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.