ROUND THE UK IN 30 DAYS.

In 2020, when the world stood still, I realized how little of my own country I had truly seen. I’d travelled abroad, dreamt of rallies in Spain and winding European roads — but the landscapes on my own doorstep were still strangers to me.

When COVID-19 cancelled my plans to ride across Europe, After I done Hispaina rally. I didn’t give up. As soon as restrictions lifted in September, I loaded up my bike, Robin, and hit the road for a month-long, 4,000-mile adventure around the UK.

This wasn’t about hitting the motorways and racing to the big landmarks. I gave myself a challenge: stick to A and B roads wherever possible, ride off-road on sections of the TET (Trans Euro Trail) even though I’d never off-roaded a fully-loaded bike before, and camp most nights. No fancy hotels. No easy routes. Just raw travel.

Along the way, I explored the windswept coastlines of Norfolk and Wales, the rugged cliffs of Cornwall and Devon, and the towering mountains of the Lake District. Places I had only ever seen in postcards or memes became living, People talking about diffent culters in the uk. breathing worlds. Every wrong turn, every muddy lane, every steaming cup of tea from a stranger — it all stitched itself into the story.

This trip taught me a lot — about the country, about people, and about myself.

Traveling solo as a female rider comes with its dangers and rewards. The news tells you it’s not safe. That you’ll have your bike stolen, that you’ll be hurt, that people are dangerous. I won’t lie — before I left, fear gnawed at me. But out there, on the road, I found something else: warmth, kindness, unexpected friendships. Offers to camp in gardens. Hot meals. Smiles from behind masks.

I learned to stop saying no — to trust more, to accept kindness instead of doubting it. That simple change turned a nervous, stubborn idea into the best adventure of my life.

This blog isn’t a polished guidebook. It’s not filtered through rose-tinted lenses. It’s the UK as it really is — the rain, the storms, the kindness, the hidden beauty. It's a guide for anyone who wants to see the real Britain — not just the tourist spots, but the forgotten villages, the coastal trails, the places that make up the soul of this island.

So buckle up — here’s my story of riding across the UK, one battered mile at a time.

Got it — here’s a more raw, honest, and real version of your blog post. Still professional, but stripped of polish in a way that feels like you’re talking — not a travel brochure. It keeps the emotion, grit, and humor alive without trying too hard:

Day One: Durham to York – Baptism by Storm

I left home into the teeth of Storm Francis — 70mph winds trying to shove me off the road, rain coming sideways, soaking through everything like I wasn’t even wearing gear. Not quite the dreamy kick-off to a big adventure, but sometimes you just have to go, ready or not.

Durham — COVID Hellos and Garden Distance

First stop was my grandparents’ place in Durham. I hadn’t seen them in ages, and thanks to 2020 and COVID, I couldn’t even hug them. Just stood there in the garden, masked up, waving from a distance like we were in some weird sci-fi film. It felt heavy. Familiar, but wrong. Still, I was glad to see them at all — not everyone was that lucky that year.

I stayed two nights, waiting out the worst of the storm. When the clouds finally cracked and the sun broke through, it felt like the trip was actually meant to happen. Like, okay — now we begin.

Southbound to York — Avoiding Motorways, Chasing Soul

I packed up, aimed the bike south, and rode about 230 miles that day. I stuck to A and B roads wherever I could — avoiding motorways like the plague. No point rushing through a country you want to feel. The back roads take longer, but they give more. Tiny villages, open fields, half-broken pubs with half-dead hanging baskets. It’s not always pretty — but it’s real.

York — The City That Doesn’t Let Go

Rolling into York is like slipping through time. I’ve been before, years ago as a kid, but coming back now, loaded with gear, tired and soaked, it hit different. Like the city looked me up and down and said, “Right. You’ve lived a bit now.”

York’s old — Roman, then Viking, then medieval — and it shows. Crooked little shops, timber buildings that look like they’re clinging to each other for support, and that towering monster in the middle — York Minster. You can’t stand under it and not feel something. It’s beautiful and brutal and full of ghosts.

There’s biker parking tucked in near the walls, easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. I locked up the bike and just wandered for hours. Didn’t even take many photos. Just soaked it in. Sometimes the best thing you can do is put the camera down and exist in a place.

Camping Chaos — Mud, Wind, and the Broken Pannier

I left York and camped near Tuxford that night. Middle of nowhere. One toilet. No showers. Just a muddy bit of grass and a kind woman running the site who was doing her best with COVID rules.

Woke up to the tent trying to fold itself around me. Storm Francis had circled back for another go. Wind screaming, rain hammering. No point waiting it out. I packed everything up in a panic — wet gear, wet socks, wet soul — and tried not to cry while my fingers froze to the tent poles.

Then the pannier zip gave out. Split clean open. My life, stuffed in that thing, now held together with angry hope and a bit of string.

A Parking Lot Lifeline

Posted a quick update online, just venting. A friend — a proper overlander, the real deal — messaged me: “Got a spare pannier if you can get to Boston.”

Next thing I know, I’m meeting her dad in a hospital car park in the pouring rain, swapping gear like it’s a dodgy back-alley deal. Wind howling, both of us soaked, grinning. I packed the new pannier right there in the lot and rode off, grateful and buzzing. Not clean, not dry — but alive.

Norfolk Next — Sand, Sweat, and Something New

I figured I'd get a break. A few warm nights in a family caravan. Instead, I get a message: “Wanna ride some sand with the local off-road crew?”

Obviously.

Hyper Adventures — that’s the group — run off-road rides in Norfolk. Super chill. All levels welcome. They asked if I’d help out with newer riders, especially on sand.

Me? Teach sand?

A month earlier, I was white-knuckling my way through the Hispania Rally, full-panic mode. But somehow, I’d come out of it better. Not fearless, but less scared. I knew just enough to pass something on.

Riding with that group over the next few days changed the shape of the trip. It wasn’t just about ticking off towns anymore. It became about people. Learning. Sharing. Laughing when we dropped the bikes in the soft stuff.

Fire, Beer, and the Best Kind of Stranger

I stayed with one of the lads from the group — camped out, had a BBQ, drank under the stars. Swapped stories. That easy, wordless bond you get with someone who also loves the road.

That’s the magic. That’s what makes the hard days worth it. Not the postcard views, not the Instagram shots — the people who show up, make space for you, and remind you that you're never really alone on the road.

Next morning, slightly hungover, we hit the trails again. More sand. More crashes. More laughs.

By the end of it, I felt different. Stronger. More sure of myself. And the ride? It was only just beginning.

Day Six: Oxford Bound — Chasing Stories and Dreams

After a few unforgettable days carving through Norfolk’s sandy trails, it was time to turn the wheels south. Next stop: Oxford — and the Overland Event.

The ride down was a mixture of backroads and lazy miles, the kind of ride where your mind drifts between the past few days and what might be waiting around the corner.

The Overland Event isn’t just a bike rally — it’s a gathering of true explorers, the kind of people who’ve crossed continents, braved deserts, jungles, and mountains, Every rider there carried stories carved into their leathers and lines on their faces. You could feel the miles they’d travelled before they even opened their mouths.

Standing among them, swapping stories over mugs of campfire coffee and battered maps, I couldn’t help but feel a fire ignite even stronger inside me. I hadn’t crossed the Sahara or ridden to Mongolia — not yet — but riding across my own backyard, battling storms, fixing gear on the roadside, meeting strangers and making new friends... it was every bit as real an adventure as any passport-stamped epic.

You don’t have to cross oceans to find adventure. Sometimes, you just have to say yes, twist the throttle, and go find it

Days 7-9: The Overland Event

I spent four days at the Overland Event, getting settled in and catching up with friends I hadn’t seen in about a year. There were plenty of beers, stories, and laughs shared around the campfire. We swapped adventure tales and good food, and honestly, there wasn’t much more I could’ve asked for. The vibe was just right — relaxing and full of fellow adventurers.

DEVON AND CORNWALL

Day 10: Salisbury and the TET Ride Begins

After leaving the Overland Event, I made my way to Salisbury to meet up with a group of bikers I'd ridden with briefly in Norfolk. We had pre-booked a hotel for the night, and by afternoon, we were gearing up to tackle the Trans Euro Trail (TET) through Devon and Cornwall.

This would be my first time properly off-roading with a fully loaded bike — and it wasted no time teaching me a lesson. Heavy rain the night before had turned the trails into slippery clay tracks. Within a single mile, I dropped the bike three times, fighting for grip.
At the end of the trail, luck struck again — my first puncture of the trip, thanks to a sneaky nail. With time against us, another rider helped me pull the wheel off, swap the tube, and get back on the road. Things dried up after that, and the day ended easier.

That evening, we stopped at a coffee shop. Feeling the pull of solo travel, I split from the group to explore the Jurassic Coast. Riding alone gave me the space to think — and honestly, I’m just happier when it’s me and the open road. We regrouped later at the campsite, grabbed some dinner, and settled in for the night.

Day 11: Cornwall and Devon — The Unexpected Flat

We packed up early and hit the trails again. The first section was brutal — a steep, rocky uphill with no real run-up. I saw signs of previous riders' struggles everywhere: scratched rocks, scuffed dirt, broken branches.

Halfway up, I crashed hard into a low wall on the side of the track, hurting my shoulder pretty badly. I decided to sit the rest of the day out, needing to rest and rethink things.

Just down the road, I found a quiet garden. Walking through it, breathing fresh air, helped clear my head. Later that afternoon, I limped into Plymouth and asked a local rider if he knew anywhere I could borrow a jack to lift the bike (no center stand problems).
A tyre shop came through for me — lending me a jack so I could swap out my damaged tube properly. They even recommended a good garage to buy a new rear tube since I'd been riding with a 21" in the back — not ideal, but it had kept me rolling.

That night, things took a turn.
The rest of the group had a rough day, got lost, and didn’t reach camp until after dark. They hadn't eaten, were soaked and exhausted.
It made me realize: their pace wasn’t mine.
They had light luggage for a week's ride; I had a full month’s worth strapped to my bike.
It was time to ride my own way.

Day 12: Clothes, Car Parks, and Devon's Warmth

I woke up sore from the crash. My shoulder and back ached, and I knew pushing on the trails would be stupid. I told the group I'd sit the day out — they were fine with that.

I headed back into Plymouth, desperate for a decent breakfast and some clean clothes after two weeks on the road.
I found a welcoming tyre shop that sold me a fresh tube and let me use their stand to change it properly. Once the bike was sorted, I wandered the town, learning about its naval history and chatting with locals about life around the docks.
It felt good to slow down.

By evening, I rode to the new campsite — set up under the stars, grabbed some food, and fell asleep, feeling better.

Day 13: Exploring Polperro, St. Austell Bay, and Charlestown

Breaking off from the TET, I decided to explore more of Cornwall at my own pace.

First up was Polperro — a tiny, picture-perfect fishing village clinging to the rugged coastline. Narrow alleys, colorful houses, and stories of smugglers from the 18th century gave the place a timeless, secretive feel. I wandered through the old streets and popped into the Smuggling and Fishing Museum — a must-visit if you want to feel the real heartbeat of Cornwall.

From there, I rode on to St. Austell Bay — dramatic cliffs, rolling hills, turquoise waters...
It was the kind of landscape that steals your words away. Every corner felt wild and free.

Then came Charlestown — an 18th-century harbor village that still looks frozen in time. Famous for filming shows like Poldark, its cobbled streets and tall ships made you feel like you'd stepped back two hundred years.
The Shipwreck and Heritage Centre there was a gem, full of stories about Cornwall’s deep maritime history.

By the end of the day, I felt lighter — like the crash, the missed trails, the bruises — all of it was finally behind me.

Day 14: The Long-Awaited Visit to Land’s End

Today was a dream years in the making.
I finally reached Land’s End — the southwestern tip of mainland Britain. The cliffs stretched out into the sea like a defiant fist against the Atlantic. It was powerful, humbling, and emotional standing there, knowing I had traveled all the way from Scotland.

Of course, nothing's perfect — I still grumbled about the £2 parking fee (seriously, five years later, and I’m still mad).
But standing in front of that iconic sign, looking out at the endless horizon, was worth every penny.

Later that evening, I met two bikers staying at a caravan park nearby. Offer me to stay logn the way to perranport sharing fish and chips as the sun sank into the sea — swapping road stories and laughing until the stars came out.

A bit of history:

Land’s End has been a vital landmark for centuries. In the 19th century, it became a crucial point for transatlantic mail ships and a symbol of adventure for early travelers. Today, it’s still a beacon for those chasing horizons — just like me.

Day 15: Feet, Fish, and the Cornish Coast

I woke up feeling cozy in a warm bed with the perfect view, sipping a hot cup of coffee — exactly the way every morning should start. With a full stomach and the caffeine pumping through my veins, I was ready to hit the road again. But first, I needed to take care of a little problem. My feet, stuck in motocross boots that didn’t breathe, had started to suffer. They were sweaty, and honestly, I could feel the beginning of athlete’s foot for the first time in my life — not great.
I had to buy new socks and make sure I changed them every day. Whenever I could, I took the boots off to let my feet air out and breathe.

I was still a bit bruised from the crash on the TET, but I powered on. I rode to Port Isaac — a small fishing village made famous by the British TV show Doc Martin. The village was charming, but what I loved most was the sense of history and community still alive there. It’s the kind of place where people still live and work. Walking around, I couldn’t help but rub it in my mum’s face that I’d been there. It felt good to see the real side of Cornwall, away from all the tourist traps.

The rest of Cornwall and Devons’s small villages could sometimes feel like ghost towns — with so many homes empty for holiday rentals or Airbnb — a far cry from the working towns that still held their own charm.
I rode along the coast, stopping here and there for photos. The beauty of the place was undeniable, and every turn brought a new breathtaking view.

I eventually found a sign for a campsite near Poundstock — perfect timing. It turned out to be a small farmer’s field opened up for camping during the pandemic and the rise of outdoor holidays. The view was stunning, overlooking Widemouth Bay and the sea beyond. I met a friendly camper next door, who happened to be from London. We struck up a conversation, and I asked if I could use their BBQ to take a break from my usual tuna and pasta routine.

In exchange, I offered to gather some wood for a fire pit. They were happy to share, and soon enough, we had a small fire crackling as we cooked and shared stories. The music started, the conversation flowed, and before long, we were swapping some pretty strange and funny tales. It was the perfect way to end the day.

Day 16: Clovelly – A Step Back in Time (and Uphill)

Waking up with a view of Widemouth Bay was like something straight out of a postcard—except it was real. A few deep breaths of fresh sea air, a cup of coffee, and I was ready to roll. After packing up and settling the bill, I hopped on the bike and hit the road, cruising along the picturesque A and B roads of Devon. As I was riding, I spotted a sign for Clovelly, a place I'd heard about but hadn’t yet seen. Curiosity piqued, I decided it was time for a little detour.

Now, if you’ve ever wanted to feel like you’ve time-traveled, Clovelly is the place for you. This village is like stepping back into the 18th century, minus the plague and questionable hygiene. You won’t find any cars here—because who needs modern transport when donkeys are perfectly suited for the job? Seriously, the place is so steep that donkeys are still the main mode of transport for goods, a tradition that dates back centuries. No kidding. You’ve gotta love a village where the main traffic jam is caused by a donkey delivering bread to a house. I honestly thought I’d accidentally stumbled into a live-action reenactment of a Dickens novel.

Clovelly’s pedestrianized streets (read: very steep, cobbled paths) give it a unique, timeless charm. The only way to get up and down the hills is by donkey or, if you’re lucky, using crates on wooden runners to transport goods—talk about ancient tech. It’s one of those places that’s so stuck in time that even the internet is probably too modern for it (I didn't even try to get a signal, didn’t want to ruin the vibe).

The village’s roots are in fishing, and its harbor, which looks like it’s straight out of a painting, is still used by local fishermen today. Historical tidbit time: Clovelly used to be a thriving fishing port, mainly known for its herring industry. These days, though, it’s more about tourism and Insta-worthy photos than fishing nets.

The houses here are as quirky as the village itself—steep, hand-laid cobbled streets (which, let me tell you, made me feel like I was training for the next season of Ninja Warrior) and old-fashioned homes stacked like Jenga blocks on the hillside. And instead of using a normal delivery truck to haul things, the locals still use crates that get lowered down the hill to the houses. Don’t even get me started on how that must’ve looked before donkeys became involved—very interesting logistics, I'm sure.

After exploring the village and getting a quick snack (because, let’s face it, walking around Clovelly is basically the equivalent of running a marathon), I headed to Berrynarbor. The campsite there felt like it had been designed for Instagram influencers more than serious campers—small tents, crammed on a hill, making me think, “Well, this is cozy, I guess?” Still, it worked for the night, and I was dry in my tent, so no complaints.

WALES

Day 17: Inland to Wales – The Minehead Madness

The day was all about the miles—riding through Devon, ticking off the kilometers to Wales. Devon's a beautiful county, but after a while, the tourism-heavy villages start to blur together. I found myself in Minehead, a seaside town on the Bristol Channel, which is famous for its Butlins holiday camp (if you know, you know). The town’s been a popular stop since the 18th century, thanks to its gorgeous coastal views and proximity to Exmoor National Park.

I needed some gas for my stove, and Minehead had the best deals, so I stopped, grabbed what I needed, and got back on the road. But then came the campsite hunt—and let me tell you, it was like a bad reality show.

Most places were for caravans and campervans, which isn’t what I was after. I spent a couple of hours riding around, only to be told by one campsite that they had no toilets—seriously, no toilets in 2025? So, I kept going, thinking surely, something better was just around the corner.

Finally, a friendly caravan park owner called his mate who owned a local pub. They occasionally let people camp in the pub garden, as long as you bought a drink. Score! I ended up camping in the garden with a few other bikers—because who can say no to beer and a bed?

Sometimes, the best camping spots aren’t in the brochures, and this one definitely made the cut. Sure, it wasn’t planned, but hey, it worked. A great place to crash and a cold pint to go with it—perfect.

Day 18: Burnham Without Civil Parish - Weston-super-Mare: Last Stop Before Wales

After packing up a little later than usual (you know how pubs can be), I woke up to the sun shining brightly on my tent—a perfect start to what would turn out to be the hottest day I’d encountered in the UK so far. 35°C—yep, you read that right, the heat was almost unbearable, especially when you’re all bundled up in waterproof gear. But hey, that’s adventure, right?

I set off and made my way to Weston-super-Mare, a seaside resort town that’s as quintessentially British as they come. If you’re not familiar, Weston’s got that nostalgic charm, with long stretches of golden sand, a pier, and, of course, ice cream—the perfect combination for a bit of relaxation. You’ll see plenty of people enjoying the sun, some daring enough to go full British-style, shedding their tops like it’s the hottest day on record (spoiler: it is).

As I strolled along the seafront, it was hard not to notice how the city has gone through its fair share of restorations over the years. The town was once a Victorian seaside gem, attracting all sorts of tourists, and many of the buildings still hold onto that old-world charm. Weston became a popular spot in the 19th century, thanks to the development of the railway, making it easy for people from Bristol and beyond to escape to the coast for a little getaway. The town’s Grand Pier, dating back to 1904, is a standout, offering amusement rides and stunning views of the coastline.

But beyond the nostalgia, Weston-super-Mare is a place where you can really feel the pulse of British summer life. There’s something about the sea breeze, the sound of children laughing, and the constant ice cream trucks that just screams holiday mode. After grabbing an ice cream myself, I started to get that holiday itch, though I knew Wales was calling.

Before heading over to Wales, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my first encounter with the Welsh signposts—you know the ones, all those curious letters that look like someone’s taken a keyboard and, well, smashed their head into it. It's like a whole new language you have to decode before you get used to it. 10 miles of trying to say it.

After a solid two weeks of nonstop riding through Cornwall and Devon, I decided to take a break. The heat was a lot to handle, and my back was absolutely killing me—thanks to pulling some muscles while riding. So, I decided to splurge and check into a hotel in Cardiff for two nights. And let me tell you, those two nights were a much-needed respite. I spent most of my time leaning against something, trying to relax, and giving my sore back a bit of TLC before heading into Wales for the next chapter of my journey.

Day 19-20: Cardiff, Wales

After a much-needed rest in Cardiff, I knew I couldn’t let time just slip by without fully exploring the capital of Wales. As a rugby player back home in Scotland, I was eager to experience the heart of Wales’ sporting culture, and what better place to start than the epicenter of rugby?

I set off from my hotel, leaving Robin (my trusty travel companion) tucked safely in the corner of the room. My first stop? Cardiff Castle, which stands proudly at the heart of the city. This medieval gem is as iconic as they come. The castle has witnessed over 2,000 years of history, from its Roman origins to the grandeur of the Victorian transformation. The walls of the castle have seen everything from Norman invasions to royal celebrations, and they still stand as a testament to Cardiff's rich history.

Fun Fact: Cardiff Castle is built on a Roman fort and is one of the most visited historical sites in Wales. It was transformed in the 19th century into a luxurious Victorian Gothic masterpiece by the 3rd Marquess of Bute, who was one of the wealthiest men in the world at the time. He spared no expense, turning the castle into a stunning architectural marvel complete with ornate interiors and a grand interpretation of medieval fantasy. The castle’s importance isn’t just historical—it’s also cultural, as it serves as the backdrop for many Welsh celebrations, including events tied to the Welsh Rugby Union.

As I wandered around Cardiff Castle, I felt like I had stepped back in time. The stone walls and granite buildings reminded me so much of home in Scotland, where the landscapes are dotted with castles made from slate and granite. There’s something magical about the way these structures endure through time—standing strong and proud in the face of history’s many changes.

After soaking in the history, I took a break to recharge. A coffee and some lunch were exactly what I needed to rest my back, which was still recovering from the miles I’d covered. Cardiff is a fantastic city for a slow day of exploring, with plenty of hidden gems tucked away if you know where to look.

I took my time, strolling through the city, discovering charming streets and peaceful parks. Cardiff felt like a mix of old and new, with modern shopping areas alongside historical sites that date back centuries. It had that same sense of familiarity I felt in Scotland, where the past isn’t just a relic but a living part of everyday life.

As the day wound down, I got some food to take back to my room, indulged in a long, soothing bath, and watched the sunset over the city, soaking up the warmth of a hot summer evening.

Absolutely. Here's the revised version of your blog entry for Days 21–23, now with more historical context, local facts, and a clean, no-nonsense tone — professional but still raw and personal.

Day 21 – Cardiff to Pembroke, Then Angle

Finding a place to sleep in Pembrokeshire wasn’t going well. Campsites either full, closed, or couldn’t be bothered to answer the phone. Ended up stopping a biker at a petrol station — turns out he was riding down from Chester with his wife, visiting his 85-year-old mother for her birthday.

Said she was Scottish. So am I. That was apparently the magic password. He rang her, said I needed a place to crash. “You’ll be fine,” he told me. And I was. She welcomed me in, gave me tea and cake. Didn’t know me from Adam, but some folk are just like that.

That night was anything but quiet. I’d unknowingly set up near Castlemartin Training Area, one of the UK’s few live tank firing ranges. The Ministry of Defence uses it for armoured vehicle training and munitions testing. Shells were going off until late. I honestly thought I'd wandered into a warzone. Nothing like trying to sleep under canvas with 120mm cannons shaking the ground. Welcome to West Wales.

Day 22 – Angle to Llandudno

Woke up early to a message from a couple I’d met on the NC500. They were house-sitting up in Llandudno and offered me a place to pitch my tent in their garden. Couldn’t say no to that — free is always the right price on the road.

Packed up and hit the throttle. South to north Wales in a single run — 171 miles, just over five hours. It should’ve been a ride to savour, but I treated it like a commute. Regret that. Wales isn’t the kind of place you rush. It’s layered — not just with hills and valleys, but with stories.

Cut through the Cambrian Mountains, stopped halfway in Aberystwyth for lunch. The town’s a hub of Welsh language and culture, home to the National Library of Wales, but all I saw was the inside of a sandwich shop. That one’s on me.

As I rode, old mining scars showed up along the roadside — remnants of Wales’ slate industry, once the biggest in the world. The north especially was dotted with massive slate quarries like Dinorwic and Penrhyn. At its height in the 19th century, Welsh slate roofed houses across the UK and was exported as far as Australia and North America. Some of the villages I passed looked like they'd been carved straight out of the quarry walls — terraces of grey stone, slate roofs, and old rail sidings now rusting in silence.

These mines weren’t just industrial — they were lifelines. Whole communities were built around them, and they were dangerous places to work. Child labour, long hours, and deadly accidents were the norm. By the early 20th century, the industry started to decline, but the scars and structures remain. Riding past them now feels like riding through a ghost story written in stone.

Finally made it to Llandudno, a Victorian seaside town frozen in time — promenade, iron railings, ice cream stands. The Great Orme rises above it, hiding Bronze Age copper mines dug over 4,000 years ago. It’s one of the oldest known mining sites in the world. The tunnels are so narrow and winding that archaeologists think most of the digging was done by children, using animal bones as tools. That kind of history doesn’t advertise itself, but it’s there, under the surface — like a lot of Wales.

Day 23 – Llandudno to Parys Mountain, Anglesey

Met up with local bikers I knew from the Overland Event — they invited me on a ride across Anglesey to Parys Mountain, or "Copper Mountain" as it's nicknamed. It's near the town of Amlwch in northern Anglesey.

Parys isn’t just scenic — it’s historical. In the late 18th century, this place was the world’s largest copper mine. At its peak, it supplied much of the British Navy’s copper sheathing, which protected ships from marine growth and wood-boring worms. It made fortunes for a few and left scars in the earth that still glow with unnatural colour — purples, reds, yellows, greens. It’s like someone smashed open a geology textbook and poured it out into a crater.

The surreal landscape has made it a filming location too — Doctor Who, Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and various sci-fi shows have all used it as a stand-in for alien planets. It’s easy to see why.

After that we stopped at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. You know the name — longest in Europe, second-longest in the world. Translates (roughly) to St Mary’s Church in the hollow of the white hazel near a rapid whirlpool and the Church of St Tysilio near the red cave. The name was actually cooked up in the 1860s by a local cobbler and tailor trying to drum up tourism. It worked. Tourists still show up just to take a selfie with the train station sign.

We rode back as the sun dipped below the Irish Sea. Said our goodbyes. Shot one last photo. North Wales has a strange kind of beauty — a mix of forgotten industrial power, modern decay, and raw nature. There’s always something under the surface.

Day 24 – Llandudno to Barmouth (TRF Trails & Local Off-Road)

Kept it local today. Met up with a lad who rides with the TRF (Trail Riders Fellowship) and knows the lanes like the back of his hand. We hit a mix of TRF-approved tracks and a few lesser-known trails heading south towards Barmouth.

It’s always good riding with locals — they know what’s legal, what’s a dead end, and where not to piss off the farmers. The trails here aren’t like Scotland’s — tighter, twistier, more worn in. Stone-stacked walls and old farm tracks with views that stretch across sheep-dotted hills and dry valleys. You can tell these trails have been walked, ridden, and worked for centuries.

Stopped in Barmouth for lunch — just a quick sandwich by the sea. It’s an old fishing town turned seaside escape. Bit rough around the edges, but it’s got charm. Iron bridge still standing strong across the estuary, built back in the 1860s for the Cambrian Railway. Still used today.

The sun was relentless — 30°C, not a cloud in sight. For Wales, that’s rare. For me, it’s been three solid weeks of sunshine. Couldn’t have asked for better weather. No drama today. Just lazy off-roading, good company, and time in the saddle.

Not every day on a trip needs a story. Some are just for riding.

🏍️ TRF & Off-Roading – Quick Facts

The Trail Riders Fellowship (TRF) was founded in 1970 to protect and preserve access to legal unsurfaced roads in England and Wales — known as green lanes.
They campaign against the closure of ancient rights of way, often under threat from councils, landowners, or anti-motor access groups.
The TRF works by gathering historical evidence, submitting legal objections, and maintaining good relationships with local authorities to keep these lanes open for responsible riders.
Wales has some of the UK’s richest trail riding, with byways built from Roman roads, drovers' tracks, and old mining routes.
Legal off-roading means sticking to Byways Open to All Traffic (BOATs) and Unclassified County Roads (UCRs) — not random fields or footpaths.
Joining the TRF gives you access to mapped routes, riding groups, and helps support the fight to keep these ancient lanes legally open.

For more info or to join: www.trf.org.uk

Day 25 – Beddgelert & Wales’ “World’s End”

Today was about ticking off another strange place on the map — World’s End, the Welsh version. I’d already been to Spain’s Finisterre (end of the world), so this felt like a personal follow-up. Hidden near Llangollen, World’s End isn’t dramatic, but the name suits it — remote, narrow lanes boxed in by cliffs and moorland. Feels like the kind of place that doesn’t want to be found.

Wales is full of that — tucked-away spots, forgotten roads, and valleys shaped by thousands of years of movement. These routes were once drover roads used to move livestock across the country. Before that, this whole landscape was carved by glaciers during the last Ice Age — that’s why the valleys are steep and wide, and the rocks look torn open.

Rode on to Beddgelert, left most of my gear behind and hit some trails near Nant Gwynant, a glacier-cut valley just south of Snowdon. Crossed a ford, followed the old single-tracks, and soaked in the view. Light bike, good trails, no plan. Just how a ride should be.

On the way back, I took a detour to the Great Orme for sunset. It’s not just a pretty headland — the Orme’s packed with history. Under your wheels are the oldest known copper mines in the world, dating back nearly 4,000 years to the Bronze Age. They weren’t rediscovered until the 1980s, but it turns out the whole limestone hill is riddled with hand-carved tunnels dug with bone tools. It’s estimated they pulled out over 1,700 tonnes of copper.

The name “Orme” comes from the old Norse word for “serpent” — maybe for the way the hill coils into the sea. On a clear day, you can see the Isle of Man. Today, I saw the sun drop into the ocean in total silence.

Another one of those days where Wales feels endless.

Day 26 – Snowdonia & Conwy Castle

Spent the day weaving through Snowdonia, no real plan, just following the roads and watching the mountains rise around me. Up here the land feels old — really old. Formed by volcanoes over 400 million years ago, then carved out by glaciers. It’s not just scenic, it’s geological violence frozen in time.

The park’s named after Yr Wyddfa — Snowdon, the highest point in Wales. The name means “the burial place” in Welsh. Some legends say King Arthur killed a giant at the summit. Others reckon a giant king lies buried under it. Either way, when you're riding through these valleys,

Late afternoon, I made it to Conwy. You ride straight through the town walls like stepping into another century. No exaggeration — they’re nearly a mile long, with 21 towers still standing. Built in the late 1200s by Edward I, part of his “Iron Ring” of castles designed to keep Wales under English control after the conquest. Conwy Castle wasn’t just military — it was psychological warfare. Make a statement, plant it in stone, and let it loom over the land.

But Conwy isn’t frozen in the past. A train line runs straight through one of the castle’s towers — it was cut through in the 19th century when rail reached North Wales, and they didn’t want to destroy the castle, so they tunneled under and around it. It’s a mad sight — medieval wall, then a modern train flying through the gap.

Despite the tourist buzz, the town’s still got its Welsh identity intact. Bilingual signs, local produce, Welsh music drifting from pubs. Conwy’s not just a monument, it’s a living place. Fishing boats still pull into the quay, and you can buy the world’s “smallest house” — a red-painted stone box barely big enough to stand in, once home to a fisherman.

Day 27-28 – Blackpool-England

The season’s winding down. Nights are freezing, campsites are shutting up shop, and the summer warmth I’d been riding under for weeks is nothing but a memory. I packed up my gear, locked the house, and headed north — Blackpool was the next stop. Two nights booked, no high hopes, just a place to crash.

The ride was grim. Rain came down in sheets from the start, pushing me through Liverpool and toward Blackpool. I didn’t stop for anything. Didn’t care about photos, didn’t care about the view. I was soaked and cold, just trying to get somewhere dry. By the time I pulled into Blackpool, the only thing on my mind was finding shelter and getting warm.

I booked a cheap hotel in the centre, and when I got to my room, it was like a slap in the face. Neon green walls, no heating, and the worst part — no hot water. I asked the receptionist about it. “We shut it off to save money,” they said. After hours of riding in the pouring rain, that hit harder than I expected. One of the worst nights of my entire trip, easy.

I’d never been to Blackpool before. Heard all the stories, all the hype. People flock here every year, like it’s still the place to be. I figured I’d see it for myself.

So, I went out. The rain slowed down, but the damp was still in the air. The streets were dark and neon-lit. Arcade lights flickered over families huddled under umbrellas, kids running between the puddles. And then you see it: the Blackpool Tower looming overhead, this old relic of an empire that couldn’t quite hold on. People still take photos of it, but it’s a ghost of what it once was.

But Blackpool doesn’t hide it. It doesn’t try to cover the cracks. There’s something raw about it. You can see the decay, the years of wear and tear. It’s a town holding on by its nails, desperately clinging to whatever glory days it has left. It’s clear this place was once the UK’s dream beach escape. Back in the late 1800s, it was the destination — the tower, the Pleasure Beach, the entertainment, the crowds. But when the cheap flights to Spain came in the ‘80s, it all started to crumble. People stopped coming. What’s left is this faded version of its former self.

But what really hit me, what really made this place feel heavy, was the homeless situation. It’s not something you can ignore here. There’s a visible problem with people living rough. As I walked around, I saw them everywhere: people huddled in doorways, shivering in the rain, begging for change. Some were high, others were drunk, some were just lost. But it wasn’t just the presence of them that bothered me — it was the desperation. The looks in their eyes, the way they approached, almost like they were hunting for something, anything to keep going.

And it wasn’t just one or two people. There were whole groups of them, sitting by the arcades or under the lights of the tower, asking for money, for help, for anything. And if you didn’t have cash, the looks you got made you feel guilty, even though you knew it wouldn’t make a difference. It was raw. It was in your face. No pretending, no sugar-coating it. Blackpool’s got a serious problem with homelessness, and it’s been left to rot in plain view.

I never felt unsafe, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was uncomfortable, unsettling — like walking through a place that’s teetering on the edge. The combination of the faded glamour and the harsh reality of the streets made Blackpool feel like a place out of time. A ghost town still pretending to be alive.

I walked back to my room — the neon green one — and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t help but think about everything I’d seen that day: the fading arcades, the broken-down amusement park, and the people who were stuck, caught in the cracks of a place that’s been left behind.

Blackpool may have been the king of the British seaside once, but it’s a different world now. A world where the towers still stand, but the people are lost, and nothing feels certain anymore.

Day 29 – Blackpool to Barrow-in-Furness

After what felt like a lifetime in Blackpool, I was more than ready to hit the road again. I was heading into the Lake District, something familiar on the horizon — something that would finally feel like home. Barrow-in-Furness was next, a place I’d passed through before on my old 125, but this would be my first real visit.

The ride out was just as miserable as the last. Rain hammered down like it had a grudge against me, and the mud splattered up from the roads, caking everything in dirt. It was one of those days where nothing stands out. No scenery, no moments that catch your eye. I was getting tired, just pushing through. My mind wasn’t on the ride anymore; it was on that hot shower I’d been dreaming about for days.

Barrow-in-Furness itself didn’t have much to offer either. I guess I wasn’t in the mood for it, or maybe it’s just not a place that gives you much to remember. The town didn’t grab me. I was just looking for something familiar. Somewhere to reset before I tackled what was coming next.

I booked into a Travelodge. The kind of place you know you can rely on — warm, clean, nothing fancy. But today, I wasn’t looking for luxury. I was looking for comfort. A hot shower, a bit of peace. I crossed the road for pizza, ate it like it was the best thing I’d had in days, and watched the rain pour down outside. No rush, no stress. Just wanted to rest, gather my thoughts, and get ready for the next leg.

Tomorrow’s a big day. I’m heading into the Lake District proper, planning to take on the passes. It’s going to be a full day — trying to fit in as much as I can before the weather turns again. Right now, all I care about is putting my head down, shutting off, and getting some sleep. The ride, the sights, the adventure — they’ll all wait until tomorrow.

The Home Stretch

As I made my way home, I passed through Blackpool and braved the demanding passes of the Lake District. England's landscapes continued to surprise and inspire me, and the kindness of strangers remained a recurring theme throughout my trip.

Lessons from the Road

In reflecting on this journey, I was amazed that the entire trip cost me only around £1000, thanks in part to my bike's impressive fuel efficiency. This adventure pushed me out of my comfort zone and prepared me for even bigger challenges in the future.

Final Thoughts

If there's one takeaway from my journey, it's the power of saying "yes" to adventure. Exploring your own country can be just as rewarding as venturing abroad, and I encourage everyone to take the leap and explore the beauty waiting just around the corner.

Now that I've gained so much from this experience, I can't wait to see what the road holds next. Here's to more adventures—see you out there!

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My 4000-Mile Adventure Across England/ Wales: