DEAR ITV, that’s Bolton Castle, not Richmond Castle.

It’s called the River Ure, or you might get away with River Yore. It’s certainly not the River Wensleydale, the River Une or the River Ur. The council did lots of resurfacing work in the Dales but none of it occurred the night before the race and they certainly didn’t build a new road around a cattle grid at the bottom of Grinton Moor – someone just opened the gate. And while we’re having a whinge, why was the tour filmed on a mobile phone?

Everyone spent an awful lot of time decorating their houses and businesses only for them and the cyclists – not to mention all the beautiful countryside – to look, well, a little bit fuzzy.

Finally, who decided to switch to an ad break just before the cyclists arrived in Hawes?

Would you cut out the ride past the Champs-Élysées in Paris?

No, you wouldn’t you.

Still, the race was fun and lots of credit should go to everyone involved in organising it, especially whoever removed all the dead rabbits, hedgehogs, sheep and pheasants from the road the night before.

To be honest, I didn’t actually see the riders go past. We were standing half-way up Grinton Moor with a fantastic view, but as the first rider came around the bend the youngest boy turned to me and said the dreaded words: “Dad, I need a wee”.

“So let me get this straight. We have been stood here for at least three hours getting mild sunstroke with very little happening and finally when something is going to happen which may be moderately interesting, you need to relieve yourself?”

“That’s the situation we find ourselves in, yes.”

It may not have been so bad but, when we did find a semisecluded bit of bracken, the boy refused to go because “people might see”.

The helicopter hovering feet overhead beaming pictures back to a television audience of billions didn’t help.

“Look son, these people have been waiting on the hillside for many, many hours and finally the thing they have been waiting for is happening. Their attention will not be diverted by a little boy having a wee,” I said desperately.

In the end he went but, by then so had all the riders. Still, there’s always next year.