It's so stupidly easy.

Gloriously simple.

I take a look at the map in the morning over breakfast, find a direction that looks interesting, set a bearing, and go.

When I've got an option of different roads to take, I consult the compass while still rolling, and go with the option that best lines up with my bearing, no matter what the road looks like.

It's never failed me.

With no planned routes, I spend all of my time on wonderful one-and-a-half lane country roads, getting thoroughly, wonderfully lost in the British countryside.

Yet, at the end of every day, I always find myself within spitting distance of where I wanted to be.

Half the time I land on it like a fucking homing pigeon.

And if it doesn't work out, who cares? There's always, always somewhere to stay at the end of a long day in the saddle; hostels, hotels, b&b's, camping, whatever; It's so bloody easy.

I love it to bits.

Britain is wonderful.

I knock off three thousand clicks in twelve days.

The lads at the dealership are definitely surprised to see me this time. If I didn't set a record for the first service, I definitely got it on the second.

I paid for it too; my back is killing me and my arse is numb. Not that I care.

In three thousand clicks there are fresh problems to solve on the Enfield. Easy ones, this time; the number plate fell off, the neutral light on the speedo stopped working, and the head gasket had started pissing oil...

Easy fixes.

Throw in a standard service and we're free to go again.

Set compass: North.

Again.