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Travelling to 'hell and back' at 120mph with a narcoleptic Hell's Angel may not be the safest way to see Holland, but Morris doesn't care. He journeys on, spreading the Shropshire message wherever he goes.

I asked for a glass of water and some toast at the café where we stopped for breakfast, Barclay had a full Dutch breakfast, which is much like a full English breakfast except with more sausage variations. It’s handy having Barclay to help me order food in Holland. Single Dutch is double Dutch to me.

I paid for Barclay who tells me he is ‘between jobs’. Apparently he is a qualified air traffic controller. He doesn’t get much air traffic control work as he suffers from narcolepsy, which struck me as odd because he also told me he has had narcolepsy since he was quite young. So I asked him why he trained to be an air traffic controller in the first place if he had narcolepsy?

Barclay got terribly defensive at this point. He said he didnÂ’t see why his disability should stand in the way of his dream to be an ATC. I told him that that seemed to be the problem, he was dreaming about being an air traffic controller instead of actually controlling air traffic.

He didnÂ’t speak to me much after that, he still managed to force down the breakfast I had bought him though.

I must get to know people better before I promise to buy them expensive motorcycles.

Anyway he obviously finds it hard to hold down a job in his chosen profession, when he drops off and a few planes crash I imagine it reflects badly on him. HeÂ’s sitting opposite me now, not speaking to me. It gives me some time to type my journal though.

I expected the water in the café to be bottled spring water, but all I got was a glass of tap water and it tasted like it had been strained through some old infected bandages. It made me think of the tap water in Moreton Say.

Moreton Say tap water is like the very nectar of the gods, clear, clean, fresh, like a little celebratory march of triumph across your tongue. IÂ’m not sure if they add fluorine or chlorine to it, but at some point in the process it has a little something special added to it. Mother bought a Brita water filter once, it actually made the water taste worse, and it filtered out that Moreton Say tingle. Aunt Felicity told me it was something to do with toxic waste seeping into the ground near our reservoir, but I didnÂ’t believe her, I suspect itÂ’s some of that old Shropshire magic working itÂ’s way into the plumbing.

Yesterday we bought a motorcycle. I say ‘we bought’, Barclay chose it, and I paid for it. I had promised him I would and now I see the childlike glee on his face, I’m glad I did. I am a bit concerned that this emotional high is not addressing his deeper issues and he really does need to get himself to Shropshire really soon, at least now he has the means of getting there quicker.

We spent the best part of today going very fast around the Dutch countryside, round knee scrapeingly sharp bends and down eye poppingly steep slopes. Conversation was limited to Barclay screaming what sounded like "spoedig cowboy duivel", which I think means something like "speedy cowboy demon", but I could be wrong.

When we stopped briefly to refuel, I asked him where exactly we were going and he said, in what I think was a mock American accent "To Holland back baby!!". IÂ’m quite confused by it all.

IÂ’ve also noticed Barclay has developed a nervous tick since I bought the bike, his left eyelid flutters and his head leans to one side, it gets worse the more excited he gets. If I didnÂ’t believe so firmly in the greater Salopian purpose of my life I might be afraid of him, but I am secure in the knowledge that my mission to tell the world about Shropshire is not yet over and therefore I cannot die.

I feel like IÂ’ve been abducted by the twitchy one-man Dutch branch of the HellÂ’s Angels.

We did cover a lot of ground today, Barclay only fell asleep twice and both times I was able to wake him up before we hit a bend in the road.

When I was younger I used to watch "Champion The Wonder Horse", an old black and white TV series about a wonderful horse called Champion. I think there was a dog in it too. I remember watching the horse gallop across the screen, saving people, righting wrongs. I remember how disappointed I was when I found out it was all filmed in America and not in Shropshire. I once wrote to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ suggesting they do a UK version of the series set in Shropshire based on the horse that lived in the field next to our house. It was going to be called "Jonathan the Shropshire Horse", the ´óÏó´«Ã½ never replied. It even had the right number of syllables in the title to fit in with the theme tune of the American version.

Perhaps my mistake was writing to the ´óÏó´«Ã½ in London, perhaps ´óÏó´«Ã½ Shropshire would be interested, I think I still have some of my scripts at home in Moreton Say.

After walking for days I finally found some people. They call themselves the "Rainbow Peace Community" and apparently they set up in the mid-sixties as a social experiment and survived all these years on a winning mixture of friendly, cooperative living, long hair and a thriving worldwide demand for tie-dyed garments.

They all seem to have names that begin with a colour and end with a creature, the leader of the community is called Gold Dove, his second is called Amber Puma, their children are called Saffron Weasel, Aquafortis Goat, Vermillion Seahorse, Copper Mantis and Brown Cow.

I think Brown Cow got the short straw there.

I get to choose my honorary name during my stay here. I have chosen Cyan Badger; it has a Shropshire ring to it. I think.

They are a third generation community now and some of them have never left the small insular society they were born into. I find this sort of inhibitive upbringing very worrying, how will they ever come to know the glory of Shropshire unless they are exposed to the outside world? ItÂ’s all very well staying put if you are fortunate enough to be born in Shropshire, but there really is no excuse at all for parentÂ’s outside the West Midlands not allowing their children the opportunity to discover Shropshire for themselves. ItÂ’s just cruel.