When Prince William dropped in on his cousin's stag party on the Isle of Wight earlier this year, he took a twin-rotor Chinook helicopter. If only we had recourse to such extravagant transportation on my friend Justin's stag-do in Cornwall last weekend.

This was the general wish on the first of many such jaunts to be looked forward to in the next few years. Now that my friends and I have hit marriagable age, these weekends of testosterone and torture will be our twice-yearly respite from the world of responsibility.

Some respite, though. The plan was this: 10 fellows - all leaving girlfirends in London - were to set off for Newquay on Friday night. Thence, we would hire bicycles and pedal along the coast, taking in surfing lessons, cocktails at Jamie Oliver's restaurant Fifteen, fish and chips in Padstow, a country pub and B&B in the village of Wadebridge, finally to alight at the Eden Project on Sunday before cycling on to St Austell for the last train home.

The wholesomeness of this itinerary, rigged up by Tommy, the comically over-ambitious best man, looked like insurance against the kind of excesses one associates with stags - and the next do being my own in a few weeks' time, I was anxious not to set any dangerous precedents.

Alas, the punishing schedule curbed none of the ribaldry of a group of 10 lads freed from their wives and girlfriends and keen to atone for years of being respectable citizens. Ill-advised 5am imbibing sessions, punctured tyres and loud lectures from angry guesthouse owners were not the half of it. I don't know if the reader has ever attempted, on a brutal hangover and an hour's sleep, to cycle up an A road on a 45 degree incline in the driving rain as articulated lorries thunder past, but bracing doesn't begin to cover it.

Still, though there were moments when we would have happily tapped the taxpayer for a Chinook to airlift us up the hills, we didn't complain. Well, not much anyway, for out of London, the wind in your hair, sharing a jape on the open road, you do shrug the world off your shoulders for a while. Though I will say that if you fancy the Eden Project, save yourself a trip and go to a garden centre.

It was a particular satisfaction to return to Newquay. Ten years before, I endured the single most miserable week of my life in this Sodom-on-Sea. Last weekend, I almost got into a fight with a chubby Welshman dressed as the only gay in the village from Little Britain. At the age of 17, this would have crushed me. At 27, I could back out with dignity. How far we have come, I thought. Roll on my own stag.