Our attempts to make an early start failed miserably. Somehow we managed the long, hilly road over Burn Moor to Clapham and up to White Scar caves in time for a late lunch at 1315. Matthew P broke his rear derailleur along the way, pushed the last two miles up to the caves and then had to race back to retrieve his helmet from the site of the mishap.

We put this trifling matter to one side for the next eighty minutes and enjoyed a discounted tour of the caves. They really are quite impressive, with real streams running through most of their length and an enormous cavern as large as a small cathedral at the innermost point of the tour.

Michael remembered the last time he led a tour to this area, in 1987. On that occasion, one of the participants broke a crank at Clapham and had to push the twelve miles to the bike shop at Settle. Today it was Matthew's turn, ably assisted by Paul and Neil who pushed him from either side up the hills. They had a fifteen minute start on the rest of us, and we did have a few minor mechanical problems along the way, but we were still amazed when they actually got there first!

Michael was so impressed with Settle Cycles at his last visit that he had ordered many items from them during the subsequent years. Now they had new premises adjacent to the station, so we appreciated Mark's local knowledge in locating it. Michael bought a new cycle meter cable to replace the one Neil had broken when he unpacked the bikes at Newton Abbot, and Matthew bought and fitted an expensive Shimano derailleur, thanks to some financial assistance from Michael and some technical assistance from Paul.

Some long climbs awaited us on the last leg to the hostel. We eventually arrived (as usual) just as the meals were being served, having forfeited our right to a menu selection. Richard S, who is on a gluten-free diet, was quick to voice his displeasure at the fruit juice, salad and yoghurt that the warden had selected for him: he wanted something hot, and he did his best to make sure that nobody else enjoyed their soup, pizza or sponge pudding!

When everyone had showered we completed the Whist League. The victor on this occasion was Lukas Wooller Esquire - sheer luck of course!

There are lots of interesting limestone features around Malham, so when Michael had fitted his new cycle meter cable we set about inspecting Malham Cove, where a river emerges from the base of an 80m cliff face. The feature was originally formed by the river when it flowed over the top and dissolved away the valley back as far as the present cliff, but then the river found a way through the rock itself, carving out a system of caverns deep underground.

Next stop was Gordale Scar, formed by rapid waterfall retreat during the ice age. There should have been some water left there today, but it was bone dry. When Paul reached for his camera he remembered with horror that he had asked Andy to look after it at the cove. Did Andy have it now? No, he'd left it on the grass by the river. So Paul had to go back for his camera while the rest of us enjoyed some rock climbing.

Mastiles Lane was a long, steep climb. The ford that Michael remembered at the top had dried up completely, an indication perhaps of the general drought in the area this summer. The top seemed like a good place for lunch: the long, stone walls which lined the lane offered a little protection from the chill wind that was blowing across Kilnsey Moor. There wasn't much to eat, just the bread left over from breakfast and a few other items that we'd managed to buy from Malham post Office that morning.

There was an equally steep but rocky descent on the other side of the moor, which tempted Robert to demonstrate his mountain-biking expertise to the rest of the group. His breakneck descent ended abruptly when his pannier hook became entangled with his wheel. Nick had lost a mudguard bolt, so the ride was temporarily suspended while repairs were effected.

At last the sun was emerging. A mobile cafe by the road near Kilnsey Crag looked quite tempting, although Robert was nearly knocked flat by two speeding motorcyclists as he blindly followed Michael across the road. Closer inspection revealed that the cafe sold nothing but soggy white sandwiches and fizzy drinks, so we pressed on to the cafe and ice-cream parlour in Kettlewell.

The final leg of the journey to Aysgarth along the B6160 was all flat according to Michael. It was certainly flat through Starbottom and Buckden, but he'd forgotten the little bump called Cragdale Moor. He wasn't too popular for a while, so he tried to change the subject by pointing out the dried-up stream beds and waterfalls, and a miniature version of Malham Cove.

Aysgarth hostel is a comfortable four-storey mansion situated in the centre of the small village, boasting hot showers, an enormous dining room and good food. We made the most of the dry evening by walking around Aysgarth Falls, famous in recent times as the location of an incident in the film Robin Hood - Prince of Thieves. A few enthusiasts walked the half mile or so down stream to view the middle and lower falls, thinking up rhyming nick-names for other members of the group: Tristan won easily with his slanderous jingle about his brother!

Michael woke up to a pleasant surprise this morning. Another hosteller, who had been observing the group the previous evening and during the preparation of breakfast, went out of her way to say how impressed she was with the youngsters' good behaviour! This was definitely going to be a good day.

First stop was to be the Information Centre, just around the corner from the falls. As we rounded the corner Richard S realised he had left his water bottle at the hostel, so he and Paul dropped off the back to fetch it. Sadly they didn't inform Michael, and they didn't see the rest of us turn into the Information Centre. It was ten minutes later when Michael realised they weren't there, and guessed that they were probably hurtling along the road at top speed trying to catch us.

We set off in leisurely pursuit, confident that they would have stopped at the first junction. But they hadn't. It was Askrigg before we found them, bewildered and exhausted.

Mark (the fountain of local knowledge) pointed out that the nearby house was called Skeldale House - the same Skeldale used in All Creatures Great and Small. While we were taking photographs, the owner opened the door and asked us if we'd like to look inside. He didn't tell us that the only part of the inside we'd be allowed to see was the entrance hall, and he didn't tell us about the large, eye-catching donation box: clearly this was a well-rehearsed routine.

The CTC-recommended cafe situated just down the road from Skeldale was a real treat. It was laid out like a village farmhouse and offered a small range of delicious home-baked scones, cakes and fruit pies. Service was slow, but the delicious smell wafting out of the kitchen held us firmly in our seats until the orders had been delivered. While we were waiting, Lukas spent ten minutes trying to follow the simple directions to the lavatory: "...the sliding door on the right at the top of the stairs".

The weather deteriorated quickly as we sped on to Hawes. Here we discovered that Andy had no money left: it seemed that he had spent £30 on sweets and Kendal Mint Cake! We bought lunch (mainly from the nearby chip shop) and then tried to decide where to eat it. Mark suggested a grassy riverside meadow on the outskirts of the village (this boy seems to know everything about the Dales), so that's where we headed.

We had a good deal of fun despite the rain. Michael showed Robert the Triffid-like plants that grew thickly in the river bed and told him, in the straightest voice he could muster, that they were dangerous and would grab hold of anything that touched them. Robert then proceeded to test the theory by gingerly prodding the plants with a long stick - to Michael's extreme delight!

Now the rain was falling in earnest, so we began the long climb through Widdale to the deserted houses near the top. One didn't look quite as deserted as Michael remembered it: the windows were still boarded up, but there was a notice on the padlocked door about junk mail! Paul E was all for enticing them out but we managed to restrain him and made a hasty departure before he had any more bright ideas.

It would have been very obliging if a steam train had decided to use the viaduct at the head of Dentdale while we waited there. This is part of the famous Settle-Carlisle railway, and very popular with train enthusiasts. We gave up after ten minutes in the rain, and set off down the hill for the final mile to the hostel. As we arrived we heard a train cross the viaduct.

We were over an hour early, and fully prepared to set off again for an hour-long detour. The wardens were in the grounds, however, and took pity on us. Thus began a very comfortable evening of luxury in this secluded country house. There were hot showers, comfortable dormitories, and the warmest, cosiest common room you could wish to find. The rain beating against the windows made it all the more welcome.

Every hostel has to have its bad points I suppose, and the problem at Dentdale was the meals. The other problem on this particular night was the small group of adults who shared the second dorm with our older teenagers: they insisted on having lights out at 10.30 (which of course they have no right to do) and even had the cheek to complain to Dorm 1 at 1045 for making too much noise! Michael was ready for them if they came back again, but they didn't - which was rather a shame really!

The day began with a ride to the picturesque village of Dent, about five miles down the dale. Here we were surprised to receive another compliment, this time from the local shopkeeper who thought we were "a lovely, well-behaved bunch of lads" or something to that effect. There was time for refreshments in the local restaurant before we had to leave the cobbled streets and cycle back towards the hostel on the other side of the river.

Our road out of Dentdale started a couple of miles before the hostel. Paul and Nick had kindly volunteered to speed ahead to the hostel and collect the bread and margarine that we'd left on the tree stump. Now we met up with them again near the station at Garsdale Head. Here was another opportunity to see a steam train, but the timetable outside the station informed us that we'd have to wait two hours for the next train. There was a strong, chilly wind, so we left as soon as we'd finished our lunch.

When we had reached the top of the hill and were just ready to set off, young Tristan fell off his bike and cut the palm of his hand rather badly. It was clear that it would need stitching, but getting NHS treatment seemed rather difficult. The ambulance service suggested ringing the doctor at Sedburgh, and the best he could suggest was that Tristan cycle the 9 miles to Sedburgh health centre to meet him. Michael tried to get a taxi from the town, but he and Tristan had cycled all the way into Sedburgh before it even left.

The doctor was very good: he provided Tristan with a knotted handkerchief for his mouth and tied him to the table while the operation was performed. Actually that wasn't quite true, but Tristan did find it rather painful. While we were there, Tristan's parents just happened to drive past the health centre and just happened to spot their son's bike - quite a coincidence.

Meanwhile the rest of the group had cycled back to Hawes, looked at the waterfall and climbed the long, hard ascent to Buttertubs. They waited there for a while, but set off for Keld at the agreed time. Michael and Tristan caught them up at the hostel after taking a taxi as far as Buttertubs.

The main feature of this hostel used to be an incredibly cuddly long-haired rabbit called Henry who wandered around the dining room, cat-style, during the consumption of meals. The hostel now has new wardens. When asked about the rabbit they related the story of the Public Health inspector who reputedly had Henry shot for leaving dung on the dining room floor.

The evening was spent with everyone engaged in various debates and water fights - the "watching Star Trek Videos" option which Michael had offered seemed to be a non-starter in the absence of a VTR.

This was destined to be a long ride, so we set off early for the first leg to Muker, along the beautiful Swaledale. Along the way, Lukas managed to fall off (not to be outdone by his brother), and Ben broke his pannier rack.

We climbed over Reeth Moor, enjoyed the descent into Arkengarthdale and then set about another strenuous climb to Hope Moor. Here was the end of the Dales national park, although the scenery didn't change that much as we crossed the line.

After a few more miles of exhilarating downhill and flat roads we found ourselves in Barnard Castle for what should have been a brief lunch stop. By the time we had visited the bike shop, purchased a new rack for Ben and fitted it to his bike, however, it was late afternoon and we were well behind schedule.

Next stop was High Force waterfall, situated in Teesdale. It was well worth the short walk, although several opted to wait by the bikes and missed the whole spectacle.

We crawled into Langdon Beck hostel, high up the valley, just as the delicious evening meal was being served. The hostel was just as comfortable as Dentdale with even better dormitories. Our second debate continued into the hours of darkness.

A headwind can be a major problem if it is strong enough, and this morning we had a real beauty all the way to Alston. The first six miles to the head of the valley took more than two hours and left some of our younger riders rather demoralised. Even strong and experienced riders were being blown off the road or stopped in their tracks. A telephone box and numerous grassy ditches by the road offered brief respites from the elements, but it was lunch time before we found ourselves in Alston village square eating hot food from the nearby Chip shop.

The going was a good deal easier after lunch as we veered northwards in the shelter of the valley of the river South Tyne. Paul E went so fast at one point that he fell off and grazed his knee. Once he had been patched we made good progress, and soon found ourselves looking at the sections of Hadrian's Wall near Haltwhistle. Conditions were still grey, windy and cold, so we quickly headed westwards to Greenhead, the location of our last hostel.

Greenhead is unlike many other simple hostels in that it is unappealing. The dormitories are dismal as a result of the poor lighting, and the common room / dining room is just too large to be cosy. Neil thought the overall effect was that of a cell block! We wouldn't have stayed here if we'd had a choice, but we needed to be within easy reach of Carlisle for tomorrow's train, and Greenhead was in the best position.

After an unexciting meal (particularly unexciting for Michael whose specially-ordered vegetarian pie had been taken by another hosteller) we managed to squeeze everyone into the largest of the dorms for the traditional end-of-tour chat.

Michael was sufficiently anxious about the timing of the final sprint to Carlisle that he got everyone up early and contemplated a main road route all the way. After consultation with other hostellers, however, he consented to lanes as far as Brampton, which took us along a Roman Road and past some more sections of Hadrian's Wall - including a small fort. Drizzle set in as we neared the city, but we reached the station in plenty of time. A pizza shop provided us with excellent fare for lunch as parents gathered to collect their damp offspring.

We had been very fortunate with the weather on this tour, but ultimately a tour is only as good as the sum of the participants. I'm pleased to say that we had an excellent group of youngsters on this tour, and everybody played their part in making it such a success.

That's not quite the end of the story. A number of us still had BR to contend with. We had four bikes booked onto the first HST but when it arrived the guard tried to tell us that there was only room for two. It didn't seem to matter how many times Michael showed him the reservation tickets, he just kept saying that we'd have to go on the next HST. Michael explained as patiently as he could that we had all those spaces booked as well, that that was the last train, and if we couldn't take four bikes on this train then children would be stranded in Carlisle overnight. The train was now late, and still the guard was arguing.

The inspector turned up - and supported the guard. As the train reached seven minutes late the station manager arrived, agreed that the reservations entitled us to travel and opened up the front of the train, where lo and behold there was a cavernous guard's van with absolutely nothing inside. This solved the problem, and the train managed to catch up most of the lost time by the time it reached Birmingham.

It really is fun dealing with BR!