Rory Keegan's solo sponsored bike ride from Lands End to John o'Groats - on behalf of Falcon Camps, holidays for children and young people facing disadvantage.
The Owen family who welcomed me to their eyrie high over the Wye Valley - special mention to Douglas Owen's chocolate cake.
Falcon Camp leader (and former colleague) Richard Prescott and son Jotham (above) who hunted me down as I slogged my way across the valleys and hills of the Forest of Dean.
I was impressed by this splendid monumental bronze in the centre of ancient bordertown Chepstow. Even more impressed by the retail juxtapositiioning...
Rather a grey day from an early escape from misty, wacky-wickery Glastonbury. A stiff climb through the granite of Cheddar Gorge.
Miles along the spine of the Mendips - more or less deserted.
Whoosh down to the Chew Valley lakes - and then a leg-wobbling ascent of the feared Dundry Hill.
And Bristol - and sadly a tour of many of the great city's less attractive aspects.
Epiphany of the day: I stop a cyclist for directions. We chat. He gives directions clearly. And he insists upon giving me his map. How kind.
Perhaps I reminded him of his grandfather?
A windy, misty crossing of the Severn Bridge. And then Chepstow, the Wye - and up steeply into Gloucestershire.
Was intrigued to learn that JK Rowling was brought up near here.
Staying with kind friends - and teenage offspring.
The Exe valley north of Tiverton. A gentle ascent through ancient woodlands. Why isn't this as well-known as the Wye Valley? Beautiful.
Wiveliscombe: just inside Somerset. Unwrecked hilltop town. And hurrah for the cheery antipodean lady who gave me the lowdown on the towns cafe options.
Lunch in Taunton with my old friend Geoff. Wonderful.
Whizzing through a maze of lanes on the Somerset levels (not all that level)
And today I have not been obliged at all to get off and push - a fact that is down to geography, not increased leg-power.
And now I am in Glastonbury. Not quite my cup of tea. A much stranger brew. Many of the shops seem to be selling rather, er, 'esoteric' goods and services.
And a wee podcast in which I muse on tattoos and tranquillity - and receive a decibel-heavy kickback (which my recorder makes sound rather distant)
Land's End was eerily still and fog-bound this morning. A siren hooted through the mist.
To save time, please take it as a given that all that followed today was corrugated in the extreme.
Coffee stop in Penzance in the friendly and super-cool Exchange Gallery, where another kind lady forced a donation on me.
Gradually the mist lifted and a sapphire sky emerged as I puffed through and near villages, distinctive to my eye and ear for their splendidly evocative names: Blowinghouse, Praze-an-Beeble, Joppa, Relubbers, Numphra, Treen, Polgigga...
A long whoosh down to Perranporth, basking in afternoon sunshine. Fascinating to observe the holiday outfits chosen by many. Though no trendster oneself, one can't help the occasional: 'What were you thinking?'
No temptation to surf here in Newquay. Me in a wetsuit? What was he thinking?
And, should you wish to listen, here's today's podcast. Yesterday's should play immediately afterwards. Can't master the tech to get them the correct way around!
