Day 3: Boreland to Dufton. Approx 65 miles.

Firstly I would like to say: "I fucking hate those responsible for signposting cycle routes. You are all cunts who have blatantly never ridden a bike in your lives".

Ahhh. Much better! When your already riding a few miles a day it is not fun to end up doing extra due to rubbishly signposted routes or the kind of set up that directs you across the road and back from whence you came as you have reached the "route end". Anyway I got lost for a bit as you can probably tell. Back on the right road headed for Gretna, the site of numerous secret marriages and that. Stopped at a pub for coffee and route checking. Made my first new friend. Rather shittily of me I can't remember his name but he gave me awesome directions and advice and even offered to buy me my lunch. Sound.

Crossed the border, woop! Plain sailing to Carlisle then...the A6...or rather cycling hell in road format. Contiunous hills, 80 mph traffic including massive lorries, no toilet stops and a sign detailing the number of fatalities and serois injuries in recent years. Finally got to Penrith for scran and reflection on the fact that I was still alive. Onwards to Dufton YHA which is apparently "not far".

Note: When cycle touring never rely on the advice of car drivers or women. This may sound pretty sexist and hard to achieve but it has proven itself in the past week (I'm writing this in Cambridge, day 9).

Farm , farm, farm , hill, hill, hill, village, village, village. Sun is starting to set and I still wasn't at Dufton. Uh oh! No streetlights in the Cumbrian countryside apparently! Eventually I got to Dufton asking myself the following 1. Had I bitten off more than I could chew, 2. Why I didn't give up smoking before I left and 3. Why I decided to drink, smoke and sit about at the Monkey for the week before rather than doing some proper training of some kind. Only person staying in a 30 bed hostel so decided a joint probably wasn't the best idea and hit the hay around 10, again! Rock and roll.