I'm back (what do you mean you didn't notice I'd been away? photo evidence here )

Cycling across Normandie has resulted in me not only being fitter than I have ever been in my life, with legs of steel and seemingly endless capacity to push on, I also have three-coloured legs. Nut brown knees, cappuccino coloured calves and dulux white feet.

We did over 300 miles, all in all. Normandie is beautiful, the French are lovely people, the campsite were remarkably clean and I have no saddle sore whatsoever. (ah, Brooks Saddle, how I love thee)

It was well paced, no day was more than 85km and we took plenty of stretch breaks along the way.

Ironically, the hardest day was the shortest in mileage (about 30). We'd had a hard, hot, mostly shadeless 45miles the day before but after a hearty meal and some sleep we were confident of the short (but hilly) day ahead, so we struck camp early and headed off toward Falaise.

On several of the hills I felt like I was going to just explode. I was unbearably hot, the hills were gruelling, I was using my lowest gears most of the time and the average speed for both of us had plummeted.

We reached the campsite and both of us just flaked out before even putting the tent up (normally the first thing we do). We had headaches and had found the day horrific, but not having any food on us, we had to head into Falaise town to find something. Just wandering about the (very pretty) town I felt like I could easily faint or throw up or both. Sitting in a cafe with an apple juice (fluid and shade, both sorely needed) I suggested we probably had mild heat stroke. We scoured the town for a supermarket and finally found it. I vowed to crawl into the chiller cabinet and hug a ready-meal until security throws me out.

Back at the campsite we rested in shade and cooked up our pasta. I felt instantly nauseous and we both fought the urge to throw it back up, knowing we had a 70km ride tomorrow and would need the calories.

By the evening, we were less tired but still nauseous. A gentle stroll in the cooler evening air and a visit to the loo block later and it was clear what the matter was: We had food poisoning. Oddly odourless and noiseless but the reason the litres of water we'd drunk had failed to cool us down became clear. It had gone straight into the colon and the body was doing its own colonic irrigation. And doing a damn fine job of it, too.

The next morning we still felt unwell, so were forced to take the day off. We spent the entire day lying in the shade doing nothing but rehydrating and sleeping.

After that, we had to really make up the miles to get to Dieppe in time for the ferry, but somehow, my normally wussy, wimpsy self had become iron-woman and I was doing hills and 70km and 80km with no problems at all. It's tru that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

I watn to do Spain next - maybe in the autumn or spring and I'm still trying to persuade him to do Deutschland with me next summer. Most of my marketing tactis for this centre around the words 'cold' and 'beer'. He seems receptive to the idea.

We have too many snails in our garden and are considerign eating them. We have made our first harvest and about 20 snails are in isolation with lettuce and courgette to help purge their systems of any toxic plants they may have eaten. The internet has revealed that we need to feed them good wholesome, non-toxic food for up to two weeks (or leave them to fast, but I think that's a bit harsh)

Are we mad? my colleagues think so, but honestly - is it mad to think eating your garden pests is acceptable?

France has, frankly, wreaked absolute havoc with my intestines. If it had taken them out, wound them onto an old fashioned tape machine, stamped lacy patterns onto it and put it back into my abdomen, i think that would still be less damage.

For a start - how hard is it to find brown bread in France? Even the stuff that LOOKS brown turns out to be whiter than white once you cut into it. And croissants contain approximately nought point nothing grams of fibre and fruit was hard to get hold of unless were were in a big enough town that had a greengrocers.

90% of the places we cycled through had a church, a boulangerie/patisserie and a bucherie/charcuterie and very little else. Other shops (if there were any) were closed, pretty much all of the time, except for maybe 12 minutes per day. I mean, they must open sometime, right?

We stocked up on fresh fruit and cheeses whenever we could but that wasn't very often.

It turns out, the French get pretty much all of their fibre from red wine. I was not drinking nearly enough of the stuff, since I am only semi-keen, and so in very little time I was as clogged up as I can ever remember being. In the rare times I did go, I was the human pez dispenser and volume out did not match volume in. Landlord had brought dried figs, anticipating the problem. My stomach got bloatier and bloatier.

But then the day after, we got food poisoning and I did not need the figs at all. From one extreme to the other. My what fun, but the fibreless diet continued and so it didn;t take long for my body to get bunged up again. This meant I was symptom free in half the time that Landlord was - but not in a good way.

I've been back three days and I'm bloated beyond recognition, the air bubbles feel like I've got a litter of kittens in there, and the gas is, well I think you wouldn't want to be anywhere near me once this gas starts to realise where the exit is. Even I don't want to be near me.

I know Fennel tea is meant to help (good job I love the stuff and already have a box at home) but I'm considering sending Landlord away, like an evacuee until I'm back to normal.