21/8 English for you – Lesson 1
Yes, yes, I did close my eyes last night, but that doesn’t mean it was a restful night. It was pitch‑black, because I was in the interior cabin. An incessant vibration from the ship’s diesel engine rumbled through the whole vessel, always irregularly. At 5:45 the alarm goes off. Get up, freshen up, and off to breakfast. It’s empty. I ask a rushing staff member about breakfast and they tell me “6 o’clock”. “Just eat then,” I think, and look at my phone. Suddenly it says 5 a.m.! I’m going crazy. A bad night, and then it’s too short! What are you supposed to set the alarm for when 5:45 am in England… never mind. Coffee could have saved it, but…
Slept poorly and I’ve got over 300 km ahead of me, all with left‑hand traffic. I feel uneasy! There are about 50 bikers on board, and I think that once I’m out of Hull I’ll just latch onto one of them. But they’re all busy and first have to regroup after passport control. So I plunge into the city and miss the first turn. No matter, I just go straight on and get out of here. Hull’s main road is more of a construction site, so there are hardly any roundabouts. I’d like to start small, but up to York there’s a ton of traffic and I have to concentrate hard. To cut a long story short: I didn’t even drive on the right side, and only one person honked because I was standing poorly while taking photos.
I had already planned the route to Aberdeen at home and pieced together some nice little roads through the nature parks: Yorkshire Dales National Park and North‑Pennines National Park. After getting past York and leaving the flat, slightly hilly countryside behind, the heart of England opens up with the national park—a magnificent stretch of nature. I’ve already visited some lovely spots in Europe, but this little corner of England has its own charm. Not too much forest, gentle (sometimes rugged) valleys, then high plateaus that vaguely remind you of Norway. When you’re up there you can enjoy the contrast between sun‑lit fields and peaks and valleys wrapped in clouds. Breathtaking! And as if that weren’t enough, the asphalt is practically made for motorcycling. Sure, the surface isn’t always top‑notch, but you’re not just going straight any more. Finally you can ride off the highway shoulder. So I enjoy hour after hour through England’s enchanting middle. At Castle Bolton I make myself a coffee that lives up to its name and bite into a pre‑bought cheese and bagel. And the dreaded English weather? It looks ominous, but it hardly ever actually rains. Occasionally a drizzle, but also sunshine. Until—yes, until I’m standing in front of a closed petrol station in Bellingham and then turn into a valley heading toward Kielder Forest. It’s obvious and unavoidable: rain galore! So I close my eyes and push through, knowing what I’m getting into with England.
What now makes me nervous is the petrol station, which hasn’t been on my route for a while. Should I have checked in Bellingham where the next “snack” for the AWO was? At Kielder Water, a beautiful large lake, and finally some forest, it looks very natural, but certainly not like a petrol station. That makes me so uneasy that I stop the ride in the pouring rain and swipe the map back and forth on my wet navigation screen. “There, just a few kilometres ahead.” When I arrive I think, “Damn, a proper station would’ve been nicer now.” A self‑service pump with no roof. Card out, fuel cap off, all in the driving rain. I manage somehow, and thank God there’s a tiny shop at the station, so I treat myself to a hot cup of something to warm up. The rain has actually made it feel fresh. While I warm my hands and my eyes grow heavy, I think back to last night and tell myself, “Let’s call it a day.” Half the way to Aberdeen is done; tomorrow I’ll be fresh again. But I still need to find a place to pitch a tent. Build my own tent tonight? Only if it’s absolutely necessary… I fire up booking.com and find nothing. Nothing at all? The app must be broken. I try the website directly and find the cheapest accommodation for €104, 27 km away. “No, thanks, that’s not needed.” My coffee mug sits on a map of the area where I’m currently standing cluelessly. My irritated eyes spot a campsite called “Warm room”. The name would be silly if it didn’t have a few cabins or something. I set up my tent, there’s nothing with “warm room”. And it would be nice now. The rain will probably last all night. So I ask the cashier how the campsite is, and she, very helpful, calls the “chef de camping” and orders a cabin for me. Happy, and the rain suddenly feels a lot less terrible. Steve, the boss of the campsite, tells me I must be “very lucky” because I get the last free cabin. At a bargain price of €50. And the cabin has nothing—no bed, no wardrobe, etc.—BUT: underfloor heating and carpet. What more could you want? Having to inflate my own mattress doesn’t bother me. The rest of my motor‑bike gear usually ends up on the floor anyway, with or without a wardrobe or hooks. So I unload, write a blog (my eyes are already burning, I’m that tired), and head home. Steve also mentions I missed Scotland by only 3 km. You can’t have everything in one day.
