It's farewell to bonnie Scotland and hello Appleby-in-Westmoreland where the Lake District is one way and the Yorkshire Dales the other.
I have this train travelling lark down to a fine art now and I plan my journey to Carlisle, to collect another car, with military precision.
As previously discovered, negotiating one's way through Edinburgh's rail station with a bike bag and other accessories is not for the faint-hearted. Not that I'm faint hearted of course! But why not make life a little easier and travel from Stirling to Haymarket? Nice little station just outside Edinburgh, connecting train to Carlisle. Easy-peasy.
They are unfortunately a little short of lifts and my next train leaves from over there. Do I detect a slightly malicious gleam in the eye of the Scotrail attendant as he says 'no lift'?
This is really a mere trifle to me by now, and I start on my routine of ferrying several bags to the top of the stairs, returning for bike bag, and so on until I reach the bottom of the stairs on the other side.
Now my good friend, Lex (refer to the Dorchester post), asked me where I would find a Passepartout (the man-servant of Phileas Fogg for those who need to brush up on their 'Around the World' trivia) to assist on my travels. I must report that he is everywhere. Whenever I need him he steps out of the crowd, wearing a different disguise each time, he renders assistance, then melts back into the passing throng. Lex himself, you will recall, was the first Passepartout, stepping up to the plate at Heathrow airport.
I'm about halfway through my bag shuffle at Haymarket (do I detect a smirk on the face of that Scotrail bloke now?) when the trusty man-servant pauses on his decent of the stairs saying 'can I help you with that?'. Thank you my good man, just the bottom of the stairs if you would.
A different world is in operation on this platform, and the Scotrail attendant here can't be more helpful. He tells me which carriage will have luggage storage for the bike bag and just where it will be when the train pulls in so I don't have to gallop halfway down the platform to reach it. I look across to the other side with the intention of making a rude gesture to the grumpy-guts attendant over there but he's disappeared, and jolly good riddance to him.
A kindly taxi driver in Carlisle gives me very clear directions to Hadrian's Wall, which I must take a peek at before heading to Appleby.
At the Eurocar office I ask to have the extra insurance which will reduce my liability to zero if anything untoward should happen to the car whilst in my possession. I chose not to do this when I picked up the Peugeot and I can't tell you how nerve-wracking it is squeezing down those narrow lanes trying not to scratch the duco, as you must pay the first 500 pounds for any repairs.
I had to reach for the smelling salts when I heard how much extra it would cost but there was nothing to be done about it, I wasn't planning to spend eight weeks in a perpetual state of nervous anxiety. I paid up and loaded my luggage into the little Ford Fiesta, a cheerful mid blue in colour.
The fact that one of my nearest and dearest is in the employ of the Ford Motor Company has nothing to do with my opinion of this fantastic little car! It is a gem! You can keep your Peugeot 207, this little Ford runs rings around it. On a steep hill you might consider changing down to third, and only an extreme gradient will require a change to second. I wonder if they'd like to use me for an advertisement? You know, something like 'Super Gran Takes to the Hills'. I'll see what Kate can arrange.
And so it's off to Hadrian's Wall to sit for a moment and ponder the hands that placed these stones nearly 2000 years ago.
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