by Glenn Le Santo

So what is it with me? Am I crazy? A few years ago I was riding around the country as a long distance courier, it may sound glamorous but some times life on the road could be terrible. Not only did I have to consider the danger of riding a motorcycle while surrounded by myopic motorists but I also had to cope with British weather. Ice, storm force winds, heavy rain  and fog, I rode through it all. Then somehow I managed to break into the tight knit world of motorcycle journalism. This summer I had an idea to ride around Britain and record what I saw on camera and then load it onto the internet. In no time I was back on a Godforsaken motorway as 2cms of rain fell in less than an hour. Yes, I am crazy!

One minute blue skies, the next minute the rain fells so heavily that all the cars and the road disappeared from view! I was supposed to be enjoying a leisurely ride around Britain with an Agfa digital camera and a Harley. It was summer when I started my tour but the Monsoon season had begun by the time I got to my first night’s stop.

Day One

I left London on Monday the 1st September feeling like the guys in ‘Easy Riders’, with the freedom of the road and all that whistling around the empty space once inhabited by my brain. The grey matter had fled during the heavy partying of the punk years so now I was left helpless without it’s reasoned advice. As I south cruised down the A286 stopping to photograph the tranquil English countryside Mother Nature began preparing my weather for the next eight days.

My first day’s ride took me through London and on over the North and South downs of Southern England. The North Downs run through Surrey where they are known as The Surrey Hills. Although the area is fairly densely populated much of the development is centred in the lower slopes and valleys. The hills are gentle and only climb to a few hundred feet but nonetheless some spectacular views can be seen by climbing to various vantage points. Some such as Newlands corner have become picnic spots. There is another on top of Holmbury Hill but you must walk to this one. Much of the higher ground is woodland, some of which is ancient and undisturbed but mostly it is coniferous plantation.

Further south I rode over the South Downs in Sussex.  Again these gently rolling hills were once covered in ancient forest but very little survives today, the hills seem to have more farmland than forest, but areas of forest can still be found and are often full of red deer. While the hills are relatively low there are some fairly steep climbs, some featuring big drops at the side of the road. I once studied the history of the South Downs area of Sussex and found that the hills and forests were once managed by powerful Celtic families. They grew corn, kept pigs in the woods and fought amongst themselves. They were a great race but sadly could never stop in-fighting enough to resist the relentless march of the Roman Imperialism. Much of there culture however remains to influence modern art and design, such as Art Nouveau.
 
My first halt was at my friend’s house near Portsmouth. I have known John and his wife Jan for years and even when circumstances have caused us to lose contact we have always managed to meet up again by pure coincidence. Nowadays I visit him regularly to keep in touch with one of the few people who I know not to be completely immersed in the tide of materialism sweeping the world.

No sooner had I parked up than the heavens opened and the rain that was going to be a feature of the first four days of the tour began. I hurriedly unpacked the bike and fled indoors for a hot cup of tea and intelligent conversation.

Day Two

The next morning the day dawned with a promising cloudless blue sky. By the time I had breakfasted and packed however the clouds had rolled over and the first spots of rain began. I headed west towards Bournemouth to ride through the New Forest where I was met with sunshine.

The New Forest is so named because in the year 1080 King William (William the Conqueror) forcefully evicted the inhabitants of a large part of Hampshire and designated the area as his private hunting grounds. Much of the area survives today and enjoys special status to preserve its unique nature. Unfortunately this status has not stopped the gradual erosion of the forest which is now as much scrubland as woodland.

I rode out of the New Forest having visited the place where King Rufus was murdered in AD1100, or accidentally shot by an arrow as the message on the marker stone now proclaims. When I learned history at school we were told that this early King of England had not wanted to join the hunt that day as his dreams had been filled with dread and forboding. Eventually he decided to ride out, only to meet his death by an arrow reputedly shot by his friend Sir Walter Tyrell. The suggestion is now that the arrow struck an oak tree and deflected striking the King in the chest. Sounds pretty suspect to me. It is an example of the culture of history enjoyed in Britain that such a spot should still be marked by a stone a (and nowadays a picnic sight) some 900 years later.

From the New Forest I rode on to the ancient town of Dorchester. Once the site of a Roman garrison the town was probably the site of a Celtic settlement. Many Roman forts and settlements were deliberately built on or close to important or sacred Celtic places to reinforce Roman power. Near to the lovely town of Dorchester is the impressive Iron Age Hill Fort known as Maiden Castle. Here in the first century a fierce battle was fought between the local Celtic tribesmen (the Durotriges) and the Roman Legions. Even today the ramparts of this hill turned into a fort look very imposing. The thought of running up the steep muddy slopes while the Celts rained javelins and sling shot stones down on upon you makes you realise how brave, fit and effective the Roman Army was. Before storming the fort the Romans barraged it with Balista or huge javelins shot from machines to subdue the raging Celts within. The Dorchester museum has a Celtic skeleton with the head of such a spear embedded in its spine. A nasty way to go.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to visit the fort so I don’t have any pictures for you. It consists of several huge rings of ramparts cut into a huge hill. Each rampart is steep and the attacker would reach the summit only to be faced with a steep drop and then a steep climb to the next summit. The ramparts were often bristling with sharpened poles and the dip in between ramparts must have been hell with missiles raining down upon you. The Romans were a crafty lot, rather than spend days storming the ramparts they concentrated on the system of interlocking mounds which made up the entrance. Having forced the gates they gained access to the inner area, behind much of the Celtic force, and massacred the inhabitants. It was a heavy defeat for the Durotriges and one from which they never recovered.

Dorchester is in the county of Dorset, north of which lies Somerset, my next destination that day. I wanted to get a picture of Glastonbury Tor, a sacred hill in the heart of Somerset reputedly remodelled by ancient Britons. I also wanted a picture of Wells cathedral, in my view the most fantastic cathedral in Britain. I got my pictures of the Tor and the ruined church that stands atop it but a heavy rainstorm stopped me from getting a good picture of the Cathedral. It is a wonderful building so I will endeavour to photograph it again for inclusion on these pages. Believe it or not the chapel on the Tor was destroyed centuries ago by earthquake, earthquakes are unknown in Britain today.

By the time I left Somerset and headed up the country towards my night’s resting place in Hereford the weather was very patchy. I managed to avoid a real soaking by pulling off the road during the downpours. When I eventually arrived at the Green Dragon in Hereford I was tired and ready for my bed.

Day Three

My next destination was Wales, I had been planning to ride to Land’s End but the weather changed all that.  I rode into mid Wales where, naturally, it was raining. Photography was almost impossible in the dark and wet conditions so I stopped and drank tea instead. Every time I parked up the bike would attract a crowd and comments like -"That’s a real motorbike!" As usual the onlookers who were hopelessly seduced by the Harley’s glamour.

I managed to get a few photographs of Wales but time and weather forced me back into England without seeing much of the spectacular geography of Wales. Next time maybe.

My next planned stop was Glasgow but the monsoon like rain storms forced a change. I battled up the M6 motorway in appalling weather. I struggled to make a 50mph average and as the day drew near to an end I knew that I couldn’t make it to Glasgow. I was very wet and riding in terrible weather was wearing me out. I rang base and asked Tara to get me into some nearby accommodation. I was by now so wet that I would have shared a single bed with Jo Brand (an English Roseanne). Thanks Marie at the Scratchwood Travel Lodge for finding an empty room. The lodge was full but being a fellow biker Marie rescheduled and rearranged things to get me a room. Bikers are a tight knit community, we are often, unfairly and without good reason, regarded with suspicion or even hatred by non-bikers so it is important that we stick together and look after one another. Marie did just this and saved the day for me. Getting into a hot bath was the highlight of that day.

Day Four

The day started dry, I managed to get some miles done fairly quickly, using the motorways which I had hoped to avoid. I arrived in Glasgow at the same time as the rain. Thanks to the lassies in the Jet Petrol Station who invited me in for a cuppa (Tea). In these times of crime and suspicion to let an unknown leather clad biker hang around in a Gas station is unusual to say the least. Either they had hearts of gold or they have a thing about leather! Or maybe both. All the same, thanks girls - I needed that tea.

With the rain falling very hard again I fled Glasgow and rode hard to Edinburgh. The rain stooped for a while only to come down again with full force shortly after I reached the wonderful city of Edinburgh. I found a dry spot - My room in the Braid Hills Hotel! The rain stopped for long enough for me to get out and wander the streets that evening. But travelling can be lonely, I had no companion and didn’t feel up to simply strolling into a pub and making conversation with strangers. A shame as the Scots are a friendly lot and would have probably made me most welcome, especially once they learned that my Grandfather’s family were Scots.
 

Day Five

The next day the sky was clear blue again. I no longer had time to ride north to the highlands, so instead I spent the morning getting some wonderful shots of the city. The images of the castle are among my favourites along with the pictures of the ‘tribal’ piper. Edinburgh is one of the best cities in Britain with a vibrant night life, interesting buildings and oodles of culture! If you have never been I suggest you get down to your travel agent now.

High winds which threatened to launch the Harley into orbit so I gave the Highlands a miss. Knuckles white with fear and effort I headed south down the A68 Jedburgh road. I have ridden this road many a times as a courier and it is a typical British A road. It has a mixture of fast straights and sweeping corners. Near the border with England the corners start to turn into hairpins, you have to be alert or it’s easy to get caught out. At a place called Carter Bar, on the border between Scotland and England, there is a windswept picnic spot complete with an Ice Cream Van and a mobile Burger bar. I stopped for a cup of tea and took some pictures. Then I turned my back on Scotland and headed south into England.

The A68 starts a roller coaster ride through Northumberland after the Scottish border. The long straight stretches of road hark back to it’s origin as a Roman road. In typical Roman style the road just crosses any thing in it’s path without deflection. Instead of winding around hills it just goes straight up and over them, resulting in a road, which if driven at speed, becomes a roller coaster ride. The local Police know this and patrol it in unmarked cars equipped with radar. The Harley is a boulevard cruiser, it’s not about speed, it’s about cruising and posing. So no trouble with the Police on this bike.

A few miles south of the border I met some Dutch bikers doing the almost the same trip. They have pulled in to put on their waterproofs as the sky is turning black again. I am glad to see I am not alone in my foolishness. The spirit of adventure lives on in these days of coach potatoes and nanny states. For me there is little purpose in a life spent going to work, coming home to veg in front of the telly before slinking off to bed. Only to get up the next day to do the same again. If this is a description of your life then change it now, before it’s too late. There is nothing worse than getting old thinking if only….

After a brief exchange of views from the saddle and general biker talk I left the Dutch bikers and continued South. By now the weeks ride was beginning to take it’s toll on me and I was struggling to keep my concentration level up. I was mentally and physically very tired and just a little bit saddle sore. I was heading for Lincolnshire and home where I planned to spend the next day resting. The miles steadily counted down as I headed south down the Old Great North Road, or the A1. This is the same road that highway robber Dick Turpin used to make good his escape, legends claim he could make the ride from London to York in a day. It’s a very long way to drive let alone ride a horse so perhaps there is a little embellishment in that story.

The rain held off and the further south I rode the more the sun shone. By the time I reached Lincolnshire it was a fine evening with a glorious sunset. I felt a lifted by the warm glow in the sky and a couldn’t help feeling rather smug. I had spent a week on the road on a big Harley Davidson while all my friends had toiled in offices or factories. I am so glad I never listened to all those people who, throughout my life, have told me to give up being an Artist / Writer and get a ‘proper job’.

Day Six

I spent Saturday resting, it was the day of Princess Diana’s funeral. The whole nation was grieving for the loss of one of our brightest stars. I happen to think we didn’t deserve her, this country has an awful habit of putting down the great people that it has borne. Success is a dirty word to the Brits, they somehow find it embarrassing. And when someone is dedicated to improving the lot of the less fortunate then the press spend their time trying to expose any hypocrisy or dirty dealings under the surface. None of us are perfect, not many even come close. So even if someone tries to help others in an imperfect and flawed manner the value of their work should be measured, not the flaws that lie below. I hope this is a turning point for this country and even the world. But as I sit here typing this story the forests of Indonesia burn out of control, only because of greed. So I fear that it’s all to late for turning.

Day Seven

Sunday night I rode down the A15, another old Roman road. As it runs across the flat plains of Lincolnshire the road runs arrow straight. It passes the city of Lincoln with it’s cathedral perched on top of one of the few hills in the region. The flatness of the surrounding land and the straightness of the road mean that the cathedral can be seen for miles. A very imposing sight. The A15 heads south from Lincoln to Peterborough. From there you must take the A1 again to London. The sun shone and made my last day of the tour an enjoyable one. I had planned to call up a few old friends in London but I dawdled so much on the ride down it was very late when I arrived at the Charles Bernard Hotel  in Hampstead. I popped out to a restaurant and was well into the meal before I realised that the place was full of men. I was eating in a Gay bar and wearing leather! After my meal I backed carefully out only to be accosted by two, er, guys. "Oooh isn’t it lovely!" said the first, who was more camp than Dame Edna on a scouting holiday. "Yes, and it’s soooo big!" replied the second, running his hands along the tank suggestively. One of the guys had a bike himself, a Kawasaki 750 Zephyr. We exchanged a little biker talk and said goodnight. I got back to my room and fell asleep about two seconds after my head hit the pillow.

Day Eight

Next morning I rode triumphantly into central London with Leroy. Leroy is the President of the Cobras Motorcycle Club. His ambition is to win the OBE (a British medal of honour). He is a tireless supporter of charities and his bike club is constantly trying to help the less fortunate, particularly children. We are hoping to repeat the ride next year, together.

A quick ride through town left London in no doubt that it had been invaded by mad cruisers, Gold Wings and Harleys are not usually seen burning off couriers! But we were in high spirits and felt like some fun, so - hey, what the hell!

We stopped at a café for some tea and toast and I showed Leroy how the digital camera worked. We sat at a pavement table taking pictures of passers by and loading them directly onto the laptop. If you have never used a digital camera then get out and try one. They are great fun and the immediacy of it all is a complete buzz. I have just handed Agfa their test model back and am lost without it. I had hoped to take some more pictures of Britain for this web site so I am on the lookout for a replacement, any offers?

Then we rode to King Charles’s Monument, where I had started the tour a week ago. A few pictures and an emotional goodbye and Leroy was on his way, leaving me a little sad that it was all over.

But I had done it, I had ridden around this damp little sand bank called Britain. Did I find my long lost brain on the way around? Did I hell, I am planning to do it all again next year, this time with Leroy. We are going to ride a longer route and try to make it to around the whole country. And we are going to do it all in Diana’s memory.