UNITED KINGDOM

Leaving France behind with nearly 3,000 km under my wheels, I sailed across the channel, visions of glory in my head. But upon landing, reality hit me harder than my face on the pavement as my beloved bike was in desperate need of servicing. The bill? A staggering £200. It turns out that traveling by bike isn’t just a test of endurance; it’s also a crash course in financial sacrifice.

After a brief but lovely stint with my cousin in Bournemouth, I set off northward with Stonehenge in my sights. Simple plan, right? Just a peaceful drive through the idyllic English countryside. What could possibly go wrong? Well, let’s say my navigation app decided to have a little fun. Instead of ancient stones, I ended up weaving through farm fields, where tractors circled ominously, blissfully unaware of the lost traveler trespassing in their domain.

Lost in Farm Fields…

Surreal Stonehenge

Reaching Stonehenge felt almost surreal. After hours of pedalling through the lush green hills of Wiltshire, the sight of those ancient stones standing proud on the horizon made every pedal stroke worth it.. And the best part? I got up close, for free! One of the perks of two-wheeled travel and a minor miracle of navigation! Just as I was catching my breath, marvelling at the sheer scale of those 4,500-year-old slabs, an asian tourists turned his camera in my direction and before I knew it, I became part of the scene. Apparently, there’s a special kind of novelty in watching someone show up by bike, no tour bus needed. I didn’t quite expect to become an attraction myself, but hey – if cycling to Stonehenge doesn’t give you bragging rights, what does?

After Stonehenge, I set my sights on Liverpool, rolling through the countryside with more optimism than a cyclist probably should. That is, until the grim parade began. I’ve never seen so many casualties on the road – squirrels, seagulls, even an owl, all lying in their eternal rest. It felt like some sort of twisted nature documentary, courtesy of British roads. Despite the dreadful roadkill count, the ride was beautiful. Journey led me alongside river paths. And I had to slow down, not that I minded – the scenery practically demanded it.

Worcester Road

Ironbridge Bridge

Then, as the day wore on, I found myself in a place straight out of a fairytale: Ironbridge. Something about this town felt charmed, like I’d went through some invisible gate to a different time. I found a campsite on the hill nearby, settled in, and got ready for a quiet night. But “quiet” didn’t stand a chance once the big Birmingham family rolled in and invited me to their gathering. They were loud, lively, and friendly in a way that only folks from Birmingham seem to be, chatting about everything from football to the intricacies of tea-brewing. Just as I thought the conversation was winding down, one of them leaned over and gave me an unexpected piece of advice for my upcoming Scottish leg: “Just don’t mistake midges for minges up there, mate.” And on that note, I fell asleep, wondering what other sage words of wisdom I’d pick up on this journey north.

The McMuffin Misadventure

As the morning sun poked through the tent, I did what any self-respecting cyclist would do and slept through my alarm.. What woke me, you ask? Was it the beautiful sound of chirping birds? No. It was the unholy gnawing of hunger, clawing at my insides with one demand: McDonald’s breakfast. I checked the time and nearly panicked. The breakfast cutoff was at 11 a.m., and I was relieved when my navigation confidently reported my ETA as 10:55.. Thus began the Great McMuffin Chase of 2024. With no time to spare, but that’s what adrenaline is for, right? I kicked off in an optimistic frenzy, eyes on the prize (and the clock), pedalling like a man possessed by the spirit of Ronald McDonald himself.

Speed has a tendency to turn small details into trivialities, like maintaining basic cycling etiquette, ensuring visibility, and avoiding, you know, stationary objects. In a flash of brilliant multitasking – checking the stability of my rear bag while cycling, the universe decided to humble me. Out of nowhere, a parked car’s mirror decided it was time to teach me a lesson about paying attention. Smack. The bike lurched and I landed on the pavement with the grace of a sack of potatoes. I don’t know how I did it, but there it was: my front wheel folded like a Salvador Dalí painting, and my dreams of breakfast evaporated faster than my dignity. I dusted myself off, battered but not broken, well, at least not as much as my front wheel. Fate had a different McMiracle in store. By some divine intervention, there was a bike shop opened a few blocks away (it was Sunday). Limping in, I pointed at the wheel with the resigned look of a person who had accepted defeat. A hundred pounds and a shiny new wheel later, I was back on the road – hungry, slightly poorer, but impressively still alive.

Broken Wheel

Liverpool Hostel

As I made my way towards Liverpool, filled with optimism, I rolled into Birkenhead (town on the other side of Liverpool), expecting to catch the ferry and glide into Liverpool in style. Turned out that the ferry was as elusive as my breakfast that morning – no ferries on Sundays. So, plan B: the train. The cascade of misfortune continued as I found out that the escalators were conveniently broken, and the elevator could barely hold a single suitcase, let alone a man and his bicycle. I found myself in a thrilling, stair-hauling spectacle, but eventually made it with a muscle soreness and few bike scratches. Fun times, indeed.

Upon arrival in Liverpool, I tracked down my hostel with high hopes for a quiet, cozy bunk. And as fate would have it, I’d timed my arrival perfectly with game day. Picture this: a sea of fans, security guards, and folks of all ages wrapped in jerseys, shouting and chanting as I navigated through in what felt like a human pinball machine. Quiet, it was not. Later, I stumbled into the legendary Cavern Club, where, by the luck of an exhausted fool, I arrived just in time for the Beatles Revival Festival. In my finest vagabond ensemble: flip-flops, shorts, and a cycling shirt, I made quite the impression among beatlemaniacs. I struck up a chat with a group of suspiciously authentic-looking lads. Naturally, they turned out to be one of the top Beatles revival bands, famous and touring internationally (and only later found out that they’d play in my hometown soon).

Cavern Club

Lake District

I pedalled onward, blissfully unaware of what was to come. Not five minutes out, it started raining, but I pushed on, convincing myself that it had to stop eventually. Spoiler: it didn’t.. I’ve been through all kind of rain there is: Little bitty stingin’ rain…and big ol’ fat rain. Rain that flew in sideways. And sometimes rain even seemed to come straight up from underneath. Shoot, it even rained at night…you name it, I rode through it. Soon, it wasn’t just me who was soaked. My bike was more waterlogged than a shipwreck. My clothes, my tent, even my spirit so thoroughly waterlogged I felt sure I’d start growing scales and any hope of drying out overnight was shattered by the relentless downpour that that even increased during the night.

The next day, Lake District loomed in the distance, but whatever beauty it held was effectively washed away by the never-ending downpour. Trees, mountains, and lakes blurred into one endless scene of rain-soaked misery. There were, I assume, stunning vistas just out of sight, obscured by the endless drips running down my face and fogging my glasses. When I finally reached the far side of the Lake District, my prayers to any weather god who would listen were briefly answered. The clouds parted, and there it was: Castlerigg Stone Circle. In the weak, glorious sunlight, the ancient stones rose against the hills like silent, timeless sentinels. I staggered up to the circle, still dripping like some offering to a pagan deity, feeling like I’d found a bit of dry land after a biblical flood.

Castlerigg Circle

Twilight Crossing

Crossing from England into Scotland was meant to feel triumphant, a milestone of sorts. But as night fell, it took a turn I hadn’t anticipated. The sky had already turned that deep, almost sinister shade of black when I noticed something curious on the roadside. I circled back, figuring it was worth a look, and that’s when I saw it: a badger just lying there, injured and bleeding…It was clear he’d been hit and couldn’t move his back legs. Those big, dark eyes met mine, and I felt completely helpless. I tried to get the poor creature some help. I called every number I could find, desperately hoping for a glimmer of compassion in the dark night, but all I got was silence. Watching those bright eyes dim as life slipped away was the hardest part of the trip. I’d set out on this journey for adventure and wonder, yet here I was, feeling the weight of mortality in the most heart-wrenching way. It was a stark reminder that not every road leads to joy.

Lake District

Riding through Lockerbie felt a bit surreal. I couldn’t help but feel a shadow over the place. With its infamous past, the quiet streets seemed to carry whispers of the tragedy that once unfolded in the skies above (It is the deadliest terrorist attack and aviation disaster in Britain.). After a quick look around, I pushed onward to a nearby national park, hoping to take advantage of Scotland’s legendary wild camping rights. Ah, the freedom of wild camping, except for one detail they don’t mention: fences. Everywhere. I cycled for miles, practically doing a full circuit, just trying to find a spot where I wouldn’t be trespassing on someone’s sheep paddock.

Finally, with a slightly bruised spirit, I arrived in Glasgow and had a reunion with friends I hadn’t seen for over 10 years. We swapped stories over drink, reminiscing about the decade that’s vanished faster than the Scottish summer. Then I went into sightseeing mode: The William Wallace memorial stood tall and defiant, a nod to Scottish resilience. But what took my breath away was the local Necropolis. This place was something else, an enormous city of the dead with row upon row of crumbling headstones and statues, and I was sure it held more residents than some of the towns I’d cycled through! Glasgow didn’t disappoint. It had everything, even a bit of bone-chilling charm in its own Scottish way.

Lockerbie Camping

Loch Lomond Camping

Heading north around Loch Lomond felt like cycling straight into a Scottish postcard. After a day of winding around the lake’s edge, I found the ultimate hilltop spot with a view that almost made the entire trip feel worth it. For once, not a drop of rain, and just enough clouds to give it that “romantic Highlands” look. I went to bed feeling like I’d found a hidden gem. As dawn broke, I realised I had some unexpected company. A whole flock of sheep had claimed the hillside as their breakfast nook. They stared, unimpressed by my camping setup, clearly judging my sleeping bag as inferior insulation compared to their cozy wool coats.

The ride that followed was pure magic. As I rode through the rugged Scottish Highlands, a rollercoaster of hills and lakes and misty mountains, the clouds hung low, giving the landscape that dark, brooding look that only Scotland can pull off. Sunny skies? No, thank you. Somewhere along the route, I came across a sight almost as strange as the landscape—a Russian bikepacker, looking a bit misplaced in his minimal gear and an extremely pricey carbon bike. He seemed vaguely lost and asked, with a thick accent, where he could make a fire. At that exact moment, the rain decided to make a comeback, adding an ironic touch to his hopeful question. Seeing the poor guy shivering, I offered to heat some food for him, so he wouldn’t go entirely feral in the Highlands.

Scottish Highlands

Abuser’s House

Somewhere in the desolate backroads, I pedalled past a lonely house that looked like it had lost a fight, badly. Windows smashed, roof half-caved in, burned inside out, walls bearing the bruises and apparent local vengeance. I stopped briefly to take it in. One truck driver passing by filled me in on its dark history: it was the house of an infamous child abuser. Only after he’d died did the town discover the horrors he’d hidden there, and let’s just say the building has been receiving “ongoing feedback” from the community ever since.

Creeped out and grateful to leave it behind, I rode on, hoping the rain would wash the memory away. The rain, as it turned out, had no plans to go anywhere. It poured relentlessly all the way to Fort William. On the bright side, I scored a “rain discount” at the campsite, which seemed like the least Scotland could offer me by this point. I’d looked forward to seeing Ben Nevis, but when I arrived, it was a complete no-show, hidden entirely behind a dense wall of fog. UK’s highest peak would remain a mystery for me. Vague, cloud-covered giant somewhere out there.

Rural Church

Camping near Isle of Rum

Camping near Mallaig was a stroke of luck, really. I stumbled upon a hidden path leading to a prime hilltop spot overlooking the island of Rum. The kind of view straight out of a pirate’s dream. Watching the sun dip behind the rugged island, I almost felt like I’d discovered buried treasure (or at least a decent place to pitch a tent without sheep joining me for breakfast). I headed to the ferry for the Isle of Skye. I bought my ticket for the 12:30 crossing, with sign outside saying to be there 10 minutes before departure, so I did exactly that, only to see ferry had already shoved off. Apparently, “10 minutes before” actually means “you should have been here ages ago.” Slightly defeated, I bought another ticket for the next ferry and figured I’d kill time with breakfast.

I found a bench overlooking the harbour, got comfortable, and dug into my well-deserved meal. I was just starting to feel a little less bitter when a squadron of seagulls swooped in, and one of them decided to bestow a little “gift” right on my shoulder. Maybe it was just bad luck, or maybe it was a warning to check the time. Either way, I wiped off the “sign” and boarded the next ferry, hoping Skye would be a bit kinder with its welcome.

Isle of Skye

Isle of Skye Landscape

The plan was simple: find a nice spot to camp near Portree and settle in for a peaceful night on the Isle of Skye. After miles of searching, I ended up hauling my bike up a steep farming field, setting up my tent on a hill just as dusk fell. It seemed perfect: remote, quiet, with a view. Morning, however, was everything but quiet. As the light hit, I noticed the thick cloud swarming around me. Midges, the relentless little vampires of Scotland were on full attack mode in numbers that should be illegal.. Turns out, I’d pitched my tent right in their breeding ground. One good thing about this whole incident – I set a personal record of packing up the tent, although by the time I cycled away, I’d left half my blood back on that hill.

Despite the midge massacre, the Isle of Skye was worth every bite. The landscape was jaw-droppingly dramatic, so much so that even the endless streams of tourists in their big tour buses decided I was part of the attraction. I’d catch them snapping pictures of me pedalling past cliffs and lochs, probably thinking, “Look at the brave (and possibly insane) cyclist enduring the Highlands.” It was surreal but fitting for a place so wildly beautiful that even being eaten alive felt like part of the Skye experience.

Isle of Skye Hilltop

Oh Dear, it’s Deer

Leaving the Isle of Skye behind, I couldn’t help but look back at the last hills fading in the distance, hoping to imprint the island’s beauty in my mind. And there, on a high ridge, I saw it! A majestic deer, standing perfectly still, silhouetted against the morning light like something out of a Highland fairytale..I felt a bittersweet mix of triumph and terror as I pedalled toward my final destination: Inverness, with one last legendary stop at Loch Ness, the infamous lair of Nessie herself. As I approached, the clear skies decided to turn dramatically moody, shrouding the famous lake in mist. Setting up my tent beside those dark, murky waters, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something mysterious lingered in the air, like the loch itself was watching.

The next morning, I hit the road and rolled into Inverness, marking the end of this epic journey. Only, fate had one more surprise in store. It wasn’t until I got to the airport that I noticed a suspicious itch, and another, and another! A quick check revealed my lovely souvenir from Loch Ness camping: eight ticks latched on and feasting like there was no tomorrow. So much for leaving the midges behind. These ticks seemed determined to carry on their legacy!

Loch Ness

Farewell, beautiful Britain!

The UK was hands down the most eventful and scenic part of my journey. I ticked off bucket list locations, each more awe inspiring than the last. Sure, there were a few setbacks along the way, like chasing ferries, getting dive bombed by seagulls, and playing tug-of-war with midges and ticks for custody of my blood. I even had the best camping experiences of my life, though each night under the stars came with a hidden cost: my blood, willingly donated to midges, ticks, and any other winged menace Scotland could throw my way.