With Michael sidelined by a summer cold ahead of a looming tour, Ken Oakley led a small group via Colston Road to Staverton. Their steady evening spin soured when a local resident told them not to ride the riverside path.

Showery weather reshaped the day. Michael stayed home with a cold while the rest shortened the route to the Copper Kettle café in South Brent, then headed back by lunchtime to Crofters for a dry social, where computer games proved more tempting than continuing in the rain.

A steady pull to the open moor led us towards Cross Furzes, with Peter taking his time on the climb. The ride is remembered for the ford: the usual culprits lingered to splash about and, predictably, ended up wet.

Meeting-point confusion returned: Michael’s Buckfastleigh/Totnes group waited at Mount Barton farm while Charlie’s Paignton riders stood at the crossroads, until a twelve-minute check united them. They headed to the vicarage café at Hill House Garden Centre, self-serving drinks on the lawn as youngsters set two dogs chasing rubber bones.

A straightforward evening run up Green Lane and along the track to Staverton was marred by an encampment of vans cluttering the lane and spoiling the scenery. We carried on to Staverton and looped back via Colston.

An excellent moorland ride to Fernworthy Reservoir, where a chill lunch stop kept us brief, with open views throughout. Robert’s attempted short cut bogged down on the moor, and, after slow service at the Green café in Widecombe, we moved to the Wayside instead.

Hembury Woods was chosen again for one reason: the track descent from the fort the younger riders call ‘the Slalom’. Even a cautious John Stuart had a go, testing himself on the fast, twisting run that gave the evening its spark.

A straightforward but tiring ride was rewarded by a rest on the quiet beach at Slapton Sands in the sunshine, complete with impromptu pebble burials and shirts stuffed with stones, before a steady return and a brief stop at Forces Cross.

On a perfect evening our Moorland Special reached Avon Dam, full to overflowing, before dusk turned the moor crossing into a quiet test of navigation: a tense pause while Michael hunted the Abbots Way post, then the line was found and we swept down with lights blazing.

A day defined by a comic encounter at Cross Furzes: two carloads searching for ‘real moorland’ ignored advice, only to find the track to Lud Gate stony, while we pressed on to the proper moorland descent to Chalk Ford. As ever, the flat-out dash to Scorriton ended with a puncture—Ben this time.