But first I had to reach Thornbury, a little north west of Bristol. Expecting to meet up with old friend Pete, riding north to rendezvous with me. I’d not seen him since there’d been a bit of a send-off in an inn on Dartmoor, my last night in the UK before I’d taken a ferry to France. I’d an idea we’d meet up once more in a pub. Late lunch. Warming coffee. Less than forty miles to cover but there was Gloucester to negotiate. And with just a hundred miles or so left back to my village I was beginning to feel pretty cautious. So close…

I slept for a while. Struggling with the pain on my right side. No swelling, guarding or visible bruising but considerable discomfort nevertheless. Deciding that if the situation didn’t improve over the next few days it’d probably be wise to get it checked out. Although if it was something like a cracked rib, and I wasn’t exactly convinced of this, I doubted there was anything that could be done.

Found myself reflecting on the conversation I’d had with Phil and Jo earlier. They’d branched out to do something quite different. Renovating and building houses replacing engineering and nursing. And their point was you could. Anticipation of change invariably far worse than the reality. Sensed it had really worked for them. Inspiring.

He’d a strong Lancashire accent, and I’d asked if he and wife Jo were down on holiday? No. They lived locally now. I’d explained I too was a Northerner, from Manchester. As was Phil. Worsley he said. I smiled. Spent my early years there. Mention of the East Lancs Road. Maine Lee Primary School.

There’d been quite a few intriguing encounters over the past couple of years. Australians off to visit relatives in the next village to my own. Fellow English cyclist Ann Wilson I’d heard a good deal of in Bulgaria, chance meeting in a Los Angeles hostel. Degrees of separation thing. Phil recounted a similar experience over the skies of India. Twins he’d not seen in decades.

Wondered what had happened to Nia I’d chatted to the previous evening. She’d asked me if I knew of any nice pubs nearby. Mentioned the Ferry Inn I’d seen earlier in the village. Maybe half a mile away. Added I’d not been in, perhaps it’d be worth enquiring at Reception. The man in the hat was stood outside. Smoking a cigarette.

Forty four miles to cover. Leave by 9.30, but ten would be fine. I’d be a slow start, my side still very painful, but should be finished by three or four. Off to a bunkhouse at the southern end of the Malvern Hills. The young woman left quietly. I was alone. Made myself some fresh toast.

Pondering what I’d do next. There were the obvious things. Get a job. But what was I to do? Some made understandable assumptions. Presumed I’d opt for familiarity. Perhaps I would, and that might be rewarding enough. But if I was to do something different, I knew this would be my only opportunity to branch out. Problem was I’d not returned with a burning desire for a specific job. And if you don’t know what you’re looking for, it can be very hard to find it. The man with the cigarette had gone.

I’d sat beneath one of several Royal Shakespeare Company posters. One for The Herbal Bed. Play by Peter Whelan. Felt I should have heard of him. David Tennant as Jack Lane. I couldn’t see a date for the production but guessed it was probably a while before he’d done Dr Who. But acting wasn’t my bag. Playing the lead in J B Priestly’s An Inspector Calls at school had convinced me of that.

Back out in the courtyard it was bitter. Much colder than when I’d wandered into the pub an hour or so earlier. There’d been clues. Most of the clientele in the back bar had kept their woolly hats on. And the publican had lit the open fire in the Saloon. Shakespeare Inn in Harbury. I’d gone in for two reasons. I liked the name. And it was open. Suppose the weather was a third.

Inside was simple. Unfussy but welcoming. A few Shakespearian quotations neatly painted on the walls and some of the exposed wooden beams. I liked the one from Twelfth Night about Greatness but couldn’t bring myself to jot it down in my pocket book. Too pretentious. Coffee and a sandwich. They had ham or cheese but I wanted both together. How much I’d asked. Same price had been the word from the kitchen.

Finding myself a seat by the window I’d stared at the simple comings and goings in the main street outside. I’d missed England. I liked the ordinariness. Comforting familiarity. Old ladies with their little wheeled shopping trolleys. I’d scribbled carts in my notebook before realising it wasn’t an English expression. Struggling a bit to expunge overly familiar foreign terms. Cell. Gas Station. There was also a radiator.

It was, said the BBC, going to be the coldest night in Britain. Since the last time they’d said it. At least the roads were clear. Nothing to freeze. More worrying was the forecast for the latter part of the week. Snow. Hoping that by sticking to main roads I’d be able to reach Taunton on Friday without too much difficulty. But Saturday’s final few miles along the lanes out to Fitzhead. Could be tricky.

A short run from Harbury in the afternoon – ten miles at the most – and I’d finally made it to Stratford-upon-Avon Youth Hostel. It was actually in nearby Alverston. Short day in any case, no more than thirty miles in total, but it put me in a good position for the morning. I liked the place immediately. Imposing country house. Friendly staff. Breakfast cooked to order and irresistible bar snacks. Cumberland Ale. Tempting.

Few other guests. A young woman enquiring as to whether there’d be any annoying young children staying. I’d chipped in to say I’d be gone in the morning. Nia. She’d spelt it. Visiting from Malaysia but originally from China. I’d guessed the name she offered was a fictitious English one. She seemed pleasantly surprised I knew of such things. Small group of friends in the games room whose vocabulary sounded as limited as my Mandarin. Dominated by a tom-boy with a very masculine haircut. Her assertiveness, I thought, masking some deep insecurities.

West of the previous night’s stop in Daventry the fog had eventually lifted. Steady riding into Southam. There was a cafe in the town centre. Flashing neon sign close up against the steamed up windows. But nowhere I could leave my trusty steed safely in view. A woman had suggested I try a place next to the Balti house. Blue sign she said. It didn’t sound promising so I’d left. Decided to try my luck in one of the villages ahead. Harbury it turned out.