We had to catch the 8 o'clock ferry so it was an early morning. We had one last run across the mountain road. What a great way to say goodbye to the Isle of Man. The road was all ours. Same story everywhere, the early bird gets to rip around 37 and 3/4 miles of sweet tarmac.
The ferry back had quite a different feel. Instead of a lounge full of leathers and sliders(replaceable kneepads that you see scraping the asphalt as they corner-most were scratch free which suggests they are posers) spouting off about John McGuiness on the gooseneck this, and Guy Martin around the hairpin that, it was families with kids fighting over their etch-a-sketches. Kids still have to shake theirs here which probably helps them from turning into the tubs of shit like American kids. It certainly isn't the food cuz they give you fries on top of your mashed potatoes here.
We had to rein it in once we got off the ferry. The grey circle with the black line through means 60 mph again instead of as fast as you like. The riding continued to be abfab as we headed north.
The countryside has become more varied. Rolling hills gave way to mountains. We crossed over the highest pass in England and the temps were in the high thirties at the top.
We stopped for the night in Haydon Bridge. It lies in a lush valley surrounded by pasture land with a trout stream running through the middle of it. We saw lots of them hitting the mayflies and asked a local why no one was fishing. "Cuz it's Friday night, mate. It's for drinking. Saturday's for fishing."
We figured we had better have a look at the drinking scene for scientific purposes or research and development or what have you. They really go for it. Both pubs were full of folks that have been slurring and spraying spittle with arms around shoulders every Friday night since time out of mind.