Cycling touring is living in the eternal now. We are aware of everything and nothing, time becomes abstract, but matters more. Will we make the ferry crossing or wildcamp tonight? Where did we sleep last night? What’s the weather doing? Why are we always hungry? We feel like knights of the road and wish this ride would never end.

At night, sleeping  in our tent for the thousandth time,we are woken by the call of Eagle Owls. When actually sleeping, my dreams are the most vivid I have ever had. Wind turbines, those leviathans of the land, whoosh, whoosh, appear ready to break free from their moorings , moving triffid-like across the land, laying waste to the broad bean crops then decapitating unsuspecting cows in their wake.

Summer finally arrived in a hurry early one Tuesday just after breakfast. As excited skinks made kamikaze sorties beneath our wheels across the concrete path, hunting dopey flies as clairvoyant sunflowers turned in unison to meet the sun.

Warming themselves on the sunlit sandstone steps, veteran street cats ignore the pealing of church bells, instead, purring to the faint muffeled hum of lawnmowers and leaf blowers.

There’s nobody under sixty visible by the dockside. Herring gulls call out in frustration. The fishing boats lay idle, sluggish waves would hardly cause a ripple along the plimsoll line. Old salts now trawl for tourists, their bait is a fisherman tale.

We are cycling into high season, seaside towns are filling with holiday makers from around the world. We cycle cautiously, living as we do in the spaces between places.

Beachside attractions include skydiving, circus shows, monster cars, carnival rides, ice cream and street performers, as acres of oiled-up white flesh bask in the afternoon sun.