Day Thirty - Home, James

I write this from my luxury hovelette in Walkhampton, phew! Made it, but only just. I had a slightly weird night's sleep in Rob's 17th century gaff, explained by the fact that I was in the lying-in room when it was an undertakers. How I laughed!

Well, a quick slurp o'tea and back on that cruel old road again. Last day, I was thinking. How the gods laughed! "We''ll sort out that flash upstart, let's do the chain gag, then when he thinks he's home safe, a good dunking to finish him off." So followed a lovely ride to the Dartmouth ferry, and on the other side, an interview with the baying press mob. Well, the Surrey Advertiser anyway... then into the rest of the South Hams, Kingsbridge, Salcombe, Slapton et al. The old Smug-ometer was now running 11 on a scale of 10, picking up wealthy inhabitants with their BMW X5s and utterly crap driving.

I thought I was done and then, as I approached Mothecombe, I almost was. The knicker elastic chain leapt off the chocolate sprockets, mangling itself in the process and breaking a side plate. This meant that the chain had a horrid kink, at which point only half of it still worked. Looked like game over, but I managed to cobble the thing back together and limped on, having sacked the last (boring) ten miles into Plymouth and decided to go over Lee Moor, making horrid grinding noises. I was reminded of the poor guys limping back over the Channel in some horribly shot-up bomber in the last war, listening and praying. Yeah, right! Not as if I was going to die, just ring up the missus and wait for a rescue.

To my intense surprise, and gratitude, the wounded Yamaha, in dire need of a service, kept going. So, when I got to Meavy ford (so enticing!), Old Nick jumped on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. "Nearly home, eh, and you could just nip through smartly. Look pretty good in the blog, you could just casually just slip it in...". Yes, indeed, I certainly casually slipped it in. The front tyre found a rock in just the right spot. The bike lay there like a stricken whale, bubbling away as the left pannier filled its boots, so I took some photos as a worried passer-by asked if I was okay. Resisting the urge to snap "Well, as I've just dumped a quarter ton of bike and associated tat in the middle of a surprisingly deep river, I would say, on balance, no."

But I smiled bravely, and, bracing the old war wound, picked the beast up and rode it out, streaming Meavy in all directions. Clanking and dribbling down the hill into Walkhampton,(and the bike was pretty rough too), I passed Nigel Pollard in his motor... like I left yesterday, same old same old.

Some more nonsense tomorrow, if you can stand it. Now, must bail out that pannier.

Photos from day 30. [And some from day 29 I just got today - Ed.]

Day Twenty-Nine - Next Stop, Home

I've got that end of term feeling. Last day's riding tomorrow, it's going to feel very different not grappling with the bike all day. Left Swanage this morning, and promptly stopped at an old fashioned garage with a very pretty Series One Land Rover parked outside. One of the guys had been reading about me in Trail Bike magazine not ten minutes before, so was a bit gobsmacked when I tipped up.

Dorset was lovely in the sunshine, but scores quite high on the Smugometer. A little bit too manicured, but was saved by the cheery sight of a troop of Scimitar tanks preparing to fire at Lulworth ranges. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur, broken by a stop at a fantastic oak furniture showroom near Exmouth, a game I dabble in occasionally myself... really nice people as well. I have ended up staying near Teignmouth in a place that you couldn't make up. It's a former wheelwrights, then an undertakers and coffin makers, bits date back to the seventeenth century in an oak and cob kind of way. You can feel at home in your motorcycle boots, but it's warm and snug. Enough room for the biggest collection of dirt bikes I've seen for a while, including a couple inside well. This is, like the place in Edinburgh, a time warp jammed into the middle of nowhere. It's even got the old sawmill buildings. Marvellous.

Well, I'll blog a bit more tomorrow, and then we'll see how it goes. I feel a book coming on.

Photos from day 29.

Day Twenty-Eight - No Admittance

The most over used word on the south coast is - 'Private'. It applies to roads, paths, drives, beaches and anything else they can come up with. And when you get into the New Forest, it promptly gets worse. The place has that feeling of "go away, you're not one of us, are you?". A mix of arrogant old money and chippy new money, while the tourists drift about like faintly anxious sheep. But very beautiful in a way it probably never was, when farm labourers were paid starvation wages and kids had no shoes. Okay enough of the chippiness, what of the journey?

Well, I left Sussex at 9 and picked up the coast near Brighton, and it took ages to go through a constant stream of towns and villages, averaging 20 miles an hour. Boy, was I relieved to find the Swanage ferry running, as it saves a massive detour inland. Was amused to see that Sandbanks, the most expensive coastal real estate in Britain, is in fact like a slightly upmarket version of Blackpool, well Rock anyway. You mugs!!

Tonight I'm at a very nice campsite in Swanage, 'cos the National (mis) Trust owns everywhere and no camping, parking, fires, smiling or any kind of fun, like being able to wake up in the wilds, is permitted. The joyless muppets... The bike is slowly eating its chain, drive sprockets and the howlingly loud new back tyre. Will our hero make it home before doom strikes? Watch this space folks!

Stop press. Completely forgot the thank Peter and Julia for a hilarious night at the Hunt Supporters bash. I was dragged onto the dance floor by a keen, well refreshed lady for a couple of cheeky numbers, ooerr what am I going to tell Baroness Walkhampton? So I cunningly diverted her into a glass of wine and made like a tree, easy for an arborist. Yes, dear reader, I got on my bike and leaved... Baboom, tish.

Photos from day 28.

Day Twenty-Seven - Photo Shoot

A day of three halves, I would judge. Up at stupid o'clock, having blissfully conked out through a monsoon. On the road for seven, and then a glorious ride to the coast over Romney marsh. Having to get to Dorking via Brighton for 10.30 means not much spare time for rubbernecking, which is a shame as before you get to the coastal strip of Hastings, Eastbourne et al, is a gloriously deserted, shabby/beautiful/industrial bit with a kind of spooky feel to it in the early light... Maybe all the aircraft that piled into the marshes had something to do with it, RIP, lads, sorry for all that noise and I really must repack those silencers. Getting through endless ribbons of God's Waiting Room to the London road tried my patience pretty sorely, then it was full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. And cameras. Bloody things, even Ceaucescu's goons couldn't think that one up... grr.

Then up to Azcari, the guys that supplied my navigation gear, for a photocall with the Surrey Advertiser and the crew from Combat Stress. Thanks, one and all, nice to put faces to the names. If you're into motor cycles and travel, these are the guys you need to see, and they have the full range of Husqvarna bikes too, which are achingly gorgeous to a sad ol' bikie like me. Finally, to west Sussex, to stay with my cuz and his lovely bird, and now I find I'm going to the 50th anniversary bash of the local Hunt Supporters Club, blimey, will it never end? (Chid and Leck, for those interested) I'm taking the bike, and a load of calling cards, just have to keep plugging away.

Big thanks to Alex and Simon for last night, I really needed that. I never imagined that riding every day could catch up with you quite so insidiously. Tomorrow, yet another Big Push, I'll sneak up on the coast early and catch the bugger by surprise....

Photos from day 27.

Day Twenty-Six - Lap of Luxury

If you wanted the perfect antidote to the cynicism and negativity of modern life, live my life for a while. For the last (nearly) month and 4300 miles, with only two exceptions, I have been shown nothing but generosity and kindness. And mostly by people that I've never met, from ferrymen to forestry workers to toll keepers to till operators. Cheers to you all, it's been a great trip thanks to that spirit.

I legged it down the South Circular at some speed thanks to a guy on a Suzuki 600 who knew where all the cameras were, and the traffic was very light at that time of day. I eventually explained what I was doing, and he was more than happy for me to slipstream him. Back at Dartford, I resumed my coastal capers; pretty awkward in the Medway towns and horribly slow. Still, I was well surprised by the views, which just got better and better as the day wore on. Herne Bay, which I've never seen, was great. Late afternoon, by complete good fortune, I ran across the Battle of Britain memorial at Capel le Ferne. It was impressive and really quite moving. We really owe those guys, big time...

In the rugged spirit of my tour, I'm roughing it at Simon and Alex's near Romney, steeling myself for roast lamb... Tomorrow, I'm up to Dorking to Azcari, the Satmap guys, headed up by Craig Zocher, for a press bash. Then scuttle back to the coast for the final push, probably in a General Melchett stylee...

Photos from days 25 and 26.

Day Twenty-Five - Catching Up

[This is from earlier - I think probably Tuesday, but I can't be sure. - Ed.]

It's been a day of old friends and strange machinery. I left my freezing field edge in Lincolnshire at seven, cursing as the stove half died and then I knocked over the messtin. So, no porridge and no tea, just half a cup of water, shame. Still, on to Norfolk and up to the north, in the sun as usual and a biting north wind. At Salthouse, near Cromer, a car behind started hooting and flashing. I pulled over, to see my friends Nigel and Sarah, who had put me up on my first night away, in Falmouth. They were up on holiday, and had no idea I was in the area, try calculating the odds on that...

I found, respectively, an armoured bulldozer having a bit of a service at a boatbuilders yard, as you do, and a lovely old Churchill tank outside a museum. And other things besides, like the vintage bus at Southwold. Tonight, I find myself inland a bit at Sam and Andy's lovely cottage on an estate, near Diss. It feels strange, being indoors again after several days on the road and rough camping, not that I'm complaining. Funny how you take things like hot water for granted - until they're not available. Tomorrow, I'm being threatened with a day off. Very tempting after pushing four thousand miles and twenty two days' continuous riding...

[And this is today's offering. - Ed.]

Had a day off yesterday, as I realised that I was absolutely shattered after 22 continuous days of riding, about 200 hours in the saddle. And rough camping is harder than it sounds, especially in a bitter north wind and frosty starts...

So instead of riding, my friend, Andy, took me to see his place of work, called Heaven. It's a large grassy woodyard surrounded by trees, with an esoteric collection of workshops, built of timber, hazel and tarpaulins. Now before you get the idea that this is some crummy traveller camp full of rubbish and sponging wasters, think on. These guys are full-on sculptors in wood taking on comissions from all sorts of public bodies. Look at the photos. [I'll put the photos up when I receive them - Ed.] This is a very well organised set-up, with everyone working both collaboratively and singly, as required. Inspiring, not least because I knock out a bit of sculpted furniture myself.

Back to the trip: I started today at Aldeburgh, where I loved Maggi Hamblyn's sculpture of a scallop shell. Suffolk is a mix of fashionable hotspots, with the strong money living in the nice architecture, and dining in the swanky bistros, and the rest living on the estates, doing the cleaning and the service stuff. Yup, a sweeping statement I know. So, then I checked out Essex. Damn, it's a big old place, nice in the north, and crowded in the south and in fact you can't really see the sea unless you're actually on the seafront. And so busy that you crawl along in
the traffic, taking forever to get from A to B. What a pain. After a couple of hundred miles, I hung a left after the Dartford bridge and nipped over to Balham, gateway to the South and the venue for a nourishing glass of beer and a Ruby Murray with my nephew Tim and the lovely Beth. Hurrah. Tomorrow, I take on the men of Kent, whoever they are. Cheers chaps.

Photos from day 23.

Letter from the Editor

I received some photos from Mike a day or two ago which I've yet to put up, but nothing since then. I am sure things are just busy and, what with the iffy weather, possibly too wet to mess around with hi-tech gadgetry. I am sure we'll have another update soon. - Ed.

Day Twenty-Two - Military Hardware

Here I sit amongst the mega agribusiness that is Lincolnshire, just off a green lane. Have just met one of the neighbours, Sophie Ramsden - very friendly and is coming back with her biker hubby to make a donation. It's been a friendly people day. First I stopped near the Humber to ask for some
water, at Sunk Island, that well known spot. Before I knew it, I was in the kitchen drinking coffee and meeting family and friends. So cheers chaps, I stupidly didn't get your names or leave a card. Durr.

Four miles later, I can see a large military plane behind a wall, the wall of Fort Paull. I'm in before I know it, and it's a massive military re-enactment weekend, brilliant! There were Brits, Yanks, Germans, Russians - and the gear they had! Before I knew it, I was getting acquainted with a mug of tea, a bacon sarnie and a russian Mosin Nagant sniper rifle. Cheers lads, you were brilliant, and to have your very own Joe Stalin just took the biscuit! I dragged myself away very reluctantly...

I had a slog through Humberside, all refineries and heavy industry. Then on over the Humber Bridge, bloody £1.20 for a bike, I ask you! And on into Lincolnshire. I tell you, we aren't going to starve for a bit, these guys are very very serious about growing veg and no mistake. I had the choice of slogging on to Hunstanton to the youth hostel, about fifty miles, or seeing what I could find, and I found my second and third green lane of the day. I was set up in the lee of a thorn hedge like a rat up a drainpipe, although there is an Arctic northeasterly blowing up me trousers, ooerr missus.
Supper beckons, tara for now.

Photos from day 22.

Day Twenty-One - Takes One to Know One

It couldn't last forever, what with the lovely people and scenery and whatnot. There's still lots of nice bits, just that seeing some really 'orrible bits and some 'orrible people strikes a bit of a contrast, what?

Have done about 160 miles, arriving near Bridlington in Yorkshire. I dropped in at a farm campsite late afternoon, and was virtually accused of fraud by the owners, as I couldn't provide a letter from Combat Stress! A more miserable, mean spirited pair I haven't met on this trip, I was properly raging as I left. What, me, the Earl of Walkhampton, raging? How could that be?

It's going to be another cold one tonight, like last - so much dew my sleeping bag was soaked this morning. Last night, though, I met Kathy Tailforth, whose photo you can see. She has ridden her 125 Suzuki from John o' thingy to Land's End and back, to get in some practice for her bike test! Go girl, that's the spirit! Quite mad, but in a really charming way. Think warm thoughts for me...

Photos from day 21.

Day Twenty - Back in England

Sorry for the missed blog, I was staying near Edinburgh last night with Liz and Rob, and inadvertently went on an extensive tour of several whisky distilleries. Consequently, making sense of a keyboard was not a likely event, falling asleep was... Got going a bit later than usual, too.

Yesterday, I had to get a new back tyre fitted in Aberdeen, by the fastest fitter I've ever seen, and had £90 removed by a woman who was utterly charmless. So, Mrs McMiggins of Silliets Tyres, I am pleased to inform you that you have swept the board, and are now the Champion Grump of Scotland, you miserable old trout. Still, everyone else I met in Scotland, without fail, was really friendly and pleasant, so who cares, eh?

Am now in a place called Beadnell, in Northumberland, another stunning coastline and a top collection of castles to boot. I'm just down the road from Bamburgh castle, which is a beast of a thing. Life must have been well violent up here, backalong. Am on a nice campsite, run by the generous and friendly Brian and Marion. Cheers, chaps, your gesture is much appreciated. Tomorrow, Newcastle and on, on, to victory!!

Photos from days 19 and 20.

Letter from the Editor

It seems Mike hasn't managed to send a blog post or photos today - perhaps he's beyond the pale and out of network coverage for his hi-tech gear. Time will tell.

I'll check tomorrow morning to see if a belated explanatory email has arrived, until then we'll all just have to be patient.

Day Eighteen - Heartstopping Moments

Gone midnight, and I've managed to fit in a serious oversleep, a 300 mile ride in showers and sun, and a large dinner with a bunch of people who project manage dismantling the original oil platforms of the Brent oil fields. More productive than wind turbines I'll warrant - the idle beasts were taking a break this morning as I rode past. Funny how they only work in the wind, ain't it?

Hurtling down the A90 to Aberdeen I had a bad moment when the bike lost all drive - thought the chain had busted. Me, call out the AA? Well, possibly not the motoring organisation, ha ha. Turned out it had stretched so much it had jumped off, but without damage. Weird, never had that happen before. So I nailed it back together and pressed on to my lovely hosts, Alan, Jane and Vanessa, who have filled me right up with quality food and drink and entertained me royally! Thank you, and also a big TA to Eric and Murray, lovely boys and brilliant hosts. Take it easy with that big ol' beasty in the woods, you hear me? And good luck with the extreme enduros, Eric.

Time for bed, campers.

Photos from day 18.

Day Seventeen - Coastrider finds Local Hero

Talk about jammy. I was looking for a camp spot just south of John o' Groats (it was blowing a spitefully cold north easterly and I was fed up) and coming out of Tesco in Wick, I met Eric, who is a biker, and is up here doing a forestry contract - clearing 300 hectares of conifer plantation, so they can erect 19 wind turbines. Yeah, you figure it out. Barmy is the word that sprang to mind. Anyway, here I am, sat in a warm cottage with a pasta supper settling nicely... result.

Gerald headed back to Cornwall today, it was good having a buddy for a few days, but kind of nice being autonomous (selfish?) again. The north coast is fantastic, it looks like the location for Local Hero, one of the greats. I took so many photos, it became ridiculous. Does anyone know how many you can cram into an iPhone?

Catch you later.

Photos from days 16 & 17.

Day Sixteen - Why I Don't Trust the Banks

More blazing sun and a cold northerly as we bashed out Mallaig, Skye and on nearly to Ullapool. This morning we woke to ice on the tent, hmm, thought it was a bit parky in the night. Got a blazing fire going to warm up, one of the many advantages of wild camping. Having ridden till 6pm, after 200 miles of mostly single track road (A roads, bizarrely), we are below the edge of the road in a suntrap. It's got a small river on one side, except it's in a mini gorge. So, a sheer drop of about fifty feet, and Gerald pitched the tent to find it was on a seriously undercut bank, kind of camping Darwin Awards! So it came to pass, and with much swearage, that the tent packed up its tents and stole away about 20 feet, grrr.

I forgot to give an honourable mention to Malcom and the crew at Hog's Bottom Garden Delights, purveyors of killer chutneys and other condiments. The lovely jar that was to accompany me sadly leaked and was thus consumed before I ended up with chutney flavoured unmentionables, ooerr. Malcom is also donating a hamper of goodies to be auctioned off after I return. If I return... it's bloomin' lovely here!

Day Fifteen - A Fistful of Thankyou's

Now a fortnight since I left Plymouth, [15 days by my count - Ed.] about 2200 miles up the wiggly road with the sea on the left that is my life. That's about from Calais to Athens - did it once with Gerald in three and a half days on a Kawasaki Z1000, back when Granny was a lad and we both had the Tatoo. You know, the one on your forehead that says "I Am Immortal". Well, so far...

I'm sat on a surprisingly comfortable Parker-Knoll style pile of rocks on the shore of Loch Airol, off the road between Fort William and Mallaig. We've pitched up on a spot that would satisfy even the whiniest of campers.

ENTER PETULANT CAMPER: "I want full sun! I want a loch, no make that a very beautiful loch in front and a sodding great mountain behind. I want soft, level green grass and a beautiful tinkling brook ten yards away. AND I WANT IT NOW!!"
GENIE OF THE CAMPING STOVE: "It shall be done, O whiney One."

And so it came to pass, etc.

Saw a young stag two miles from departure this morning, he just stood there 20 yards away as I clicked feverishly. Fantastic, usually I see one down a rifle sight, so a nice change for me, and, naturally, him too.

For days I've been meaning to do some thank you stuff. So, in no particular order, here goes:
Westcom, for the kit I write this on, and the Iphone that does the pics.
TyreMarks for the brilliant tyres, which I'm shredding on the grippy Scottish tarmac, nothing to do with my riding, of course...
Tavy Signs for the stonking graphics.
Kountry Kit of Tavistock for the kip mat that helps me to sleep so well.
Doug, Pete and Fran at Tavistock Chainsaw for the bike service (what's that funny rattle, Fran?).
Givi UK for the fantastic panniers, which I'm abusing horribly.
Azcari for the superb SatMap which tells me where I am, and without which life would be a misery.

And to all the great people who have offered beds, given me money and said nice things. And the campsite owners, who have unfailingly given me free pitches, last night being Port Ban-thanks a lot.

Then there's Sara, Alice and Matt, who make this all possible. Ta and I love you all.

Photos from day 15.

Day Fourteen - Naturally Curvaceous

My other reader wondered what my daily life is like, so here goes.

Up before dawn, the lazy old trout. Got the fire going, as it was cold last night, keeping me awake and therefore able to hear, in detail, the meeting of a lady and a gentleman tawny owl in the pine tree above the tent. Go on my son, Bill Oddie's job depends on you!

It being early spring, I was washing me smalls in the Kyles of Bute, as you do, and then a pair of oyster catchers got on the case not twenty yards away. Have they no shame? Over on Bute, a mile or so away, you could clearly hear a cuckoo and a woodpecker, also the sheep farmer's quad bike, cos lambing's in full swing up here (all done in Devon, a month ahead). So then followed a blur of action as I, and sidekick Gerald, cooked up a mussel breakfast, picked last night (real whoppers), slightly charred some socks, necked a cuppa, packed up camp and took some daft pics. Up the road we rode, five miles, stopping at a pond for a watery fill-up (too manky),
and then at a reservoir (green, but the trout were lively. Quick! Pass me the grenades!).

At Clachan, we stop for petrol and a smash and grab shop for bread and some carrots to go with the hen pheasant I picked off the road. The cashier is friendly, as, unfailingly, is every person we've met in Scotland. We love you all, and your country is the tops, really! All this admin means it's now fully one and a half hours before we're ready to put on some miles. The bigger A roads round the sea lochs are pretty fast, so we ruthlessly dispatch the laggardly Sunday drivers and bikers. Lightweights, I think to myself as I whip round a bend... only to meet the local Fangio on the racing, ie my, line. Luckily he's not texting Kylie at that precise moment, so takes timely avoiding action. Good boy.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of drizzle, sun and slippery corners, about 800 of the little blighters to be not precise. So we are now mostly at the Kilberry Head campsite, opposite the Paps of Jura. I ask you, in this day and age, to name a pair of mountains after a lady's embonpoint is a bit much... I bet there is a Scottish Parliament committee agonizing over them as we speak...

Bye for now.

Photos from day 14.

Day Thirteen - The Kyels are Buteful

I'm almost embarassed to admit that I'm sitting in the sun by a sea loch, the Kyles of Bute in (I think) Argyllshire. Had a wet night on the moors above West Kilbride, including some biblical downpours (what, you mean that they got into a pulpit and started ranting at us?).

Still pretty damp on departure after a frugal breakfast of half a roll and a cuppa, we thrashed up the Clyde and skipped smugly past Glasgow before it noticed us. Ha! Roads pretty wet and treacherous on knobbly tyres, and roadside barriers made of steel in a cheese grater stylee make one feel like a particularly anxious carrot... We pressed on in intermittent rain through Helensburgh, and shortly after started what may be many days of sea loch bashing. Up one side, and down the other. This is where a big trail bike comes into its own, the Yamaha just mashing up the hills and thudding through the corners like a thoroughbred/shire cross, one of which I am priveliged to ride and hunt (am I allowed to use the "H" word these days?) . Hey Nick, how's the
princess, by the way?

Loch bashing tomfoolery continued until we stopped to watch a game of what looks like hockey but with extra ultraviolence, can't remember the precise name [I couldn't identify the sport from the photo, anyone who can, please leave a comment. - Ed.]. Then we realised that there was plenty of Bank Holiday free camping going on by the shore, so have joined in, hurrah, but boo sucks to the crappy techno, bah humbug! A ride of about 150 miles left us about 25 miles north of our departure point; it's going to be a long old job getting to Cape Wrath, that's for sure.

More tomorrow, boys and girls.

BTW, hi to the Spooners (and hi to ANNA, who reads this stuff, commiserations!) Hope the Hunt Show goes well, boy am I going to be missing that old burger flipping thing, ho ho...

Photos from day 13.

Day Twelve - Ever Wonder Why Doctors Refer to Motorcyclists as 'Organ Donors'?

Hello boys and girls, here's today's missive. I'm sitting in a bit of high(ish) moor near to West Kilbride in Ayrshire, the capital of which is Ayr and I'm mostly assuming that they speak ayrish. Sorry, that was rubbish, the product of too many miles and an empty stomach. Getting towards the 2000 mile mark, not that I'm counting. Have just heard a cuckoo, a long old flight from North Africa with every hunter in the Med trying to put you in a pie. Tossers. Gerald is struggling personfully with the tent while I sip brandy and water, type furiously and bark occasional instructions. Marvellous, having staff, what!

So we've been through Stranraer, Ballantrae, Ayr, Prestwick, Troon and Irvine, if that blows up your skirt. I nearly got taken out twice in Ayr by dull-witted car drivers in the space of as many minutes. Still, it livens the journey up no end. Before I forget, a big hello and thanks to Melvin (ex Royal Scots Greys) and Lynne, wardens of the beautiful Sandyhills Bay campsite near Kircudbright. Cheers, dears! Also to the lovely couple who sold us discounted gas in the same town and made a donation. Thanks a lot. Tomorrow, Glasgow, Stalingrad of the North. Only kidding, put that razor down at once...

Had a storming lunch, having picked a load of mussels when we should have been toiling honestly along, but hey ho, the sun was shining etc. More guff tomorrer.

Photos from day 12.

Day Eleven - If You Turn 'Em Inside Out They Last Twice As Long

Travelling constantly north, it's like the same time of spring each day.
Bizarre. But changing daily is the price of fuel, steadily rising. Can't
wait until the far north, eh...

We're sitting on the Scottish side of the Solway Firth, gently frying as
I write. We left Nethertown in Cumbria this morning after a very pleasant
evening with David and Barbara, thanks again guys. David wound up the
preload on the rear suspension as the bike wallows like a drunk on the
increasingly squirelly roads, and this has transformed the handling -
good on you Dave, can I rely on you to come and change the oil in,
say, Norfolk? Ta, you're a pal...

So today, we have been up the south, English side of the Solway Firth, up to
Carlisle, on to Gretna and partway along the north side. It's flat, but very
quiet and unspoilt, at least until we turned up... The plan is to find a
campsite soon and do a bit of clothes washing, as a sock/skiddy crisis
rapidly approaches. Sorry, too much information really.

Later, dudes.


Photos from days 10 and 11.

Day Ten - Bring a Friend

So it's cheerio Wales, it was fun while it lasted...

So we left Llandudno at eight, full of eggs donated by the farmer whose
campsite we stayed on. Then a quick whizz through Liverpool, sorry about
Birkenhead, another time maybe. These cities are real sods to get through
when you're on a mission, and Blackpool was no exception. As a British
tank commander wrote to a brother officer shortly after the WW2 Ardennes
offensive by the Germans, "my dear chap, the noise! And the people!"
No, I'm a real country mouse, and anyway empty country roads are more
conducive to giving a motorcycle a proper ragging, anyway... Suitably
egged on by my trusty sidekick, Gerald and his shiny new BMW1200, that is.

I'll try and write some more tomorrow, as frankly I'm shattered after a
twelve hour, 270 mile day. We are staying with Barbara and Dave, just north
of Windscale, Sellafield, or whatever it's now called. Also, I'll bung on
some more photos when I get some signal. Very easy taking pics in the
blazing sun - 22 degrees today, phew! Tara for now folks, keep that cash
rolling in, and forward the site to anyone you think might like my unique
brand of nonsense.

Day Nine - Sunlit Gratitude

It can't go on like this; I'm having far too good a time. Sitting here in
the sunshine again on the west side of Anglesey, I'm killing time and
chilling out as I wait for my friend Gerald to ride up from Cornwall. He's
bringing some brake pads for the bike and is going to ride with me for a few
days. It'll be nice to have the company, not that I've been feeling lonely.
Too busy most of the time. Tomorrow, we're going to get our skates on and
belt on up to Cumbria, where David has kindly offered a bed for the night.
Then soon be in Scotland, I can't wait...

A big thank you to all the kind and generous folk who have helped in so
many ways- now, sadly, too numerous to mention. Make their generosity count
and slip Combat Stress a few, or many, quids. You know you want to really...

Photos from day 9.

Day Eight - Beauty Sleep is for the Ugly

Day Eight. Miles today: 177. Miles total: 1200.

Left Aberaer at 7.30 after a night's sleep rather like the curate's egg - good in parts. No hedgehogs, but a ewe that had been clearly smoking Capstan Full Strength for many a year, and an opiniated trio of mallards that dropped in at last light and only flew off once they had established that I was fully awake. Weather still fine, and a fantastic charge up the east
coast to Barmouth.

As there are a couple of long estuaries hereabouts, enterprising souls have built private bridges to save the trip round the top, and charge accordingly. With the shocking price of fuel, they must be laughing their socks off... I stopped off in Barmouth to try to revive a reluctant phone, via the good offices of Simon Hughes of barmouthmobilebermo@gmail.com. What a nice man- even when confronted with the techno eejit of all time, he just got amongst it and got the ball rolling. It's going fine now, Simon, you're a don.

Then on to the Lleyn peninsula, home of fantastic, delicately flavoured lamb, grown on the salt marshes. Also stunning views. Finally a dash up the coast to Caernarvon and then down to Lanberis to the youth hostel, in the shadow of Snowdon.

More later.

[Due to the phone problems, the photos for the last few days arrived today jumbled up together. They can be found using the link below. - Ed.]

Photos from days 5 through 8.

Day Seven - With Apologies to Actresses (Actors nowadays), Too

I left Saundersfoot, near Tenby in good time, so got some distance in while
the rest of the world groaned and regretted that last drink, or bottle. A
few much betterer folk slipped off to chapel, probably feeling less guilty
than the rest. The weather was fine and sunny, but I kept running into belts
of sea mist, which were pretty damn cold as it goes. Then you'd pop out
into a warm zone several degrees warmer. Weird.

I zipped through Milford Haven, fine if you like oil tank farms and monster tugs, then on to the city of St David's, fine cathedral if you like that kind of thing. Then
Fishguard, ferry port and gateway to the land of Guiness and craic. Stopped
for lunch and dash off an article for TBM at a beautiful inlet whose name entirely escapes me. Boy it was a suntrap though, do a road trip like this,
you gotta SUFFER, boy. Got my blokey machinery fix via a Chieftan Mk 11 and
a Leopard 2, plus a cute Chevy pickup truck, which you can see in the
gallery, if Technoslave has done his job. [I'll post the photos when I get the photos. -Ed.]

Finally ended on a high, found a sparkling campsite with really kind, generous, owners (ex bikers, naturally) near Aberarth, about halfway up the West side, or a bit less. Took all day to knock out 160 miles, total now approaching 1000. It's a mucky old job but someone's got to do it, as the actress said to the bishop. Sincere apologies to any bishops reading this, 'cos it's unfair to bash 'em...

Day Six - Someone Stole My Secret Identity

Mileage today, 90, total, about 800. Day six.

This morning was spent dishing out calling cards and blagging support from
customers of the BMW Off-Road school and right next door, Touratech, who
basically make trick accessories for motor bikes, as in things like
footrests hand whittled from solid unobtanium by Bavarian troglodytes. I
succumbed to a windscreen extension for the Yamaha just to direct the wind
and rain over my head a bit more. Cheers Craig, join the army of people to
have done me a favour, stars all.

I'm writing this sitting on a terrace with a fabulous view of Sandersfoot,
near Tenby, South Wales, having ridden down from The Place With Hardly Any Vowels via Swansea and Llanelli. Weather still good. Stopped off for petrol
and for no good reason used my business debit card. Problem. Phone calls
revealed that some scumbag has been merrily emptying my account while I've
been away, and I won't be back for at least three weeks to sort it out. So
thanks for that, lowlife.

On a more positive note, it's lovely being away from the crowded bits of the
south Wales coast and back in countryside my natural environment really, or
rilly as we would say back home. Bye for now.

[More pictures coming soon - Ed.]

Roadkill Potatoes, a Rare Blessing

A slightly frustrating day, but nobody said it was going to be simple. I had
to wait for the new SatMap to arrive, so I nipped out to fill the bike up and
got a fag lighter socket to wire into the battery so I can charge up my
menagerie of Satan's techno trickery on the move - pretty neat eh? As I
finished the wiring job, right on cue the postie rocked up with the new
SatMap, and the chargers from Sara - ta, doll...

Sooo.. called in at the post office on my way to the coast, posted off the
old Satmap and then realised it still had the Ordnance Survey chip in it.
The new one just has a road atlas thingy which ain't much use for my
purposes. Anyroad, I whizzed over the Severn bridge and into Wales, and
started to try to ride up the coast; all well and good until Cardiff. Then
it became a rolling traffic jam, crummy signage and pitifully slow to boot.
I gave up after Cardiff, pulled over and flashed up the stove for some late
lunch. Sitting on a pannier by the road, peeling a spud or two (having
parked right next to an errant bag of them lying on the verge), I became
aware of the constant scrutiny of the stream of as you likeys who
were driving past, goggle eyed. I suppose cooking is a slightly lost art
these days, but I did feel like a bit of a hi-tech tramp!

I'd been offered a bed by Terry Brooks, who I had never met; he lives in
YSTRADGYNLAIS, some ten miles up the road from Swansea. Do the Welsh
Assembly tax vowels or something? I got to the town armed with his postcode
and Mobile number... but no signal. Bum. So I got to within 50 yards of his
gaff when I was accosted by a genial man called Elvis who said "you looking
for Terry?" I was a bit taken aback to say the least. So here I am, full of
fish and chips and feeling ready for some zeds. About 600 miles covered so
far. Later.

[If anyone else living on the coastline of Britain would like to offer Mike a bed for the night it would be greatly appreciated. Please get in touch using the email address on the right-hand side of the blog. - Ed.]

Like Any Good Bath, This Post Has a Shameless Plug at the Bottom

We love to curse like navvies when our carefully crafted World of Techno
unravels horribly, like right now when this piece was half written and then
just disappeared like some bloody electronic White Rabbit down some hole or
other...

Today, setting off from Exford on north Exmoor, the gremlins struck
again. I realised that I had failed, dismally, to correctly charge up the
SatMap. This ACME of modern navigation simply shows me, on a
square of OS map, exactly where I am, and enables me to hunt out all the
obscure little roads next to the sea. Without the dead ends, naturally.

Anyway, I ploughed on my merry way to Weston-super-Mare via Watchet, where I
enjoyed a cuppa with my nephew James, who is the Obergruppenkapitan of the
harbour, or some such title. Check out the picture of the Vosper MGB.
In its day, powered by no less than three
Rolls-Royce Merlin engines, say 2000 horsepower, these little puppies would
do nearly 45 knots. Quick, pass me another clip for the Bofors gun, there's
a good fellow...

I had to see the beast - the nuke at Hinkley Point - or at least get close
enough to smell its breath. But you can't get that close, and even
provocatively taking photos elicited a short one way interview with a
man carrying a machine gun and a nasty little Andy McNab habit.
Spoilsports...

The next dead end sported a fine view of the mud flats and a
chance meeting with The Mud Horse Man. Now a mud horse is a sledge that you
push along over the mud, on your way down to the low water mark, to check
out the nets that you set last tide. This man and his son are the last
people doing this arcane method of fishing in the whole of the UK. So I
bought a bag of yummy brown shrimps, these guys catch all sorts including
cod and bass, much better than drum and bass, I always think.

So here I am, sat in the warm at my niece Emily's gaff in sunny Weston,
plotting my next assault on the unsuspecting coastline of dear old Blighty.
But not until a Satmap charger comes winging in from Surrey. Cheers, Craig,
you're a gent. Try Azcari for all your navigation, adventure and biking
gear, they really are the business. More later.


Photos from Day 4

Hip Hip Hip Hooray. Kind of.

Tried to get ahead of the curve today and not be kneeling on the wet grass
in the dark whilst cudgelling my brains for the usual wit and repartee.

The sun is trying to put on a very small hat here in Coombe Martin, on the North
Devon coast; it's about four and time for a coffee. Have had some great
riding including some quite technical green lanes with steep climbs, hairpin
bends and MUD, even. All quite challenging on a bike weighing about quarter
of a ton fully fuelled and loaded. And in the rain to boot. The real problem
is keeping the electrical appliances alive; I had no idea that they could
suck up so much leccy. I can see that I need to cobble up some kind of
charging system running off the bike (well obviously I need a bit of a
project to fill in the endless empty hours of my sad existence).

Last night, I was thinking about binning about half the gear I'm carrying, as it seems
like a ridiculous amount for one person. Well, camping for the night, I used
all of it to have a meal, a wash and a sleep. So for now, I'll stick with
the programme. Many thanks for all the kind messages and donations, it's
what drives me on as I carve a ruthless swathe through another panicky
gaggle of holiday drivers...

Photos from Day 3

Could David Fisher please stand up.

We got a very kind offer of a bed for the night from one David Fisher. David, if you are reading, we can't figure out any way to contact you from the JustGiving website but Mike is very keen for any help he can get. Please contact us at coastrideruk@gmail.com if the offer is still open.

-Alice

The Sobriety of this Post is not Guaranteed

I'll tell what comprises a damned good dinner...

First, ride about 180 miles under fairly trying circumstances, more ofwhich later. Then, as seven pm looms as large as the hole in your stomach, purchase the following:

one small bottle of brandy
a pork chop(thick)
a tin of mushy peas
one cadburys wispa

Get the chop sizzling merrily in the messtin as you pour yourself a stiffish brandy and water. As you finish your sharpener, throw in the peas, making a bizzarrely delicious gravy with your steaming hot veg and chop. Devour at warp speed and wash down with a cup of tea laced with more brandy, which also nicely takes the edge off the wispa. Declare repeatedly that you are your best mate ever, before retiring to the luxury hovelette.

Photos from day 2

Something Cornish this way Comes

It started off dull and damp, ended up bright and breezy. But not a metaphor
for my send-off at Plymouth Hoe. More friends and rellies than you could
shake a camera lens at, including a very pleasant photographer from the
Western Morning News. So off I jolly well set with my old chum Miki (yes,
he really is old) riding shotgun as far as the Torpoint ferry, which should
have been the first of three, but turned out to be two.

Dived in for a cheeky cuppa at Mount Edgcumbe with another old mucker,
Ian Berry. Cheers matey! Then on on past Napoleonic forts, an abbey, a
proper Rapunzel style castle, sundry ancient churches and another ferry. I
cheekily informed the ferryman that the Torpoint ferry was cheaper
(subsidised), and still blagged some money off him. Top man, but typical of
the generosity of all and sundry so far.

Tonight, a lamb tajine with Nige and Sarah down in Budock Water, near
Falmouth. Spoilt or what? Have done 110 miles today, a slow old job on the
little Cornish lanes. Today's best place names? A toss up between Trelispen
(which happens after too much St Austell ale) and Boswinger, where they
can't decide to complain or just enjoy it. Think about it...

[Several photos of the first day are up in the image gallery. -Ed.]

The big day has arrived!

Today Mike will be sent off on his epic journey at 10am on The Hoe, Plymouth. Be there or be square!

-Alice

Your Inventory is Full

Got up at 5.45 am to ride to the point to point course and light the fire pit for the hog roast. Fantastic, riding on deserted roads at dawn, with the promise of a beautiful day. Took me back to when I was a teenager, riding my first decent bike to my work cutting grass, leaving most days at 5. Everyone had a glorious day at the races, even those (like me) chained to a burger grill for hours. Finally got home at 8.30 pm, just in time for the traditional last minute packing panic. Actually, you have to focus on the essentials- have you got a bike, a wallet with some cash in it, a helmet and a phone? If the answer is yes, every other thing can be ignored, purchased or blagged. Guys riding round the world for years (read Mondo Enduro - inspiring) end up with one set of clothes, a bivvy sheet, a passport and a few tools. Simple. If our climate wasn't so unpredictable, and I had a bit more connection with the hair shirt philosophy of travelling, I guess I'd do likewise. But it all hurts a little bit too much in the morning when you're heading for The Golden Twilight Home for Old Bikers, ha ha.

With Apologies to Tim Berners-Lee & co.

Have spent today doing a last minute panic over missing/disfunctional/useless bits of gear. I'd like to have five minutes on my own in a soundproofed room with that clever chap that invented the T'internet, so I could conduct an interview without coffee or chair. It used to be that uncooperative pieces of equipment could be thrashed into acquiescence with the deft application of a sixteen ounce club hammer, but now all you can do is rail at the injustice and downright cruelty of the silicon chip...

On a far more positive note, we had a great little gathering last night at our local, the Walkhampton Inn, so thanks to Ali and Mike, the landlords. I was given some really generous donations too. This morning, some of my neighbours from over the road came and gave me another slab of cash, I am always so touched by people's generosity. Not that it ever gets in the news, "if it bleeds, it leads" is the mantra of our wonderful media these days. Well, we know better, eh?

Tomorrow I will be relaxing, ready for the off on Monday, by spending twelve hours manning a hog roast at our local point to point (Spooner's and West Dartmoor hunt, near Tavistock). So I'll be suitably greasy and yawning on Monday morning. Don't, whatever you do, hold that thought, boys and girls. Later...

Putting the T in Coast Rider (Glad there is one or that title would have fallen flat)

I've spent the last two days trying to cram all my gear into the panniers and top box. Can't be done, unless I just sleep under a bivvy sheet in all my clothes and no sleeping bag. So I've had to put on another bag at the back of the seat, which contains the vital brew kit and tools, amongst other things I completely forgot. Like a pair of shoes, doh!

Best discovery of the week? Squeezy tubes of condensed milk, thought you couldn't get it any more. I have fond memories of getting it in old style military compo rations, happy days, and extremely happy days for a long succession of dentists, too. Damn, that stuff is sweet! But it makes a cracking cup of tea. Can't function without tea, after all...

That's Enough Food for 2 Months, Right?

More images are up in the image gallery.

Continental Drift

I seemed to be in perpetual motion today. After a business meeting, I hustled down to Tyremarks to have the new tyres fitted - by the boss, Mark himself. I felt a bit guilty, as he'd been on a stag weekend, including getting epically filled in by his mates, whilst paintballing. He was limping like a good'un as he wrestled with a pair of chunky Continentals, ooerr. That's tyres, so calm down dears. Pausing only to correct a massive slide as I pulled out onto the main road, whoops, forgot that brand new tyres need a bit of scrubbing in before they grip properly, I dropped in on Amanda, who with her impeccable connections and formidable powers of persuasion, has seriously got this show on the road with - wait for it - over three grand raised so far. Go girl!

Then I dashed into Plymouth to the lovely people at Westcom, purveyors of all things techy, to collect an i-Phone and a Samsung Tablet with a groovy keyboard that you plug in, kind of thing. Sorry, not my strong suit. Now I have about two spare days to acquire the skills of a twelve year old, shouldn't be hard as I normally act my shoe size anyway...

Taking a few publicity shots down on the Barbican, Bob the MD did a comedy "glamour" pose. As he draped himself over the bike, an interesting sight, it nearly fell of its side stand, and for a moment it looked as if bike and Bob were going into Sutton Harbour, glug glug glug. How we laughed! Well, after a collective gasp of horror, anyway. More soon.

Upstaged but not Downtrodden

Parking up in a busy market town square (Tavistock, Devon) on a Saturday with a flashily stickered up motorbike in tow, and you'd think that you would have to beat back the adoring, donating, masses with a pointy stick. But it is my sad duty to inform you, dear reader, that this is not the case. Not far from me was a contingent from the Royal Marines Association, who have a far more urgent need than I, as they help bereaved families needing immediate financial support. Last tour of Afghanistan for 42 Commando equals 14 families. This may not sound like a lot, but is actually very poor odds. We're not told this, naturally, mustn't frighten the public, eh? I felt like a bit of a fraud next to the guys with medals and berets, but ploughed on as I was there and I knew some of them anyway.

Seven hours of handing out cards and plugging the cause brought a local press interview (good on you, Tavistock Times), sixty Blog cards dished out and about fifty quid in donations. The harder I work, the luckier I get, as Sinatra once said...

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

Market Exhibitionism

Hooray, the boys did the graphics on the bike today, and it looks great. Many thanks to Dan and Ben at Tavy Signs. Have spent most of the evening preparing an info board for my appearance in front of the great Tavistock public tomorrow morning, which is possibly the first time that a motorbike has been in a Tavistock Market stall... I'm looking forward to the departure date of Monday week as I'll be spared the exhausting process of trying to earn a living AND get a million things ready all at once. Actually, I think I'll just ride down the road a bit on the day, and curl up in the bottom of a hedge for a jolly good sleep!

A Magic Picture Box

Have started to grapple with the joys of Satmap. For those who share my limited grasp of the world of electrickery, this is a small box containing all the Ordnance Survey maps of Britain, folded extremely tightly of course. Wherever you go, a little blob of blue in a blue circle follows you, like a clever but unimaginative collie . What is even cleverer is that the box of maps remembers exactly where you went (like your missus) and then you can save the route, or use it in reverse, or any manner of cunning tricks. The big idea is that I can follow a route around all the back roads near the coast, but can avoid the myriad of time consuming dead ends and the consequent torrent of vile language that will inevitably ensue. Although the technology is unimpeachably modern and of the moment, what slightly takes the shine off the deal are the failings of The Eyeball, Mark One. Either ride along peering through my famously reviled Ann Robinson specials, or run a screen scale so huge that you can only see about 100 yards of map in any direction, thus being unable to see whether the turning on the left past Mrs Miggins' cottage is a dead end or not. I bet it's easier in a Typhoon...

Antici... ...pation

Things are starting to move now, it feels a bit like the rollercoaster just about to go over the top of the big, scary slope... The bike's being serviced as I speak by Pete at DS Bennett, our local one stop shop for bikes, garden machinery, hydraulics, you name it. Thanks a lot, guys. Then on Friday, it's off to Tavy Signs to have all the graphics fitted.

So now looking stunning (and the bike will look pretty good too). I'll be at Tavistock market on Saturday (3rd April) with a display board to drum up support for the trip. Pausing for a Sunday spent grappling with the satellite mapping device (Satmap), I'll be going to Westcom in Plymouth to pick up my communications equipment on Monday. Phew. Then I'll have the whole of the week to slip into full-on headless chicken mode!

Later dudes,
Coastrider.

(A Map of) The World in the Palm of my Hand

To Dorking in Surrey on Saturday, to attend the opening of Azcari, a new adventure motorcycling shop. The owner, Craig Zocher, has created a superb showroom in a Victorian building, showcasing the very finest quality motor cycles, clothing, luggage, tools and navigation gear. Craig's lent me a device called a Satmap, which is essentially all the Ordnance Survey maps you can imagine in the palm of your hand, which I will be using to find my way around the coast of Britain. Top bloke.

I took the Yamaha to try out the new Givi luggage system and to generally get myself back in the biking groove. It's easy to forget that riding a motorbike is a bit more involved, and involving, than jumping into a car and turning a key...

I had modified the slightly plank-like seat by cunningly inserting a couple of bits of sleeping mat under the original foam- result, I managed about 500 miles over the weekend without ending up walking like John Wayne!

This week's going to be busy, getting the graphics done and sorting out the communications gear, then figuring out how to use it all. Quite tricky for somebody who grew up in a world powered by pistons and cordite [and that's where I come in - Ed.]. More soon, folks...

The 'Work' In 'Paperwork'

Just as I thought starting Coast Rider from Plymouth Hoe was in the bag, the following happened...

Aargh!! I don't believe it, he said in his finest Victor Meldrew tones. Just had an email from Plymouth City Council, containing the following documents: Event application form, Risk Assessment form, Conditions of Use document, and of course the indespensible Tick Sheet. Give me strength... I also have to inform the cops (who were v. friendly and supportive, bless 'em) and take out two million quids worth of public liability insurance. Is it all worth it, I ask? I can't even turn the situation to my advantage and have a lively old bash as I'm apparently denied the manifold pleasures of music, food, alcohol (what!) or animals. What a bunch of killjoys. How the hell do we get ANYTHING done in this once proud nation?

Wise Council

Had an amusing conversation with a council employee at Plymouth Hoe today, where I'm starting the ride on Monday 11th April.

Him: "You can't ride that motor bike here."
Me: " But I want to start my round Britain ride here for Combat Stress."
Him: " In that case, not a problem. Here's the phone number of my boss, give him a bell and I'm sure it'll be fine."

Kind of refreshing to find the antidote to the jobsworth mentality. Also spoke to an old biking mate, who's going to do some heavy duty canvassing of the big trail/ adventure biking community on my behalf. And that, boys and girls, is how I see this particular gig panning out. Which is li'l ol' me chugging gently round the coastline, while people network/meet up/come and ride/offer acommodation, or whatever. I'm also up for giving the odd talk, whether it be a bike club, community, school, anything really. I'll be keen to hear what you think, as long as it's near (ish) to the coast. Happy days, I'm really looking forward to the Big Adventure!

Graphic Revelations

Had a busy morning, having finally fitted the panniers to the bike. They
look brill. Then I nipped into town to see the boys at Tavy Signs, who are
making the graphics for the bike and effectively turning it into a rolling
billboard advertising the trip and, more importantly, Combat Stress. It's
going to be mega, as I would say if I was ner-ner-ner-nineteen... Then over to
see Mark of Tyremarks fame, the master of all things round and black, ooerr,
who is providing me with some luvverly new rubber. He's at
www.tyremarks.co.uk if you're that way inclined. [That last bit was actually about tyres - Ed.] I have also been given
some space at Tavistock's Saturday market on April 2nd, where I will show
off the bike in all its glory. Cheers to Dwayne and Eddie at Tavistock Town
Council for that. I am lucky to live in a community of really good people,
you're all absolute stars. Bye for now.

Pan, Pannier, Panniest

The new (correct) pannier frames should be here tomorrow, so
I'm back on track for the graphics. It's all a bit chicken and egg- I need
the bike as a method of publicising the trip, but it's not much use when it
looks like any other bike. Tomorrow I'm talking to Yamaha to see if they can
help, as the bike is a model they are keen to promote. Right now I'm hoping for some help with travel costs, rapidly escalating price of fuel, etc.

Fiasco is an Italian Word

More stuff. Staggered into the yard after a long ride on the horse, all
fired up to fit the sproncy new luggage system to the bike. My heart sank as
I looked at the fitting instructions (throw self violently on floor and
commence foaming at mouth) and I realised they were for the wrong model of
bike. Doh! So now it'll have to be sent back and more stuff sent from Italy,
hopefully not on Italian timescale, he said in a stereotypical way. Bit of a
pain, nevertheless. I think I'll try and get the graphics guys going on
Monday anyway, as time is running out faster than a politician's
promise... more madness next week folks.

Hooray for Hometown Heroes

Great news- the hard luggage set for the bike turned up today. Now I can
crack on with getting the graphics designed . This gear is very high quality
Italian stuff made by Givi.
These guys have brought it in specially from Italy, as it's a new design and
I'm going to be one of the first to use, and no doubt abuse, it! And one of
my local chums, who is both well connected and generous, has already cranked
up £1500 for Combat Stress. Way to go! As I view the prospect of throwing
myself out on the coastline for a month or so, and thus into the great wide
open, with a bit of trepidation, days like today certainly stiffen the
resolve. And make me realise what a brilliant nation we still are, despite
the doom merchants. A pox on them all...

Trial By Magazine

Stop Press- my article on the trip is now out in the latest copy of Trail Bike Magazine (TBM). Well done chaps- if you haven't seen this mag, go and buy one- very well written, amusing and informative. Am now plotting how to get on radio and the TV- not as easy as you might think, apparently. Still, all avenues have to be explored, if I'm not going to become Billy No Mates Rides Around Blighty On His Own!

Past Tents

I dug out a tent that hasn't seen the light of day since Budapest 1997, and even the moths looked old and tired. So I'll be taking it, obviously! Plans are afoot to mug the local camping shop for a decent kip mat, as I seem to have developed the happy knack of always pitching tents on the stoniest ground available. Also, will be tapping up the genial Town Clerk for a space in Tavistock Square, so I can publicise the trip locally. Onwards and upwards!

Pain in the Panniers

I'm expecting the panniers for the bike any day now, after a slightly anxious wait. Until they arrive, I can't design the graphics for the bike saying meaningful things like "give me your money, puleeze!". Or summat like that. Just had a chat with a mate who I do a bit of tree consultancy for, and after establishing that I would sign off his latest building project before I leave on the ride, gave a hundred quid to the cause. Top man, you are, Piers.

Around the UK in 50 Days (Give or Take)

Mike Woolley has spent significant chunks of his life travelling by motorcycle, whether it be desert rallying in the Sahara, competing in central Europe or ridng round Turkey for the hell of it. He's a fifty something arborist (trees to you) living in Devon, and is always looking for a challenge.

Combat Stress is a charity which has lead the field in providing mental health care to ex-military personnel since the end of the First World War. Their help is in huge demand and they need to provide a nationwide series of outreach centres to match the need for quality healthcare. In order to achieve this goal they need to raise £30m.

Never one to do things by halves, Mike is going to ride around the entire coastline of mainland Britain, using only the closest legal roads to the sea. Although this journey appears to be unprecedented, the distance is estimated to be around 5000 miles. During the estimated 2 months it will take to complete this adventure, Mike will be making regular postings on his blog, taking you on a tour of our island and giving you a snapshot of life on the edge of our pleasant land.