struggles. He’s brought everything else with him; why not a voodoo doll as well?

Thank goodness for a short-ish ride to Bristol tomorrow to catch up with friends and family. I think we could all do with some R&R!