At 21:30 in the dark a group of 4 cyclist, a swarm of red and white flashing lights, emerge from the rain to arrive a small stone. Parked next to it is a black Nissan 4X4 and stood next to that is a robust man, with tree trunk legs, short trousers, a utility jacket and a heavy rain coat with the hood up.

‘Get off bike’, he says, ‘you’re finished’, a thick Preston accent.

We dismount, stretch, shake hands and embrace. We then stand there unsure what to do. Nothing to do but cycle back to the caravan.

‘Well done son’,  Terry says, as myself and Paul enjoy a glass of whisky from Scotland’s most northern distillery.

‘We were there’.