Forty two miles of almost continuous but stunning climbing today.

We headed north from Vic to Ripoll and now we are around 900 metres up in a ski resort called Mollo, just 10 km short of the border with France.

I have to hand it to him, Martin's front room training appears to be paying off - he even tried to sprint away from me at the top of the climb (after I had dragged him most of the way up it!).

He has been watching too many Tour de France videos and thinks he is Marco Pantani (I have just reminded him that Marco Pantani is dead!).

Mollo is nothing more than a village. It has just two bars and the hotel that we are staying in, but there are no restaurants. Dinner tonight is dos San Miguels and a plate of olives.

The fear that Martin normally exhibits at the commencement of a mountain climb paled into insignificance compared to the look on his face when he was told that the bar we were in would be closing around nine thirty in the evening.

He immediately ordered more San Miguels than the landlady had sold in the previous month together with another plate of olives.

He nearly got us thrown out of a bar last night when I asked the barman what time the bar was shutting. The barman explained that it was 11 on a weekday and 2am at the weekend.

Martin then asked, "well what day is it?" at which the barman did a double take and I had to explain that on the road everyday is the same.

On the plus side Martin nearly bagged his hat-trick of snakes but this time the lucky serpent slipped across chevrons into the undergrowth unharmed.

Meanwhle I have a hunch that Martin is planning some sort of end of tour ceremony to burn my map. I will be burning his socks if he does so.