Where's Avon Taken You?

Ride On – Part One

During the summer of 2007, Nigel Winter made an epic journey from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Here he shares his experiences.

I could still hear the severe weather warning as I staked out my flapping tent on the cliff top in deepest Cornwall. Beneath me the sea heaved around the Logan Rocks but all I looked forward to was a pint of St.Austell. I took up the farmer’s offer of sticking the Triumph in the barn and managed to get the last guy rope in before the first of many down pours.

Notionally at least, this ride was a repeat of one carried out in 1953 by the head honcho of old Triumph, Edward Turner and known as the “Gaffers Gallop”. As I was passing this way I figured I could raise a little dosh for Cancer Research. All this was blown into doubt by the inevitable “…only travel if you have to…” headlines. Still, if you want Cornish Ale and local fish pie then there’s your element of compulsion.

I’d forgotten how loud rain on canvas can be, still the Triumph was dry. My host was a friendly farmer who wasn’t complaining of the impact on the site’s popularity since it was featured in the ‘cool camping’ series. Cornwall is so intoxicating after the sterility of London, that one holiday leads to a plethora of relocation dreamers who haven’t quite worked out how to pay the bills until it’s too late. “We see them come and we see them go” said the farmer the following morning as I bungeed down the tent and went myself.

The lanes of Cornwall are steep, disconcertingly so when running with rivers of rainwater. And then the weather got worse. It was so bad it was almost funny. The joke in the office is that I only go on holiday when the weather’s atrocious but this was truly sublime. At the height of the storm I was the only motorcyclist on Bodmin Moor and the big cat had moved out. The traffic had ground to all but a standstill. I was riding at around forty five degrees but bad weather or not, when the urge for a bacon butty grabs you, well a man’s gotta do……. At the tea wagon the lady filled my flask from inside as the whole trailer shook and threatened to blow her Cornish flags into the next county.

I still had some crazy notion about following the route taken by Turner and stopped off at the Victoria Inn at Roche as had the great man. Then it was owned by the former head of the RAC motorcycle section. Clearly enlightened times; now it’s a Travelodge.

My journey was in June, Turner’s in October and still the weather could not have been worse. Over the same style of Barbour jacket I wore bog standard waterproofs and rubber gloves from Wilkinsons that cost a quid; they worked a treat. With my sartorial elegance running at an all time high I rolled into Exeter. I knew I’d be well received when I saw a board outside a pub that read “Saturday disco night, Sunday 80’s night, Monday with Trevor on the piano”. Exeter in a down pour just seemed that kind of place. Turner may have stayed there, but I was now more concerned with getting to John O’Groats rather than historic integrity. And I didn’t fancy a night with Trevor.

In Honiton I spotted a headline in a paper - “Today is the wettest day for 50 years.” It was kind of a relief as I was beginning to wonder if it was me.

Devon gave way to Somerset and there was just a flicker of pleasure as I passed through the villages clocking up the miles; once it nearly even stopped raining.

That night I pulled into a near deserted campsite over looking the Quantocks. I always approach these places with caution as it isn’t so many years ago that they bristled with ‘No Bikers’ signs. Still, despite being the only site open there were only four other happy campers. A log cabin come bar overlooked the valley as the sun went down and the floodwaters came up. We were in for the night with nothing but Somerset cider, our hosts and a couple of Glasto Festo fruitcakes for company. After the 90th reference to their holiday in Kathmandu I retired to my tent and the dying embers of the Glastonbury festival in the distance.

The following morning started well when I found the Triumph where I’d left it. Happily loaded up I rumbled onto the open road. The grey ceiling of cloud broke occasionally and the odd shaft of sunlight was an unconvincing reminder that this was British summer time. I took advantage and threw the Triumph round the bends that line the feet of the Mendips as occasional buzzards hung in the breeze and I joined the convoy of buses leaving the festival.

I was now travelling through middle England on fast A roads in order to make an appointment at Avon Tyres. When Turner made his journey, Avon had diverted the course of the river a few weeks earlier to extend the factory. The brickwork of the bridge still remains in the old factory buildings. I was happy to confirm that my tyres were probably OK in the wet, as they had performed brilliantly underwater until then. The meeting at Avon brought home how much goes into tyres and I kept my usual comments about the price of them to myself. But it was a religious experience that I was to encounter, for there was the original mould of the Avon Speedmaster. It wasn’t decked out in garlands, and TT trophies reflecting candlelight or even guarded by warrior monks. Nevertheless I passed silently and reverentially. That mould also made the tyres that went on my father’s Vincent 60 something years ago; the same one, same logo, still going strong. Truly I was on hallowed ground.

Loaded up once more I belted up the Fosse Way, the Cotswold’s open plateaus bridging the rugged West Country with the Midlands. The spotless Triumph had long turned filthy; as had its rider but beard and wind burn aside I was as happy as the proverbial pig as I wound her back on the long straight roads.

There was a disconcerting absence of campsites and grunge had given way to Pringle sweaters by the time I reached Stratford-upon-Avon. I had nowhere to stay for the apparent reason that no one wants to camp in the Midlands. However I did eventually find a site stuck in a 1950’s time warp. The Geordie owner assured me that the river running by wouldn’t rise as this and the endless branches in the road seemed to be the nation’s main topic of conversation.

The following morning I was photographed outside the Imperial Hotel in Leamington Spa for the local rag, Turner had stayed there long before it became a …..you guessed it; a Travelodge.

I stopped at Meriden for old time’s sake and made the inevitable trip down Bonneville Close, viewed by locals who’ve seen the spectacle a few times before. From there the National Motorcycle Museum showed me round one of the 150cc bikes that Turner had ridden the 1953 Gaffers Gallop on. One look at the seat made my eyes water. Happily I found its 900cc grandson rather more useful in getting to the Triumph factory in Hinckley in less than the available half an hour. Ho hum.

The reception was worthy of the Halleluiah chorus. Triumph means business. Dragons’ Den? They’ve done nowt compared to he who created this. All too soon I was turned out into the dark damp night having failed to blag even the right to buy one of the 20 immaculate pairs of Triumph gloves hanging up in the shop, this was to replace mine that had developed a large hole in the palm following an impatient encounter with a tumble drier on the campsite outside Glastonbury alas…

Heading up the pages of the road map, wide skies, open roads and the pork pie capital of the Universe; Melton Mowbray. Not the kind of town to leap out of the pages of a Kerouac novel but still capable of providing an experience to match my legendary bacon butty of Bodmin.

Join Nigel again next month as he continues his Gaffers Gallop towards John O’Groats.