The United Kingdom

Over the last two years I have ridden from home in the southern Black Forest through a very wet France to Tarragona, from there across the Pyrenees and down through Portugal to the Algarve and then back up through the east of Spain to Zaragoza. From Zaragoza I went back over the mountains, into the Massif Central of France and up to Normandy. I just completed the final stage of this journey in the UK, the subject of this post. This one isn’t particularly aimed at a trail riding audience; along the way I have written three posts on social media which talk in detail about the trails. You’ll find them recreated here and linked below. In the interest of keeping this post quite minimalist you will find a lot more photographs there.

TET UK South West | TET UK Wales | TET UK The North

The map above sometimes takes a few seconds to load and move to the right location, please be patient.

My aim here is collect my thoughts on the trip, a trip which – in the months prior – I had mixed views about. I was born in the UK, in Canterbury and spent my early years in Kent. When I was about six my parents moved up to the Scottish borders and spent most of my childhood just the Scottish side of the border looking after a country estate for the landed gentry. I’m now 41 and have spent the last decade in Germany, in that time there has been Brexit and I’ve spent all of two weeks in Scotland. I’ll admit to a private and shameful truth here. I’ve stayed in touch with British culture and politics but have largely done so through the lens of The Guardian and some select podcasts. None of which paint a particularly rosy picture of my home island.

The media has never been great at a balanced view on things, ultimately if it bleeds it leads. As a result, my view on the UK has been through schwarz-tinted spectacles. Yes, of course, I was looking forward to being immersed in my own language. Naturally, daily availability of good Fish and Chips was a joy to imagine. Even if the effect on my waistline has been less joyous. A large part of me was expecting fly tipping, bike theft, urban decay, depression, extreme wealth inequality, crippled public services and tension between racist bigots and well-meaning but misguided Guardian-reading lefties like me. I was expecting everything I read about in the media.

I crossed the channel with not a little trepidation as a result. The sailing from Cherbourg to Poole was a funny thing, I have crossed Dover to Calais a few times, but this one was new to me, and they made it into a little cruise. It takes a special level of guts to sing solo cabaret to an audience of returning holidaymakers so. The cool sea air and the cruisyness of it all made it a curious kind of pleasure. I had problems to solve when I got off that boat and the ease of being fully in your own language was quite wonderful. My German is solid, but it’s not native speaker level. It did not take me long to find solutions to all the little problems France had caused me. The people who helped solve those problems were so incredibly helpful and friendly. The subtleties and sarcasms were understood. A very good start. Even riding on the left wasn’t too terrible. Muscle memory, I guess.

I made my way to Land’s End. I made my way through Wales. I sampled the Yorkshire Dales and then after a rest with my parents I went back to the dales, via the Pennines and the Lake District. It’s all in the other posts in detail. How many fly tips did I find along the way? None whatsoever. Which is quite the improvement on Italy and Spain. Ok, so it’s not Der Schweiz – perfect down to every blade of grass. But as good as anywhere in Northern Europe. I pointedly bought my new, super strong, super loud disc lock with me. I never used it. Granted, I never stopped in a city and if I had done, I would surely have deployed the thing. But the same runs true in much of Europe, again with variations from nation to nation.

How about that urban decay and depression? Here I can’t lie and paint a picture of paradise, nor do I find myself comparing Fallout 3 favourably to the UK. South Wales had its alcoholics and evidence of criminality – vans with the door ripped off, banks with the ATM ripped out. Did the people seem as happy and content as in my refined rural social circles here in privileged Südbaden? No, definitely not. But the streets were clean, they were in good condition, the public buildings and infrastructure seemed better than I remember from oil rich Aberdeen of a decade ago. The private infrastructure was a joy, aside from the over prevalence of Costa coffee shops. Sure, I wasn’t in the inner city, but the pubs were bright and friendly. The cafes were varied and the food delicious.

How about those racist bigots? What about those leftist lunatics? Yeah, ok, I did run into a small Reform UK protest. They were not representing the best the UK has to offer, to put it mildly. But there was no riot, just some flag waving and fist shaking. Yeah, ok, the rides through Bradford and Keighly were an eye-opener. But I’ve been through parts of Paris which seem at least as much the result of a strange experiment in cultural teleportation.

Essentially, what I am using far too many words to say is this. The UK seems to be alright. The biggest pain I experienced was the high prices and the exchange rate, not exceeded but closely followed by a hard impact with some slippery tarmac. The people were wonderfully friendly and communicative. I felt safe and comfortable. Even when my camping locations were less than legal those early morning dog walkers that would find a bleary eyed me crawling out of my hammock were friendly.

So, that pre-crossing trepidation? Not at all warranted. It was, in all the ways I was concerned about, a wonderful trip. In all the ways I wasn’t concerned about, where my expectations were positive, I can say the same. For the sane people who’d idea of a relaxing holiday doesn’t involve being vibrated to death by 130kg of noisy, stinky steel horse the following observations would – I suspect – apply equally to hiking, cycling or any other form of getting around in the countryside.

Most people have all manner of natural beauty on their doorstop. Many people then – given the chance – get on a plane, train or automobile to go somewhere far away. I am as guilty of that as anyone. Like everyone I have my excuses. Childhood poverty, starting a so called “professional” “career” in my 20s. I’ve only really started to travel properly in the decade I have been living in Germany. But still, I had never been to the West Country or to Wales. I had not even really been an hour over the border to Cumbria and Hadrian’s Wall.

But, realistically, do the landscapes compare with the Alps, Pyrenees, Atlas, Andes or Balkan ranges I have ridden? Yes. They do. They are completely different. They are nothing like as tall and nowhere near as steep. But they are simply something else, you don’t find an endless field of purple heather in the Andes. You don’t find an insane salt flat in the Yorkshire Dales. Apples are not oranges. Ok, if you put a gun to my head and told me I could only visit one mountain range for the rest of my life the UK would not enter the running. But that seems a slightly unrealistic scenario. I can have my mountainous cake and eat it.

While we are being slightly negative, I can say this, it is all a bit of a variation on a theme. Wales, Dales or Lakes – green valleys with rivers and trees, moorlands with heather and sheep. But it’s a deeply beautiful theme. Earlier this year my ride through “boring” Normandy proved that the value of a landscape is not measured in meters above sea level. England and Wales have doubled down on that. The UK is glorious, the colours are – especially in the afternoon sun – quite spectacular. I am deeply satisfied with some of my photos, none of which have been anywhere near either Photoshop or a smartphone’s artificial intelligence.

I do believe this trip has, to some degree, healed my relationship with my home island. Great Britian – it really is still great.