Riding the short track to Didworthy made a pleasant variation on our usual Avon Dam ride, but we didn't want to vary the Abbotts Way route to Cross Furzes.

The 1991 Easter Tour to Mid Wales was restricted to sixteen participants because of the size of some of the simple hostels involved. It was hardly surprising that every place was taken, and so it was that the sixteen met at Bristol Parkway station for the beginning of an epic eight-day adventure.

Mark's father, who knew the area well, kindly led us through some flat, quiet lanes to Olveston, avoiding the busy main roads. We then proceeded across the Severn bridge, slightly nervous about the strong sidewind that threatened to blow us over the edge. When we reached the far side we were able to observe the part of the river that passed over the railway tunnel, through which we would be passing on our return journey at the end of the tour.

After a hasty lunch on a grassy verge near Chepstow we continued to the Wye Valley. First stop here was the Eagle's Nest viewpoint. We had to walk along a footpath from a car park, but there was a long delay because several of the leading riders had missed the turning, sailing on up the hill out of sight. There then followed a short stop at Tintern Abbey for refreshments and minor repairs - nobody could afford to go into the abbey itself - before the long climb to St Briavels Castle hostel.

St Briavels is one of the most impressive hostels in England and Wales. It is a Norman castle, used long ago by King John as a hunting lodge, situated in the centre of the quiet village. Our dormitories were in the tower, but we didn't see any ghosts.

Tim had requested a pasta meal as he can't eat potatoes. He was rather embarrassed when everyone was served pasta for the evening meal!

It had rained all night and showed no signs of abating as we waited behind the hostel's drawbridge. Eventually we accepted that we were going to get wet and set off down the hill and along the easy valley road to Monmouth.

It was as we entered the town that Neil discovered that his rear rim was falling apart. Closer inspection revealed that it would have to be replaced before he could ride the bike again, so Michael checked out the local cycle shop while the rest of the group purchased lunch from a nearby bakery.

The 'bike shop' seemed to have more lawnmowers on display than bikes, and they certainly had no alloy rims or Shimano cassette freewheels. They suggested a shop in Abergavenny - which, whilst not particularly helpful, was at least in the right direction. Since the weather had brightened up a bit, Michael decided to take Neil and the two bikes to Abergavenny in a taxi while Simon led the other members along the proposed route.

The good weather lasted only another thirty minutes. When everyone met up again at Llanfihangel Crucorney, Simon's group were drenched to the skin - but at least Neil's bike was fully repaired. We made the most of a local transport café before starting the long climb through the Black Mountains to the hostel. The delightful scenery of the area was lost to us as the rain pelted down even harder than before. When we finally arrived at the hostel, wet and miserable, the rain was beginning to ease, and by the time we had hung our wet clothes above the heater in the entrance hall the rain had stopped altogether - typical!

Nobody was in the mood for hill-climbing tonight: hot showers and card games seemed to be the order of the evening.

It was almost dry as we left the hostel next morning, descending to the village shop at Rhandirmwyn for refreshments and lunch. The rain soon began to set in, however, like some horrible nightmare. By the time we had reached Llyn Brianne reservoir, just a few miles up the road, gale force winds and torrential rain made progress almost impossible. The reservoir was impressive with its gigantic water fountain at the base - worth a few photographs despite the weather.

We found a modern toilet block near the reservoir's dam, which offered some small degree of shelter under its porches. A few members then discovered the warm-air hand drier in the lavatory itself, and it wasn't long before sixteen wet cyclists were packed into the tiny area, enjoying the nearest thing to comfort that we were to experience that day. When a gentleman arrived to use the convenience for its intended function we offered to leave, but he said he wasn't bothered and didn't blame us for sheltering.

It soon became obvious that the rain was not going to stop. We had a long way to go, so we set off over the dam to 'enjoy' the track that runs around the reservoir. In all my time as a cyclist I have never known such unpleasant conditions as we experienced a few minutes later, pushing into a gale-force headwind with torrential, icy-cold rain beating into our faces. Fingers became blue as we were tested to the limits of our endurance: we would have given anything to be spared the misery of those few moments.

Somehow we managed to round the bend into the lea of the wind and continued along the forest path in improving conditions, taking only one wrong turning along the way. Approaching the junction with the road, a sheep was discovered stuck in a cattle grid with its feet through the bars, completely helpless. Martyn helped it out and it trotted off, bleating joyfully.

Tyncornel is the most isolated hostel in England and Wales, situated in a remote valley on a rough track. From our present position we could have taken the track short-cut over the hills (just a few miles). Sadly, however, we hadn't purchased supper or breakfast at the shop, and there seemed little point in getting to the hostel with nothing to eat. And besides, none of us had ever tried the short-cut, and it seemed from the map that we might end up pushing our heavy bikes for much of the way. There was nothing for it but to take the road alternative adding 18 miles to our journey.

When we had ridden up the long drag to the telephone box, young Joseph was totally exhausted (hardly surprising really). We allowed him a short rest and, after a puncture, arrived at Tregaron at 5.30, just seconds before the Spar closed its doors.

Michael's tyre was bulging in two places now, requiring constant attention to keep it from bursting. He hobbled along behind while the rest set off up the long climb from Llanddewi Brefi to the hostel, but progress was still painfully slow: everyone was weary and hungry after so much bad weather. When we reached the top and the road turned into a track we found ourselves riding in virtual darkness, wet, tired and hungry. When the dark shape of the hostel loomed up ahead we were heartily thankful.

Tyncornel's kitchen is even smaller than the one at Bryn Poeth Uchaf, so a repeat of last night's supper fiasco was a certainty. Tonight, when the clearing up had been completed, we just went to bed and luxuriated in warmth, comfort and sleep. Tomorrow would probably bring more rain, but right now we didn't really care.