This morning – Friday, we decided to return home at night, so accordingly we started at 11pm. There was a crowd of acquaintances to see us of, and we were ragged unmercifully. The report that we were ‘broke’ was not true, by the way. Going a new way, we cut most of the awful road out, and at length reached Lancaster. A full moon showed itself occasionally, and in the fitful light, the grim grey castle looked dark and gloomy – as its past history has been – as we pushed our way up the hill into Scotforth. The trees by the roadside were casting long shadows over the roadway, and in some places it seemed as if we were riding into an abyss. In one place near Garstang the farm hands were busy, which clearly told of forthcoming rain.
From Garstang we tore along the deserted road to Brock and then on towards Preston. About six miles from the latter a party of passing cyclists hailed us cheerfully, and a great sound of hammering in Preston greeted us. A main water pipe had burst, and under the shadow of a great arc light men worked feverishly under the main road. Leaving the House of Correction behind [Preston Prison !], we dropped swiftly to Walton le Dale, turning right for Bamber Bridge, at which place I refilled with carbide. Over the rotten road to Chorley we rumbled, and then came a dreary, monotonous, and sleepy 11 miles stretch to Bolton, arriving back at 4am.
Thus we finished an excellent run through the silent night hours. We did not see more than four motor vehicles on the whole 47 miles of main roads, and not many more cyclists. It rained the whole of the day after we had returned.
47 miles, 4.5 hours