Far from the Swivel Eyed Loons

I love being in Dinorwig. There's nothing there apart from long abandoned slate quarries. Deep purple tinged stone, cut out the mountains in terraces, almost with the form of a Stalinist sculpture. Heading down towards Llanberis, the wooded paths are steep, tangled trees and slate littering the ground.

There's no shops, no 3G signal but it's where Rosemary's dad lives in a farmhouse. It's got enough mod-cons to be comfortable but not enough to keep a prudish princess happy. I always leave smelling slightly musty, a bit like Rosemary's dad.

The morning started with a run before breakfast. I didn't even average 9km.h as some of the hills were so steep. I ran past a girl with Down's syndrome, looking blankly in the direction of Snowdon. I think she was staying at the outdoor centre. Then it was up to the top of the slate quarry, passing an Indian walking a yappy King Charles Spaniel. I then passed a hill walker on the steepest part of the path, headphones in with eyes pointing to the ground.

I reached the top cut-through, the highest point of Sunday's race and despite the weather being nice lower in the valley, it was cold and very windy. I didn't have time to go further, so turned retracing my steps down towards Dinorwig. I didn't see the hill walker again. Strange as I was sure there weren't any small paths going off the main one, from the point I originally passed him at. I passed the Indian again, "morning again" I said. The dog yapped again.

Rosemary opened her eyes when I entered the bedroom. Wow.....it was 8:30 and she was awake. I had a quick shower and then started to pack. My rucksack was comedy. A wetsuit, an aerodynamic cycling helmet, a physio-roller, wheel bags and a damp towel all attached to its outside. Thankfully James had taken my bike back on Sunday.

I was starving by breakfast, and demolished my bowl of porridge, followed by a much smaller one of muesli crumbs. We then headed off to xxxx for me to catch the bus to Bangor. The town is famed as being the place where Sir Dave B of British Cycling fame was brought up. There are a few pubs there, but lacking the welsh language, I wouldn't fancy a pint in any of them. The bus came and I scrambled on, struggling with my daft rucksack, not even managing a proper wave goodbye to Rosemary and her dad. I'm always a bit sad at the Rosemary goodbye...

The bus journey was fun, bringing back memories of how it used to be. Everyone seemed to know everyone and it was noisy with chitter-chatter, mostly in Welsh. People staring at mobile screens were in the minority. An ancient 4 foot 8 granny, wearing wee round granny specs and a flowery dress that had long lost its vibrant colouration, got on in the next village. She looked as though she had stepped straight from a fairytale. Sitting next to an equally ancient but sad granny, she started nattering enthusiastically in Welsh. Granny #2 already having lost the will to live by the look in her washed out eyes, was now looking suicidally disinterested.

The driver gave me a shout to say my stop was coming up, signally the time to get loaded up for disembarkation. I had nearly an hour to go until my train, parking myself in the station cafe and ordering a homemade fruit scone, served from a counter that reminded me of an Italian station cafe. Not your typical franchised hellhole. It was now time to get back to the homogenised world, that sometimes forgets that humans are social creatures