The Italian Princess and the Red Dragon.
A Six Day Grand Tour of Wales for £250.

While enjoying a baking hot family summer holiday in Turunc this year we came across a chap, aged probably in his early to mid fifties, who was holidaying alone. After inviting him to join us in conversation we discovered every year his wife gave him a week pass-out to re-charge his batteries by his chosen method. He claimed his method of revitalisation was basking in the powerful sun, taking in the rather beautiful sights of this tranquil Southern Turkish holiday resort and reflecting over his newly acquired visual feast while sitting by the side of a pool bar sipping ice cold . All-in-all one might conclude, this is a rather agreeable state of affairs.
Upon my return to Blighty, and for much of the rest of the summer, I pondered over this chaps seemingly good fortune before coming to a series of rather less satisfactory, but quite feasible speculations: He’s miserable; he’s got nothing else to do, and his wife probably wants him to bugger off because she’s sick of the sight of him and he of her. Yet the most definite conclusion I eventually arrived at concerning him was he was certainly not a biker. As a result, his only real means of escape from whatever he needs to escape from is a Boeing 737. Fortunately for me I do have other options, I am a biker and my conveyance is a little more versatile: tucked up in the garage sits a freshly serviced 2005, Aprilia SL1000 Falco, wearing brand new tyres and a bloody big roll-top bag. The unexpected benefit of owning such a rewarding and engaging means of transport gives me something he, and probably millions of others, would never realise or understand: it gives me not only a means of escape but also a passion; a hobby; an obsession; an excuse; a dream. It is my ticket to ride.

So when the opportunity of an autumnal half-term pass-out presented itself to me, the only real dilemma I faced was to where take the bike for 2013’s last big ride. My beloved made the suggestion ‘...why don’t you do what you’ve been talking about all summer and take the bike on a tour round Wales?’ I’m lucky enough to already have my official home in Anglesey but kids and my beloved’s work commitments ensure I spend a significant percentage of time in Preston Lancs. I immediately started to explore the possibilities on the internet. I would need about five nights; it would probably cost fifty quid a night for B&B’s; twenty quid a day for juice and another twenty for grub and grog. It all seemed a bit pricey and the weather was looking decidedly ropey. ‘Why don’t you look at youth hostels, you like talking to all and everyone?’ she suggested, sensing my ‘tight as a camel’s arse in a sandstorm’ attitude. I typed Youth Hostel Association (YHA) into the Google search, selected Wales from the location choice and looked in amazement at the results; the hostels were cheap, basic and perfectly placed for my tour.
Now I might be a grey haired Mancunian on a bike, but that’s where my similarity with Nick Sanders ends. I planned my route with a maximum of 150 miles a day. It’s all very well riding many hundreds of miles in straight lines and with decent weather but there is more chance of me growing two heads than Wales (or anywhere in northern Europe) having good weather at this time of year. In addition to that, a straight of more than half a mile is unheard of in the Principality except for the A55 North Wales Expressway and the M40 South coast motorway. Besides the dodgy weather and winding mountain roads, my unwillingness to even attempt to match Nick’s super-human treks were regulated by the memory of once riding a single cylinder Pegaso 650 the 300 miles from Rye in Sussex to North Manchester, after getting an early morning train in the opposite direction. I had quite rightly vowed never again. The logic I therefore apply for my end of October- beginning of November tour was governed by the days being short and the weather probably being ‘bobbins’. Also, although I know North Wales very well after a lifetime of day trips, holidays and now living there, Mid Wales by contrast holds many more mysteries and South Wales is virtually unknown territory. With this in mind I decided when you are a long way from home it would be a shame to just flash past somewhere on the by-pass wondering what it’s like. On the Monday night I get the computer out and start booking my places at the hostels. I’m going tomorrow. The itinerary is:
Day 1 Tuesday. Ride from Preston to my house in Brynsiencyn, Anglesey. 119 miles.
Day 2 Wednesday. Ride to Tyn-Cornel YHA Bunkhouse near Llanddewi-Brefi in the Cambrian Mountains. 120 miles.
Day 3 Thursday. Ride to St Davids YHA in Pembrokeshire via Aberaeron and Fishguard. 100 miles.
Day 4 Friday. Ride along South Welsh coast to Cardiff YHA. 116 miles.
Day 5 Saturday. Ride up through valleys to Llangollen Bunkhouse. 140 miles.
Day 6 Sunday. Ride either back to Preston, or back to Anglesey. Either way about 80 miles.
Possible day 7 Monday. Anglesey to Preston. 119 miles.
Let’s hope it all goes according to plan.

I love Wales. It’s strange for a Mancunian to admit to loving anything and my glowing affection for the Principality causes no-end of amusement to my as-yet uneducated son and his gob-shite mates. Of course I take no notice of their would-be-smartass, tediously Americanised comments: they just haven’t seen the light, yet. However, quite soon into my journey, in-fact within minutes of the big v-twin firing up, I began to have my doubts about the wisdom of my choice of an autumn tour of the land of song.
After dropping little Bronny off at the nursery at 9am for her first day, (sob sob, she’s all grown up now etc.) I got back to the house and started to get my gear on. Just to show my appreciation to my beloved for suggesting and then pushing me to make the trip happen I decided to tidy up and do the washing up. The weather when I dropped off the little one was bright and breezy so I assumed all would be well for a while and undertook my domestic duties. An hour later I ventured outside to lash my bags on the bike. Big black clouds were on the move but the rain was still holding off. I finished securing my luggage, carried out the final checks of glancing at the oil gauge tube and kicking the tyres and chain, and set off.
Two miles from the front door the first snooker ball sized raindrop hit my face through the open visor. ‘Shit!’ Visor down, M6 southbound, mad busy, visor steams up, visor up, wet face, ‘Shit!' I repeated to myself, 'Why didn’t I buy that Pinlock thing at Ghostbikes yesterday? Fourteen quid - you tight bastard! This is ‘gonna’ be an ordeal.’ As is often the case, the traffic began to back-up around Wigan for the inevitable minor incident and I started filtering through but after a few miles of crawling between the frustrated commuters some clown in an A class Merc swerved across six feet in front of me without bothering to check his big shiny mirrors bolted to the side of his silly little tin box: causing me to lock up the back wheel to avoid an early end to the trip. I pulled alongside and pointed out the error of ways while he desperately tried to avoid eye contact. No apology was offered but at least the fool looked suitably embarrassed by his stupidity. God I hate the M6.
Thankfully, by the time I had covered the thirty miles to the M56 junction the rain had stopped but there was still standing water on parts of the road and the spray was relentless. I thought to myself ‘if this is what it’s going to be like for the rest of the week I might as well turn round now and spend the week on the couch.’ By the end of the twenty mile section of M56 approaching Deeside I finally saw dry tarmac. Halle-bloody-lujah! Wales, for now at least, was dry.
I thundered across the blustery but otherwise quiet and undeniably beautiful A55 towards Anglesey, ruefully watching the fast moving clouds dancing and massing over the Irish Sea. I did have half a mind to check in at the house, pick some things up I wanted and then continue to Aberdaron where my granddad used to live and find a B&B for the night, but on arrival in Anglesey I correctly decided to scrap that idea. The early soaking and the relentless high winds throughout the rest of the 119 mile trip had made me feel a tad jaded. It was only early afternoon but I covered the bike up in the garden of my house, and went across the road to ‘Y Groeslon’, the village pub in Brynsiencyn, to tell the old lads over a couple of good Welsh pints of my impending trip round their country. The weather forecast for the next day was threatening downpours in the afternoon so an early night, followed by an early start should see me at the hostel before the rain blew in off the sea. Good plan if it works.
At seven on Wednesday morning the alarm woke me up to a bright blustery day in Brynsiencyn. I loaded my bag onto the bike and by eight I was thundering down the dry five mile or so stretch of the A4080 to the Britannia Bridge. Once back on the mainland I took the road to Caernarfon and everything appeared to be going according to plan. The night before I had studied the route set out on Google maps which took me from Caernarfon along the main A487 road, around Snowdonia to Porthmadog. Given the storms of the last few days I was fairly content to be avoiding the twisty mountain passes, however, the tom-tom had a different plan. I had set the route to the postcode of the Tyn-Cornel bunkhouse and glanced at the map of the route-plan on the small sat-nav screen. The plotted route appeared fine, bringing me to the west coast at the top of Cardigan Bay as anticipated, but I hadn’t noticed on the tiny screen map how it was taking me through, rather than round Snowdonia. When the know-it-all black box subsequently directed me off the Porthmadog road just before Caernarfon I assumed it was a town centre by-pass but soon enough I found myself on the winding, windy, wet, leaf and branch strewn A4085. There followed about hour of bolt-upright, nervous riding through some fairly dodgy conditions. Finally, after passing through the pretty hump-backed bridge village of Beddgelert I emerged unscathed from the twenty mile mountainous region at Llanfrothen where my nerves were soothed with a big pot of tea and a full breakfast at the ‘Siop Y Pentref a Chaffi.’ (Not bad, 7/10)

From Llanfrothen, I continued south and was finally deposited onto the main A487, until what I assumed to be its termination with the southbound A470 heading towards the riverside village of Dolgellau. From there, the A487 miraculously re-emerged and took me thirty five miles first briefly eastward and then south-westwards on beautifully surfaced, fast and sweeping road down to the aforementioned Mr Sanders’ new hometown of Machynllenth, (although there are two areas where they are still working on re-routing and re-surfacing the road) and continues, in the same fine, free flowing form across to Aberystwyth.

Normally, Aberystwyth would be well worth hanging around at for a while. An ancient university town with narrow streets full of interesting looking shops, complimented by a fine promenade and marina. However, after pulling in at the marina watching a local chap collecting driftwood from a huge pile driven high up the beach by the previous nights’ storm, I nervously looked out to sea to see ominous black clouds being blown in at an alarming rate of knots. The ever insistent tom-tom informed me I was still twenty-odd miles from the bunkhouse which was located high up in the Cambrian Mountains so after a quick fuel, coca-cola and chocolate stop I was back on the road riding away from the on-rushing clouds.

From Aberystwyth tom-tom directed me south again on the A487 for a couple of miles before turning inland onto theA485 heading towards Tregaron. Once again the road was beautifully surfaced with predictable fast sweeping corners but somewhere just outside Tregaron tom-tom, (the bastard!) took me off this pristine tarmac and onto a series of very wet, narrow, leaf, mud and cow shit covered single tracks. I’ve looked on the map and these roads aren’t even numbered.
Eventually, after being entirely at the mercy of the little black box bolted to the Aprilia’s windshield for what seemed like an eternity, I entered the somewhat unexpected village of Llanddewi Brefi, to see a teenage Goth girl walking down the mid-nineteenth century village street, complete with the compulsory uniform of a skull printed jacket, full black make-up and the essential piercings. She looked as surprised to see a large bloke in a bright red and white jacket on a big Italian motorcycle as I was to see her in a village where Ivor the Engine would have appeared the more appropriate transport and a flat cap and a grubby old trench coat the more appropriate attire.

From the village a small brown sign signified the bunkhouse was seven miles away. Seven miles normally on a motorcycle is what, ten maybe fifteen minutes? This was no normal seven miles. The road immediately narrowed and began climbing the steep valley out of the village. After half a mile or so the houses ended and a few hundred yards later a clear green mossy centre to the single track emerged signifying a distinct lack of regular traffic. ‘Onwards and upwards’ ordered tom-tom. Soon I was riding up the side of a moor, sheep scattering into the surrounding woodlands as I approached. Eventually the road, once again perfectly and recently tarmaced it must be said, was closely shrouded by the forest. A single set of fresh tyre tracks clearing two six inch paths of adhesive tarmac from the half inch of freshly dropped slippery and wet pine needles covering the remainder of the road. After emerging above the tree line the road was open to the wide and wasteful moor with the gleaming white and surprisingly sprightly sheep providing the only splash of colour from the dramatic bracken covered hillside. At the top of a desolate hill a brown sign indicated the bunkhouse was one mile to the left down a steep un-metalled and deeply potholed track. I feared for the longevity of my new Pilot Road 3 tyres as I dodged large sharp looking stones and plunged through deep puddles on the five minute endurance course of a track before rounding a perilous bend and spotting the secluded bunkhouse behind two farm gates maybe 500 yards away.

My son Jake, who rides a tatty old ‘R’ reg. Honda CB500 which, due to him having no garage or shed, lives under a scrappy old cover outside his house in Oldham sneeringly refers to my beloved Aprilia as the ‘Italian Garage Princess.’ I laughed to myself as I looked at the Italian Princess following her seven mile ordeal from Llandewi Brefi to the YHA hostel. Mud, pine needles, sheep shit and god-knows-what else covered her normally stylish figure and deep red metallic paint. ‘If only that little swine could see you now’ I thought.
So this is what YHA hostels were all about then. Tom-tom was forgiven for its earlier eccentricities. It had, with disturbing accuracy, directed me to the front door of what must be one of the most remote and inaccessible places on the British mainland.

The last time I stayed in a hostel was during a primary school holiday to somewhere in Derbyshire in the late 1970’s, as a consequence I only had very vague memories on which to base my expectations. As I got off the bike to open one of the gates a bloke appeared on the front steps waving to me in a friendly manner before disappearing back inside the rustic old farmhouse. ‘Bloody hell, that’s a nice welcome’ I thought as my expectations rose considerably. I passed through the gates, locking them behind me of course, and rode up to the hard-standing in front of the hostel. The bloke, the volunteer warden, a tall lean retired gardener from Bristol in his sixties whose name was Bill re-emerged from the front porch gesturing and shouting towards me asking if I’d like a cup of tea. I took my helmet off and Bill said, ‘Oh, I thought you were someone else!’ Fortunately Bill proved to be equally friendly and welcoming to the real me as he would have been to his evidently delayed friend.
Surprisingly un-flustered by a big mystery bloke turning up clad in leather, Bill took me inside the hostel to show me around and made a thoroughly welcome mug of tea. I told him my name and that I was booked in for the night expecting him to already know this. ‘That’s alright...’ he said, ‘...I only find out once a week who’s coming when I go down to the village and get a note.’ It turned out there was no phone line to the hostel and the nearest mobile phone signal was ‘a couple of miles up the hill!’ In true ‘townie’ tradition I was momentarily horror-struck. ‘No phone, what if...?’ Actually, there was a small cause for concern. The last mile or so of the ride down to the hostel was most certainly not what Michelin had in mind when they designed my posh new road tyres. If I had damaged them on that rough track, and it was seriously bloody rough, I was stranded. I left the bike outside for an hour or so, nervously checking the tyres every five minutes before realising with some relief everything was fine and tucking up the grubby Italian Princess in the woodshed for a dry and well-earned good night’s rest. (After scouring the concrete floor like a hawk for old pallet nails and threatening looking splinters.)
Since I’d ridden about twenty miles inland, the rain arrived a couple of hours later that had been expected on the coast. By 4pm there was heavy drizzle followed by a prolonged downpour beginning an hour or so later. I’d judged the weather perfectly. Outside the hostel that evening the silence of the mountains was drowned out by the sounds of running water as thousands of tiny streams formed on their way down the hillsides to the valley bottom. Inside was far more welcoming: an open coal fire, faced by two old and exceptionally comfortable rocking chairs, roared away in the communal living/dining room. The other hostellers for the night consisted of a very nice retired couple from Caerphilly who apparently were regular YHA visitors in their quest for remote country walking, far from the madding crowd, as it were. They were accompanied on this occasion and two of their grandchildren and made interesting conversation before turning in early to be off up the mountain in the morning. This left me, Bill and his recently arrived buddy Richard, a middle aged farmer from Shropshire who regularly ventured into Wales on his Suzuki Burgman, (although on this trip he was in his 4x4) to poke at the glowing embers of the fire while discussing the many merits of the YHA and of travelling this utterly beautiful land on two wheels. It turned out that Bill also had a valid contribution to the bike discussion as he cycles to Tyn-Cornel from his flat in Bristol for his three week stints as the warden, that’s about 120 miles according to Google Maps so ‘fair play to him’ I say. I retired from the peaceful chat around 9.30pm to choose my bed from the eight empty bunks in the male bunkroom. The thoroughly comfortable yet agricultural looking bunk proved no-obstacle to my tiredness and I was asleep in seconds after the exploits of the day.

Tyn-Cornel bunkhouse was a revelation to me: a rustic yet perfectly equipped old farmhouse situated in the most wonderful, spectacularly beautiful, peaceful and remote location. Everything you really need when you are on your travels or after a quiet break; and none of the crap you don’t. No telephone, no radio, no T.V. no computer. It costs £12 per night for a warm comfy bed, good conversation, a well equipped kitchen and a glorious roaring fire. It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, especially for those among us who appear surgically attached to their stupid i-phones, but I found it fabulous.
The next morning I was up bright and early to coerce the Italian Princess back up the endurance course to the tarmac. Having learnt the lesson (very nearly the hard way) on the way down of not trying to cross the raised grassy middle of the track if staying upright was my objective, I covered the mile of gravel, rocks, puddles and sheep shit with much more grace and confidence than on my previous attempt. Soon enough I had descended down the road into Llandewi Brefi and was back on the normal roads. This time tom-tom took me on a different set of minor roads before joining the A485 to Lampeter and from there I joined the A482 running parallel with the River Aeron, heading back to the coast, around twenty miles away at Aberaeron. With the weather looking good it was tempting to open the throttle a little further on the once again superb surface, yet the still wet tarmac ensured I generally kept within the legal and perfectly reasonable 60mph limit on the enticingly flowing but unfamiliar road.

All too soon I arrived at the beautiful little seaside town of Aberaeron. The streets, when slowly cruising round on a motorbike, appear to be neatly set up in a grid formation to one side of the old and very pretty harbour, through which the river flows out into Cardigan Bay. Strangely enough, even though there were several fine looking restaurants, I couldn’t find a cafe for the required fry-up so after a little walk around the harbour I jumped back on the bike and set off down the magnificent A487 towards Cardigan. This proved a good move as within twenty minutes or so I came across ‘Emlyn’s’ roadside cafe at Tan-Y-Groes, where a truly monumental full breakfast was presented and devoured. (Excellent 10/10)


Considerably heavier than when I arrived, I struggled to gracelessly clamber back on the Italian Princess before blasting the eight miles down the hill and crossing the River Teifi at Cardigan. Since I had just devoured at least one, and possibly two days worth of calories at Emlyn’s and the greeting landmark to Cardigan was a large and uninspiring Tesco, I decided to break my own rules and bypass the town: a decision I now regret. But the weather was looking good and the road was beginning to dry out so covering the twenty miles or thereabouts to Fishguard along the superb A487 seemed more appealing at the time than trying to walk off some of the recently added heart-attack fodder. A further 20 minutes or so of relatively high speed cruising along the fabulous road landed me at the top of the headland overlooking the steep series of hairpin bends descending into the old Lower Town of Fishguard.

Having never been to this ‘neck of the woods’ before, I was somewhat surprised by Fishguard. I expected the area to be dominated by the ferry terminal but on descending from the headland into the Lower Town there was no sign of heavy shipping and only a few small fishing and leisure craft surrounding the boatyard in the delightful steep sided cove that doubled as a small harbour and the outlet for the River Gwaun. The main town, perhaps a mile or so away was up the other side of the cove and consisted of a narrow, winding but interesting looking high street shrouded on both sides by houses. Heading west from the centre the ferry terminal and main harbour were perhaps another mile off to the right. I rode round to the ferry terminal to find out the cost and travel times to Rosslare in the south of Ireland, considering an abandonment of my initial plans in favour of northbound ride up through Ireland to Belfast before crossing back to Liverpool, but eventually decided to stick to ‘plan A’ and remain on this side of the water.
The actual cost of the ferry from Fishguard to Rosslare, followed by a crossing between Belfast and Liverpool was quite reasonable: £93 with the bike. Yet the main stumbling block was the prospect of arriving in Ireland in a town I’ve never been to, in the dark (about 7pm) with nowhere to stay and the likelihood of being fleeced by the local B&B owners. Also to consider was the ever present irritation of throwing money away buying Euro’s at ridiculous rates at the ferry ports. I know, I’m a bloody tight northern git!


After stretching my legs and fuelling up at the harbour, I rejoined the A487 heading south-westwards for the 16 miles to Britain’s smallest City of St David’s, Pembrokeshire, the westernmost county of Wales. The dry road out to Tyddewi (St David’s in Welsh) was such a blast that after I’d had a mooch around the beautiful, fascinating and ancient town I seriously considered going back and riding it again: just because I could. I had overtaken a tractor followed by some dithering fool in a Renault people carrier about half a mile out of Fishguard and didn’t see another vehicle until I reached the town. Then, on the by now expected perfect tarmac, I blasted the Aprilia along the fast yet bendy road as swiftly as I dared, while still being able to savour the wonderful sights, smells and sounds of autumnal rural West Wales. It really is God’s country. The Italian Princess was running like a dream: the big Rotax Mille engine humming along contentedly and then roaring into life, breathing fire like the mythical Welsh dragon whenever requested; the Michelin Pilot Road 3 tyres were sticking like glue in the wet or dry; the steering was absolutely accurate and the big Brembo brakes hauled my not inconsiderable bulk up exactly as they should; the seat was comfortable and the riding position perfect for engaging riding. It dawned on me I was truly enjoying myself out there, there was absolutely nothing I’d rather be doing and nowhere I’d rather be. My mind flashed back to the bloke in Turkey sat by the pool and I thought just how much more I was getting from my free time than he was from his. That little black picture of a motorcycle on the reverse side of my driving licence granted me a real sense of freedom: not governed by anyone’s timetable but my own; not at the mercy of French air traffic controllers; not a member of ABTA. The motorcycle trip, however long, is up to you and no one else: no one to blame if it goes wrong but yourself; no one to thank or congratulate upon its successful conclusion but yourself. There’s freedom, two wheels and a tank full of unleaded.