After an uneventful journey by car, past much holiday traffic going the other way, we arrived in Cranbourne at about three o'clock. Having set off, Richard B found his speedo wasn't working and then realised he'd got his front wheel in the wrong way round.

The first part was back up the hill we had just descended, and this was signposted to '6D Handley'. Hazel and Richard H instantly recognised it as meaning Sixpenny Handley - a result of their advanced age, as Julian put it. Or education, as Hazel replied. The next few miles took us along the line of the ridge, along the Ox Drove, overlooking the River Ebble. Although this track was generally level there were several small lakes on the way that caused us to walk gingerly around the side. We were relieved that it had been relatively dry recently. In places it was very lumpy, giving all our gear a good shaking down into the panniers. It also became increasingly muddy, and very sticky. Richard H won the muddy bike competition.

The last part of this track took us down Throope Hill, a lovely descent. The quickest down to the bottom missed the sight of a hot air balloon hedge-hopping over the track, dropping down into the steep valley beside us as if it was going to land, and then rising off again with the occasional whoosh from its gas burners. It's not often you look down from a bicycle onto a hot air balloon in flight.

We reached Salisbury hostel just before dusk. Although large, it was full that night. The good news about the kitchen: it now has two fridges; the bad news: there were hardly any saucepans.

Richard H had packed his suntan lotion; would he need it today? A clear night had left a frost on the grass when we got up, but it had all the signs of being a good day. We ambled down into Salisbury after Richard B had adjusted his front cones, and spent the morning enjoying this bustling centre. Newton Abbot hides its market away, but here it was in full swing and provided a natural focus for commercial activity. Leslie Thomas was at one of the bookshops, signing copies of his new book. The cathedral spire, the tallest in England, was smothered in scaffolding, and the nearby notice announced that they still needed £2.4 million to finish the restoration work and take it down.

We gathered again at midday, and by this time the sun had taken off the early chill. It was 100% shorts. We backtracked past the hostel and our route took us down the valley of the Avon. This was cycling at its best: gently downhill with the fall of the river to make you think you are fit, and a couple of minor hills to pre-empt any monotony. The most enjoyable feature of the hills in this part of the world is that, unlike Devon's twisty and turny roads, the downhill sides don't have awkward bends in the way: you get the full benefit of your climb, with little erosion of the brake blocks. The architecture used a pleasing variety of local building materials - patterned brick, brick and flint, stone and flint, and some just stone. Like the river, the road meandered through little villages with their greens, New Forest ponies chewing the grass, Volvos, large houses called 'Thatch Cottage', 'For Sale' signs from the estate agent called 'Out of Town' and a restaurant called the 'Mirabelle'. The road and river met at four different fords, but only one of them had water in it.

The entire New Forest appears to be a 40mph zone, which is good news for cyclists. The presence of the ponies, however, means that there are more cattle grids than on Dartmoor. The ponies caused us no problems, but as we rode through Burley three donkeys wandered across the road in front of us. On the track to the hostel Julian lost a rack bolt; presumably the shaking of the previous day had at last taken its toll. Since we were early at the hostel Richard B took the opportunity to replace a gear lever with one he had bought in Salisbury, and Julian caught the juggling bug off Richard H.

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.

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 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.