Onto the towpath by the little bit of singletrack at the top of the road. These brake pads aren’t bedded in yet, they’re honking like geese. Unscheduled stop to retrieve and refit front mudguard. The little path down on the riverbank. That rooty bit seems much easier than last time. Out into the next village, past the Friday night drinkers as fast as possible. Up the hill, away from civilisation. Quiet roads tonight, must be the fog. Roundabout backlanes to the fun river crossing. Bedding in the brakes on the way down. A new gate. They’ve still not fixed the latch on the old one, so you can bash it open with your front wheel and ride through. Over the stream, up the slabby bit, across the rutty, rocky bit, lovely. Down the edge and past the secret house on the corner. Up the enormous hill. Stop at the gate to catch my breath. Keep going up the enormous hill. Get off and push up the enormous hill. Very foggy at the top. Cross the road to the rutted quarry track. Nearly bin it in a rut. Incredibly foggy, can hardly see, keep having to wipe my specs. Drop out of the fog and this track is really quite nice on the singlespeed. Back up the hill on tarmac. A tailwind up the Isle Of Skye road, that never happens. Back into dense fog, ride right on the verge just in case when a car comes up behind. The incongruous smell of chipfat from a farmer’s old Landrover running on biodiesel. Nearly miss my turning in the fog. Drop down the valley, wet but fast, hop a few new rain ruts hiding in the murk. Home, shower, beer.