Headwind to reckon with. Progress is slowed to almost a standstill, by wind racing over empty hills, through still towns and war cemetrys. Breakfast amongst the rape, bright yellow, and sheltered. The wind is bitter cold. I am glad when my canal remerges from a tunnel, and I can descend into the calm of its trough in the Landscape. I camp beside it tonight, between poplar trees. The path has deteriorated into a grass track, that makes for a comfortable bed, but is increaingly difficult to cycle on. It rains during the night, and in the static of droplets, I hear menace and footsteps. I go to sleep listening to music, that blocks my paranoia.
Its been a hard 95km today.
