I once reached a very low ebb indeed in Bridgwater. I was on day three cycling back from Manchester to Bude over four days on my own and I'd just had a terrible time crossing the Somerset Levels into the teeth of a force 6 south-westerly. I was on the point of abandoning the trip and ringing Mrs Steve to come and get me. Good job there were no mobiles in those days. I found a pasty shop before I found a phone box. The two grim pasties I scoffed on that park bench in Bridgwater refuelled me enough to get me to Exford youth hostel on Exmoor. I went for a few jars that evening with a bloke in the pub in Exford, which was full of hunting types and stags' heads everywhere up on the walls. One of the hunter twats started to take the piss out of my shorts, singing Donald Where's Your Troosers at me. Didn't give a monkeys meself but to my surprise my mate, who I'd never met before, took serious umbrage on my behalf and went for the hunter twat big-time. Had to be dragged off, he did. He had a teenage lad with him who was well up for the scrap as well. Jaysus, I thought I had a nasty escalation on my hands. Ugly, but we did get to finish our pints. Nice place, Exford. I wonder whether they'd let me back in the pub yet. I was bloody innocent I tell you. That was in 1990 by the way. I might well be passing that way in the next couple of weeks.