LAPPING THE COAST
Nick Sanders embarks on epic UK adventure
‘I thought I’d hug Britain’s coastline by two wheels’
‘I sat watching the sea, and felt completely free’
Turn Britain on its side, and the shape of the country looks like a witch riding a scolded pig. Cornwall has trotters, south Wales the snout, its arse is East Anglia (no offence) whilst the scowl strikes out from the face of west Scotland. I’d heard we dream in colours borrowed from the sea so I thought I’d hug Britain’s coastline by two wheels in search of beautiful corners, plunging rollercoaster clifftop rides and sniff up the smells only a coastal adventure can give.
The coastline of Britain is either stunning and sparkly or industrially grim. Or it’s just sea – and lots of it, fringed with slivers of shingle and sand. Cities like Liverpool are monumental whilst others are bland but on a bike you see, feel and smell it all. The gorse in the north. for example, with its scent of sweet mustard simply blew me away. Packed to the max with camping stuff and cameras – but no map – I excitedly turned the key. Leaving my home in Machynlleth, I first breezed around my home hills, past Barmouth then heading on to Anglesey before hopping off again and riding round to Llandudno where I hugged hard against the Great Orme with its stunning views over Colwyn Bay.
Don’t be surprised how easy it is to leave home and to start an adventure – or how spectacularly good it can feel to ride rivetinglyclose to cliff faces, breathless but still in sight of the sea.
North by North West
There was suddenly so much sea that the air felt fresh like wind dried washing as I snaked down the Wirral. It felt green and quiet with its posh Scouse accent between the Mersey and the gentler River Dee. The great thing about a motorcycle is I park where I like (well ,sort of). New Brighton on the mouth of the Mersey was regal and funky. Never having been somewhere before makes me childlike, my curiosity working overtime to find out what makes such a place tick. Birkenhead had a centre I couldn’t find so I blatted round ravaged red brickwork and made interesting guesses. From Barrow and back down to Blackpool everyone I met called me ‘love’. If you add ‘pet’ and ‘me-duck’ it can give you a warm feeling knowing everyone likes you, making you want to come back. With its clairvoyants and Big Dipper, its Pleasure Beach and
pastiche, Blackpool glided past. I’m riding each section without an agenda, never bothering if I go far so long as I’m soaking it all in.
To be an anonymous traveller in an interesting place makes me drunk with its newness and so I do more. I camped in Cumbria where the Western Lakes made the roads go lumpy, and there was nothing I didn’t want to see. The guttural sounds of my bike got sucked into high hedges then bounced off stone walls. Sometimes you saunter, sometimes not, but once past Silecroft and Seascale, Sellafield and St. Bees I stopped and ate a bacon butty on the beach. Bliss. Behind me Black Combe rose to kiss dark clouds. I took a deep breath. Everything was frantic back home but on the road, for me, only good things exist. Over in the distance the Isle of Man hovered in the mist as it floats on the sea. And with a coffee and a bike people always say ‘Hello’.
Then into Scotland
Having slept badly in my tent – it was freezing – the morning pushed me over the border into Scotland. Greenock felt large, but I barely saw Glasgow at all while the shores of Loch Lomand reminded me how the best of nature is always seen from a bike. Cars and campers are not so immersed in their personal road trip movie.
Across the Skye bridge to Portree, her harbour and coffee spots sensationally dripping with warm air, I’m living every moment – calmed with the café conversation and dappled light that can only mean you’re in Scotland.
The coast of Britain is littered with anomalies, but by cooking your beans and catching your waves you start to lose yourself in their repetitions. Looking, smelling, feeling each twist of the road – some no wider than tracks – all starts to get stronger as you soar into the mountains. The bike clattered and echoed up over the bleak beauty of Bealach na Bà, and my whole body shivered as I spiralled down to Applecross, with a glimpse of sunlit water as the mountain slips into sea. Leaning hard into cascades of unconventional corners I found myself hoping that ride to Shieldaig (see above) would never end. The coastal road facing Lewis and Harris is hardly a bike’s width across and when you stop, invariably hot, bewildered, sweaty but fulfilled, birdsong hoovers up what remains of the silence. Then, as I sat watching the sea like a crumpled map, the North Coast 500 became my onward distraction. And just then I felt completely free.