I was riding down the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia and pulled into one of the camping sites inside the National Park. I had timed it perfectly. It shut at 5.30 pm and I was there at 5.15 to have an early supper and a relaxed evening besides a campfire.

I went inside only to be told they had already shut to allow time for clearing up.

‘So why does the notice board at the park entrance say you shut at 5.30?’.

‘I didn’t put up the sign’.

I couldn’t even get some hot soup. It was a real jobsworth kind of place and seemed incongruous within a National Park.

I went back outside where I met Andre. He was a fellow biker and had just been through the same routine. He had found out that the only food within thirty miles was at the camping store, a few minutes away.

We set off together to go and see what we could find.

I thought it could be one of two things. It would be either really basic or totally over the top with fresh and frozen fillet steaks, lobsters, gourmet ice cream etc. Just the typical things an average motor home needs.

Unfortunately, it was at the lower end of the scale. After stocking up with an unusual mix of food I started chatting to Andre.

He had just had a close encounter with a bear about a quarter of an hour before I’d met him and was still a bit shaken.

He was riding down the Parkway and was leant over going round a bend when a bear ran across the road in front of him. He put the bike upright and lost more time by having to move a finger onto the brake lever. You can’t brake hard leaning over as the wheel will lock up and you’ll crash.

He said he was so close to the bear it he could see all the hair on the back of it’s head and couldn’t understand why he didn’t hit it. He reckons he only missed it by two feet.

I’ve been taught to ride, on and off road, with some fingers always resting on the brake lever so I can brake as fast as possible. Just use as many fingers as your bike requires to fully apply the brakes. It has saved me many times.

Andre and I ended up talking for an hour and a half so it was getting dark when I set off to put up my tent.

By the time I found a spot and got all the bits out of my panniers it was dark. While I was threading the poles through the tent sleeves I could hear rustling and twigs cracking in the bushes. I was waiting to be attacked at any minute but, having seen many deer during the day, I kept reassuring myself it was only Bambi and her friends having a light snack.

I finally got the tent up and set about having something to eat.

It was a delicious feast of cold beans, a small tin of corn and some totally tasteless highly processed ham The only clue to it’s origin was the label. It could have been made from anything. The wind had got up a bit so I sat down under the flysheet at the entrance to my tent to eat.

I then remembered that where there are bears all food must be locked away or put in the bear proof trashcans. I decided that dropping food six inches away from my tent door wasn’t a brilliant idea so I moved to the trestle table ten yards away.

Whilst eating I dropped a few beans. Oh, oh, that’ll get the bears coming. So I carefully picked them up and put them in the bin. The only redeeming feature of my meal was washing it down with half a bottle of wine I’d bought earlier.

It was getting a lot colder. In my rush to get my tent up I had chosen the nearest pitch. It was naturally on the windward side.

Great. A sleepless night of nylon flapping in the wind.

However, there was some good news. At least I wouldn't meet any bears in the middle of the night because I had to leave my tent to pee. I now had a much bigger drinks bottle so I wouldn’t have to get out of my tent at all. My last one was much too small and was full after two goes.

This breakthrough in my personal organisation occurred after trekking in the Himalayas several years ago. I was on a ten day trek and we had reached our highest camp at over 17,000 feet. This was way above the snowline and it got kind of cold at night. However, while I had two sleeping bags to keep me warm I did not have a bottle to pee into.

I was sharing a two-man tent with John, a London architect. His wife had become unexpectedly pregnant so he’d come on his own so they wouldn’t loose the total cost of their holiday.

In the middle of the night I woke up desperate for the loo.

There was no alternative. I put on my trousers, boots and down jacket but couldn’t find my torch. I stepped outside into the freezing cold. Luckily, the moon was quite bright. I took one step away from the tent and stopped dead in my tracks.

We weren’t exactly camped on a nice flat field. A few paces further on in the direction I was headed the ground disappeared vertically into a valley thousands of feet below us. I had forgotten we were so close to the edge. I took one step back and held on to the tent pole.

Dexterously, I performed the whole operation while still holding onto the pole with one hand. I reckoned that even if I did slip, the tent, aided by John’s weight, would stop me sliding over the edge.

Ever since then I always carry an extra water bottle.