Touring the British Isles
Touring The British Isles
The Real Great Britain Is In Its Villages, Rural Areas, And The Roads Between
PERRY R. GILBERT
IN SEARCH OF a really different kind of vacation, my wife and I and another couple decided to take a motorcycle tour of the British Isles. It turned out to be the greatest vacation we ever had. In addition to the obvious differences we expected, we had many unexpected and very pleasurable experiences, among them a greater realization of the origin of our American heritage and a superb motorcycle tour.
The whole idea germinated at our local cycle store in an early winter month when one is perhaps more disposed to talking about cycling rather than actually riding. Bob Myers, owner of F reestate Cycle in Bladensburg, Maryland, had only to mention that he and his wife had been thinking about a motorcycle trip in Great Britain. 1 said, “Stop thinking—let’s go.” There were lots of reasons we shouldn’t have made the trip, and a breed less sturdy than motorcyclists would have given up. At 49, I personally felt that I was lucky I hadn’t already waited too long for such an adventure. Based on the probability of good weather and arrangements we could make for care of our children, homes, and businesses, June 24 to July 12, 1971, was selected for the adventure.
The months remaining before departure date were occupied by reading British travel information and history, planning what to take with us and what to see, and getting the necessary passports, smallpox vaccinations, and plane tickets. Much of our planning was facilitated by reading and referring to an article in the December 1970 issue of CYCLE WORLD entitled “European Touring, a Guide to Get You Started.” Bob also got in touch with his very good friend, John Walford, Works Director of the Triumph Engineering Co. When John heard of our plans, he insisted that we establish our base-of-operation near Meridan and that we, of course, ride Triumph motorcycles. The area around Meridan was ideal for our base since it is the geographic center of England. We didn’t need any arm twisting to convince us to ride Triumphs.
The long awaited June 24 finally arrived and Bob and Myrt Myers and Teresa and I started our dream vacation. Our 747 Pan Am jet left Washington’s Dulles Airport around 8 p.m., and after 7 hours of flying and a five-hour time loss we arrived at London Airport at 8 a.m. the next morning. We were met there by the Triumph Engineering Co.’s chauffeur, Mr. Copson. He is a delightful gentleman, the type who is obviously happy when he is helping someone else. In our two-hour trip to Meridan, near Coventry, he gave us a complete account of British customs and our first lesson in driving on the left side of the road.
John Walford was waiting at Triumph to greet us. After meeting a few of the Triumph executives, we were taken on a tour of the factory. The sense of urgency that prevailed throughout the factory was unbelievable. The place literally hummed with activity. The scope and versatility of the manufacturing operation was also impressive. There were huge and sophisticated milling machines turning out gears and other precision parts. Yet, there were also hand operations such as delicate painting and some quality control. And believe me, that final assembly line of big, beautiful Triumphs is a joy to behold.
Our first four days in England were spent touring the Midlands area. We established our base-of-operation at the St. Johns Hotel in Solihull. Solihull, Meridan, and Coventry are all within 10 or 15 miles of each other on the southeast side of Birmingham. These first days were made very pleasant by our friends from Triumph, who gave us a tour of Warwick and Ludlow Castles, Stratford on Avon, Blenheim Palace, Worchester and Coventry Cathedrals, and other sights in the Midlands area.
We did see the statue of Lady Godiva in Coventry, and I wondered if Teresa would get any more novel ideas for our motorcycle tour. She didn’t. She straddled the motorcycle and wore a rain suit over slacks and a blouse.
The big day we had planned for so long finally arrived. Bob picked up a ’71 TR-6, I picked up a ’71 Bonneville, and we headed back to the St. Johns Hotel to pick up our wives. Our original plan was to take a twoor three-day shakedown cruise to Northern Wales and then return to Solihull. We wanted to get a feel for what we needed and wanted to carry and how to carry it, with the goal being light traveling. We didn’t want to look like motorized pack mules. So all we took were the clothes on our backs and what we could fit into two saddlebags. Believe me, that wasn’t much, considering that my wife’s purse, our camera, and my shaving kit took nearly all of one bag. We did have space for a couple of underwear changes, a spare shirt and blouse, sweaters, and rain suits. The wisdom of the sweaters and rain suits was proven later.
There in front of the St. Johns Hotel we made our final preparations for departure. Mrs. Walford and some of the hotel employees were there to share our joy as we zoomed out of the St. Johns’ parking area.
We proceeded very cautiously toward > the large industrial city of Birmingham. Our plan was to go around the city but one wrong turn took us right through the middle of the downtown area. Believe me, we learned to drive left and go around the circles clockwise in a hurry. Driving on the left side isn’t as bad as we thought because everyone else was doing it too. Nevertheless, I talked to myself a lot that first day. I suppose the worst traffic situation of all is the British roundabout, or circle, of which there are many. Every time I approached one I’d say to myself, “Head left and give the guy on my right the right-of-way.” But once I was in the circle I’d say “It’s mine now. Don’t let those guys coming into the circle from the left bluff you.”
Except for London, we found the British drivers to be more polite than U.S. drivers. It’s true that the British move along pretty smartly, but their whole objective seems to be to help the other fellow move along smartly, too. For instance, passing is encouraged on two-lane roads even with oncoming traffic. The driver you are passing will pull as far left as possible and the oncoming driver will do the same, leaving enough space astride the white line for the passing car. It was a snap on motorcycles.
English motorcyclists don’t experience the same stigma that U.S. cyclists do. Most drivers gave us a better-thanfair shake in traffic. When we stopped to look at our maps, the windows would roll down and there would be an offer to help. One fellow even parked his car, got out and came over to help us. All this was done before they knew we were Americans; after they heard us speak they were even more anxious to help.
Getting out of Birmingham was a bit of a chore, but just about 20 miles northwest of it we found ourselves in wonderfully picturesque, rural English country. We found out soon that things aren’t very far apart in Great Britain and the type of area can change very rapidly. Since we were motorcycling, we enjoyed the plenitude of serene and beautiful backroads.
The roads are a paradise for motorcyclists. Most of the network was established hundreds of years ago and follows the natural topography. The gradients and curves were selected by carriage horses and their drivers picking the most suitable route through the countryside.
Since Great Britain doesn’t have to worry so much about expanding their road network, they can concentrate on keeping the existing ones in good condition. The surfaces are excellent, being mostly blacktop with small stone chippings rolled in very smoothly, and they give great traction. Stone walls or hedgerows line almost every road; between these and the telephone poles it’s easy to forecast every turn in the road.
It was a real joy to drive a Triumph on these roads. I’ve never found a bike that handles quite like a Triumph; it seems to know where I’m going before I do. I didn’t have to fight it into a lean on slow, tight corners. Every turn was easy and could be handled almost like a fast corner. There was power aplenty for the many hills, and when a downshift was required that Triumph clutch and gearbox couldn’t be beaten.
The few superhighways in Great Britain are called motorways. They were designed with a slide rule and constructed with a bulldozer, and while they lack the charm of the other roads, they are excellent routes for getting from point A to point B.
Routes are very clearly marked. The motorways are marked M followed by a number, such as M-6. The next lower class of road is the A followed by a number, such as A-26 or A-615. Then they have B roads followed by a number. Most of the time the B is omitted so it’s understood that a route number containing only digits is a B-class road. Destination signs usually cite the next village and not necessarily the next large city. This means that you must know which village is next on your route to get to your eventual destination.
One thing that enhances the British roads and countryside is there is practically no litter. In over 1000 miles of mostly country road, I didn’t see a junked car, a beer or soft drink can, or a junked washing machine or refrigerator. There was hardly a scrap of paper to be found. The British seem to know already that their environmental resources can be used up and they all make a real effort to conserve and preserve what they have.
Another joy in Great Britain, particularly for motorcyclists, is that there are very few dogs and most of them are on leashes!
Our first night’s stop was in the Welsh village of Glyndyfrdyn. The Berwyn Arms Inn was typical of the overnight accommodations in Great Britain. They call it bed and breakfast or just B and B. B and B cost us about $4.25 per person and if we had an evening meal with the same landlord it was about $2.50 more for each person. Meals were generally excellent. Evening meals had everything from soup to a fancy dessert. Breakfast was usually two eggs, toast, jelly, coffee, sausage, bacon, and ham. Yes, the British like lots of meat for breakfast.
The rooms weren’t exactly Holiday Inn style, but then we weren’t paying those prices by far. The toilet and bath are always down the hall but there is generally a washstand in every room. We washed our clothes, I shaved, and we even took complete baths in those washstands. Almost every room had an electric or gas heater which, in addition to warming our rooms on chilly nights, dried our laundry and wet clothes. The beds were average, but we didn’t care for anything better. After riding all day, cleaning up, sipping some sherry in front of a fireplace, and eating a great big evening meal, any bed was super.
We had this same type of accommodation in homes similar to our tourist homes and in small hotels. Our landlords were all friendly and were delighted to help Americans touring Britain on motorcycles. All except one made some special arrangement for keeping our bikes safe overnight. One landlord even left his car out of his garage so we could put our bikes in. I’m also sure that we got one or two accommodations because the landlady felt sorry for our wives. Not many girls ride motorcycles in Britain, and I’m sure our wives sometimes looked a little weary after a day’s ride. One landlady even shuffled one or two of her tenants around to make room for us. Each of our innkeepers treated us simply great.
After touring Caernarvon and Beau Mauris Castles on the northwest coast of Wales, we had to slip over the bridge to the Isle of Anglesey to see the village with the longest name in the world— LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLLGOGERYCHWYRNDROBSILLLLANTYSILIOGOGOGOCH. The Welsh natives say the name with ease and know what it means, too. Not only is this town famous for its long name, it’s famous to us because it was here that we decided to forget the shakedown cruise idea. We decided to head for Scotland with the scant provisions we started out with.
We enjoyed the rolling and twisting roads of Northern Wales but when we got back to the Liverpool-Manchester area we took the M-6 to get out of the industrial area. We really gave our Triumphs a workout. A couple of hours at 80-90 mph with a 235-lb. driver and a 120-lb. rider, plus a bit of gear, is a sizable task. The Bonneville was equal to the task; in fact, there was quite a bit of throttle left that I was too chicken to use. We got off the motorway at Kendal, England and entered the Lake country. This area is similar to our upper New York State. When we entered Scotland we took the old carriage route to Edinburgh. This was mountainous, open, sheep range country of exquisite beauty. Sheep were everywhere, up the steep mountain slopes, by the streams, and, oh yes, on the road. The road was very narrow in places and motorcycles were the ideal way to travel. The exhaust note also had a tendency to clear the road of sheep.
In the midst of all this joy and beauty, the inevitable happened—it started to rain. The rain fell for two days, but I wasn’t complaining. Two days of rain out of 19 in Great Britain is some kind of record, I believe. Besides, those rainy days on a motorcycle were quite an experience. One should be prepared for rain if he is going to tour on a motorcycle. We found that we were about 90 percent prepared. Rain suits worked fairly well. The Japanese don’t realize that men come in my size, 6-feet-3 tall and 235 lbs. Their extralarge rainsuits fit me like an extra skin, so I was forced to buy a $3.98 Montgomery Ward suit. We found that I was drier in my cheap Ward’s suit than the others in their $20-$30 sophisticated, Japanese-manufactured suits. Not only should the Japanese make their rain suits bigger, but they should make them more waterproof, too. A little cheaper wouldn’t hurt either. Our big mistake was not making better arrangements for our feet. This was an oversight and we got our feet soaked. Wet feet are cold feet, so for a little comfort I sought heat from the exhaust pipes. My shoes were plastic, need I say more!
We toured Edinburgh Castle on Sunday, the Fourth of July, in the rain. We wore our rain suits and were somewhat of a spectacle, but I’m sure we were the envy of the local tourists. The gas heaters in our rooms really did their job on these rainy days. Panic gripped us one night when I got my wife’s only slacks too close to the heater. We thought she was going to have to finish the trip somewhat like Lady Godiva after all. Fortunately, it was steam that we saw and not smoke.
The sun came out as we entered England again and we had excellent weather for the rest of our trip. We enjoyed the 1900-year-old city of York with its Roman wall ruins and streets too narrow even for motorcycles. The North Yorkshire Moors was riding country again. The twisted spire of the Chesterfield Cathedral is an architectural spectacle to be remembered. There is something to see every few miles in Great Britain and the riding and scenery in between are the very best.
All good things must come to an end. We left our motorcycles at Meridan and took the train to London to spend our last three days like normal tourists. One should see London, I suppose. There’s Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Windsor Palace, and many other famous sights. It’s no place for a motorcycle though; in fact, you’re lucky to survive as a pedestrian. Taxis are the only way to go in London; they are fast and reasonably inexpensive. Everything else is expensive. Our hotel room, for instance, was $35 a night and there wasn’t any breakfast with three kinds of meat, either.
The real Great Britain is in its villages and rural areas. It’s historic, the people are friendly, the scenery is superb, and it’s a motorcyclist’s paradise. The British cherish every year of their heritage and every square mile of their land.
