There was a humid, jungle feel to the day after heavy overnight rain. Plants shone, the ground steamed, a thrush sang a persistent tune that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in the tropics, and pink rosebay willowherb flowers gave off their strong, sweet fragrance. The plant is known as fireweed in North America, and its scent always reminds me of it growing on blackened land following forest fires when I cycled through Canada. The dormant seeds make the most of the increased sunlight and decreased competition after fires, to bloom quickly before young trees return and outgrow them. During the London Blitz, wil- lowherb was called bombweed as it flourished in the wreckage of buildings.

I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt today and not even carrying a raincoat in my bag. The weather had rarely been so clement this year and I had been excited to get on my bike this morning. Yet although the weather was kind, the overgrown footpaths continued to be anything but. This was another week of hacking through brambles, squeezing past nettles and swatting mosquitoes in damp undergrowth. All this slashing and whacking and stinging felt like a jungle expedition, albeit a gentle one accompanied by 4G phone signal and the sound of motor- ways. I’m content that this is about as ferocious as the British country- side ever gets.

To reach today’s square, I needed to make a short crossing on a small ferry, which I knew would be fun but also added the tiniest frac- tion of hassle to proceedings, which is all I ever need to be tempt- ed to procrastinate. That quibble aside, I always enjoy ferry crossings. The only thing that beats them are cable ferries across rivers, with a bonus point for those you have to hail by shouting, hoping that the ferryman hasn’t gone home for lunch or closed for the season. Though these journeys are brief, they have the excitement of crossing a border, a boundary, to somewhere new.

Although today’s river was only a few hundred metres wide, I wasn’t brave enough to swim or canoe across it. The brown water swirled and boiled with eddies and undertows, and ships ploughed up and down. Even the ferry struggled, crossing the current in a wide, swerving arc.

As the ferry slowed down to dock, I looked back across the river at the landscapes I had been linking this year. I enjoyed seeing those con- nections from this fresh perspective, noting how this place joined onto that place. I wheeled my bike down a causeway of riveted girders, over tidal mud and shopping trolleys, then pedalled away from the ferry.

I removed my bike helmet and wiped my sweaty face. It was hot. I was at a memorial to a pilot shot down by German Messerschmitts in the skies overhead during the Second World War. Appropriately, the fields around were filled with poppies. Scattered at the base of the memorial was the rubbish from a KFC takeaway. The ten-piece Wicked Variety bucket contained 4,790 calories, the large fries had 1,440 and there were 750 more in the large Pepsi. I hoped it had been shared around, for that is a spectacular 6,980 calories, enough to fuel one eater through an impressive 69.8-mile run. Although given that they had been too lazy to put their rubbish in a bin, I doubted these calories were being used for long-distance running.

A cockerel crowed from behind a nearby hedge, jubilant not to have been fried. I rarely heard cockerels around here, but the sound reminded me of travels in other countries, of pre-dawn wake ups in the Philippines and the potholed roads of rural Nicaragua.