Julian and Paul had reminded Richard H that the clocks went forward that night, but of course they were the ones who slept in. The weather gave us a rather dull start, resulting in only 60% shorts. It brightened up later, but the wind stayed quite chilly. Paul didn't want any hills, so Richard said there were only three, which was almost true. After a fairly gentle climb we started with a gentle drop on small roads away from the forest and back over the Avon. Over the other side we had to climb back out of the valley. Then we hit the traffic going towards Wimbourne. (If we had left at the appointed hour we would have missed most of it.) This took us past Bournemouth Airport where the only things flying seemed to be skylarks. On the other side of the road we passed a sign offering 'DYO manure - 10p a bag' which had us puzzled for a moment. Another casualty of the earlier rough tracks: Richard H's bottle cage fractured, fell on the road and gave the other Richard quite a surprise.

Into Wimbourne, and the task was to find the converted railway track that was going to take us into the suburbs of Poole. This was complicated by the virtual gridlock caused by the motor traffic, but despite several false attempts we found it eventually, and it was well worth it. After several miles of gentle downhill gradients we turned off it onto the line of an old Roman road, where we had lunch. Then we had the boring bit: making the trek around Poole harbour to get to the Sandbanks ferry. There was a certain pleasure, however, in passing the long line of cars that were also waiting, one of the few times when cycling takes precedence. The ferry was a floating bridge, rather like Torpoint, coping with all manner of traffic, including double decker buses. We pulled into the first café on the other side and had to wait ages for Richard B's soup to come - there was a mix up over the order numbers but he eventually got two for the price of one. Half a mile on we discovered that we needed our ferry tickets to leave what turned out to be a toll road. Then it was up the third hill of the day (well, almost) and a lovely long descent into Swanage.

From the High Street a short but very steep hill led up to the hostel. We dropped off our bags and returned to get provisions and look around. Something of a kiss-me-quick resort, it wasn't very busy given that it was Easter Day. The weather was a bit hazy, so the view wasn't much to enjoy, and this had been more of a disappointment as we crossed the Purbeck ridge. Richard B attached a couple of tins of food to the top of his carrier with an elastic strap, but not well enough. Just on the last stretch up the aforementioned hill one broke loose and he had to backtrack fairly sharply to prevent it bounding all the way down to the beach.

The hostel has been 'improved'. The benefit is that the showers are excellent. More debatable are the new style bunks in stacks of three, with the middle one at right angles to the other two. This allows two (but only two) lockable cupboards underneath it, but the unfamiliar layout takes some getting used to. The kitchen had had the treatment as well: new work surfaces with cupboards and drawers all the way round underneath. Unfortunately nothing was labelled, so every new person into the kitchen had to search every cupboard to find what they were looking for. Even more questionable were the sofas in the common room. These were blue velour chesterfields, and seemed a bit too swish for mere hostellers.

Poor Eliot! Having ridden past Buckfast Abbey Eliot had elected to go with the five other 'trackies' through Burchetts Wood, but when he reached the ford at the end he fell in and ended up soaked from the neck down. Fortunately the weather assisted with the drying process as the afternoon progressed - Tao and Dayle weren't exactly dry or clean either, as the track had been just as muddy as Michael had predicted.

Following a tractor into Holne we realised just how difficult it is for farmers to carry out their daily work during the tourist season. And there certainly were plenty of tourists about today: we took one look at the crowds in the Old Forge café and decided to go straight to Venford, where Michael gave everyone two pieces of a Chocolate Orange - better than Easter Eggs any day.

We decided to return using the track to Michelcombe. As we trekked across the open moorland we witnessed at first hand the damage caused by the recent spate of moorland fires - heather and heath had all been reduced to charcoal in several areas. Alex took a fall on a rough section of the descent, but he was soon patched up. Having traversed the ford near Michelcombe without further problems we finally arrived home at about 5.15pm.

We took a convoluted route through the Westerland Valley to Collaton and then on to the Stoke Gabriel road. At Long Road Gary led the trackies for a rough stuff diversion which they did at such speed that they almost beat the rest of the group back to the road (just as well, as Ken had already forgotten them and had sailed past the relevant junction).

At the weir, busy with Sunday Afternoonies, we met Dave Humphreys with family (including "It's Phil Humphreys!!" complete with weird DJ rap King haircut).

Julie handed out Easter Eggs and we then set off to Galmpton where we viewed the creek before setting off for home.

We managed to leave at 9 today, under a dull sky with a very light drizzle, the first rain in four days. The most notable feature of the weather, however, was the strong SW wind, and you can guess which direction we were heading. We rode back up the two mile long hill we had zoomed down the day before to the start of the track across Nine Barrows Down. This began with a lung-busting 3/4 mile climb up a stony track to the top. But it was worth it. We now had about 3 miles along the top of this ridge followed by an arm-tingling descent into Corfe. We had decided to have a quick look at the castle after a cup of tea, but the entry charge was sufficient to put us off. We walked along the path that goes round the outside of the ruin and decided that was good enough.

It being Easter Monday, finding a shop open meant we took the opportunity to replenish our provisions, and then we set off for Lulworth. Under normal circumstances this would be a delightful road, constantly undulating across the varied Purbeck scenery. Today the headwind made going uphill harder, and took the fun out of descents. There always seems something unjust about having to pedal downhill. With plenty of time on our hands we took the opportunity to visit Tyneham, a village evacuated during the war so the army could extend its practice range. The villagers never got it back, and only the church was left standing. The army has ruined it again, by turning it into a slightly twee tourist attraction, very different from the tumbledown ruins that Hazel had visited in the past. We ate our lunch in one of the ruined cottages before enjoying the benefit of the tailwind back up the hill.

Coming down off the Purbeck ridge Paul had a contretemps with a Toyota on a sharp bend. The driver apologised for not seeing him - inexcusable really: having passed four cyclists it seemed unreasonable not to expect a fifth. We dropped off our luggage at the hostel and went down to Lulworth Cove, and from here we walked over to Durdle Door, a natural arch that juts out into the sea. It was a hard slog uphill over the cliff into the headwind. The one consolation was that it blew Julian off his feet, much to everyone else's amusement. Back at the Cove we visited the café down by the beach. The two Richards had sticky confections, while the others went upmarket and had quiche.

The warden was assertive but friendly. The way she got someone to move their badly parked car had the rest of us quaking in our shoes, so much so that even when the door was unlocked at five o'clock we hesitated to enter because she hadn't asked us in. The hostel is right on the edge of the firing range, and you can see the warning flags from the windows. However, the only noise in the night came from two sources: heavy rain and a snorer. This hostel also has the same range of cupboards and drawers as Swanage, but here the warden has shown some common sense and labelled them.

The 1991 Easter Tour to Mid Wales was restricted to sixteen participants because of the size of some of the simple hostels involved. It was hardly surprising that every place was taken, and so it was that the sixteen met at Bristol Parkway station for the beginning of an epic eight-day adventure.

Mark's father, who knew the area well, kindly led us through some flat, quiet lanes to Olveston, avoiding the busy main roads. We then proceeded across the Severn bridge, slightly nervous about the strong sidewind that threatened to blow us over the edge. When we reached the far side we were able to observe the part of the river that passed over the railway tunnel, through which we would be passing on our return journey at the end of the tour.

After a hasty lunch on a grassy verge near Chepstow we continued to the Wye Valley. First stop here was the Eagle's Nest viewpoint. We had to walk along a footpath from a car park, but there was a long delay because several of the leading riders had missed the turning, sailing on up the hill out of sight. There then followed a short stop at Tintern Abbey for refreshments and minor repairs - nobody could afford to go into the abbey itself - before the long climb to St Briavels Castle hostel.

St Briavels is one of the most impressive hostels in England and Wales. It is a Norman castle, used long ago by King John as a hunting lodge, situated in the centre of the quiet village. Our dormitories were in the tower, but we didn't see any ghosts.

Tim had requested a pasta meal as he can't eat potatoes. He was rather embarrassed when everyone was served pasta for the evening meal!

The weather was closing in. The top of the hill was shrouded in low cloud and it was drizzling. But we knew that we would have the strong wind behind us today, and even if it rained there was that lift created by knowing that you are on your way home. It's nice to get away, and it's nice to get back.

A moderate but longish climb led to the drop into Wool, no bends and no brakes for three miles. The sight of a Spar shop reminded Paul of work and also prompted stocking up with enough to last us the day. As we left we were just caught by the railway crossing lights. The train left the station, but went the other way. We were puzzled. A couple of minutes later it came back, but our wait wasn't over. We were at a junction, and an enormous queue of traffic had built up and we had to wait for that to clear as well. The rain became a little more steady as we made our way away from Wool, past a sign warning of tanks loose on the road. Richard's map reading worked: he found the start of the bridlepath through the woodland. Blue waymarks helped as we made our way up to the next road and crossed over. You know how forestry tracks all look the same? Well the waymarks petered out as well, and before we knew it we had gone quite a way on what should have been a short track. Stuck in the middle of the woodland with virtually no landmarks we were forced back onto the first principles of navigation. Overhead pylons gave us a clue and we found we had fortuitously travelled in the right direction without using the main road that had looked the only route on the map. Richard H was just thinking this might be the first tour without a puncture when his front tyre went down. A very small flint had worked its way through into the tube.

Lunchtime approached and with wind and drizzle we needed somewhere sheltered. No cafés looked forthcoming and we ended up under a disused railway bridge. It was still windy, so lunch was fairly brief. We then took the track past Badbury Rings, an ancient hill fort, and continued along the old Roman road. This gradually got narrower, stickier, thornier and slower, with the scent of wild garlic wafting us on our way. Avoiding a place with a name like Gussage All Saints seemed a sensible idea, so we left the Roman road and were soon on the B3078. This led only to Cranbourne, the waiting vehicles and a journey home into the headwind while we speculated about next year's tour.

It had rained all night and showed no signs of abating as we waited behind the hostel's drawbridge. Eventually we accepted that we were going to get wet and set off down the hill and along the easy valley road to Monmouth.

It was as we entered the town that Neil discovered that his rear rim was falling apart. Closer inspection revealed that it would have to be replaced before he could ride the bike again, so Michael checked out the local cycle shop while the rest of the group purchased lunch from a nearby bakery.

The 'bike shop' seemed to have more lawnmowers on display than bikes, and they certainly had no alloy rims or Shimano cassette freewheels. They suggested a shop in Abergavenny - which, whilst not particularly helpful, was at least in the right direction. Since the weather had brightened up a bit, Michael decided to take Neil and the two bikes to Abergavenny in a taxi while Simon led the other members along the proposed route.

The good weather lasted only another thirty minutes. When everyone met up again at Llanfihangel Crucorney, Simon's group were drenched to the skin - but at least Neil's bike was fully repaired. We made the most of a local transport café before starting the long climb through the Black Mountains to the hostel. The delightful scenery of the area was lost to us as the rain pelted down even harder than before. When we finally arrived at the hostel, wet and miserable, the rain was beginning to ease, and by the time we had hung our wet clothes above the heater in the entrance hall the rain had stopped altogether - typical!

Nobody was in the mood for hill-climbing tonight: hot showers and card games seemed to be the order of the evening.

Although BST was now with us, we still had limited daylight and a route was chosen which would bring us home before dark. With Holne in mind it was decided to go through Buckfast and take the roads to the start of Hembury Woods track - it was more like a stream at times. A right turn took us to the top of Hembury, and then a devious route brought us through the back of Holne to the steep descent into Scorriton. Since the night was drawing in it was quickly decided to head for home along the usual roads, bringing us back for 8.30pm.