Leaving Sheffield was an utter nightmare but I managed by hook or by crook to get onto the trans-penine trail which was to lead me to Hull.
One can imagine that a bicycle path that heads through Doncaster to Hull might not be something people write poems of. For those of you that are ever stupid enough to attempt to ride this wonderfully advertised debacle - don’t. The little swines steal the signs or turn them round and unless you have a penchant for decaying english indsutrial estates and riding through mud filled paths that go up to the axles stick to the main roads.
I slept that night in a small village called Snaith and woke in the morning unable to walk.