Day Eight of the trip and seven of cycling, I’m now about 80 mile south of Paris on the way to st etienne, and boy, are french roads long and empty. Foul headwind yesterday to pay me back for sailing into Paris last week driven by hailstorms and gales from the rear. And today it’s just wet.

Wondering at the moment if the process of breaking the new saddle in will end in victory for Brooks B17 or for my backside. At the moment, I think the bookies are putting their money on the saddle rather than the rider.

Encountered a group of French walkers yesterday who commented loudly and immediately on seeing me that ca devrait etre un anglais. That must be a Brit. Judging by the load of the bike. No frenchman worth his baguette would ride with so much gear – he’d have a van behind with s spare bike and all his kit. And probably his mother on a tricycle blowing a whistle to keep rhyhm.

This lunchtime, it’s steack and frites at a restaurant which is, unusually for the french countryside, open at lunchtime.. Delicious.

The psychlist. Aka Mark….