Great rides: Neal’s bike around Britain

Retirement would be the perfect time for a big adventure. I’d spent years dreaming about one. Long-distance journeys had always appealed to me. I’d walked from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, completed the Coast to Coast and the West Highland Way, and later cycled LEJOG, the Way of the Roses and the Hebridean Way.

Somewhere along the line I’d become fascinated by the idea of travelling around the entire coastline of Great Britain. The original plan had been to walk it. However, a long amateur rugby career had left me with painful knees.

By the time I retired from my job as a solicitor in 2018, it was clear that walking thousands of coastal miles wasn’t realistic. Cycling, though, might just be possible.

The Covid lockdowns gave me time to plan. As I studied maps and coastal roads, the idea gradually took shape: a full circuit of mainland Britain, staying as close to the sea as possible, avoiding major roads where I could, and using National Cycle Network routes when they were helpful.

There was no official route or guidebook to follow, and that uncertainty was part of the appeal. If I didn’t do it then, I might never do it.

I also wanted the ride to be about more than myself. My wife Sue’s mother, Freda (I called her Gertie), had died from Motor Neurone Disease, and as a former rugby player, I’d followed the inspiring fundraising and awareness campaigns led by Doddie Weir, Rob Burrow and Ed Slater.

The ride would become a fundraiser for the Motor Neurone Disease Association, giving me an extra reason to keep going when conditions or motivation might not be great.

Rather than disappear for four months, I broke the challenge into seven stages, completed between 2021 and 2024. Sue would often join me in our camper van, creating her own adventure while I cycled. It made the challenge feel sustainable and ensured that it remained enjoyable instead of becoming an endurance exercise in suffering.

In September 2021 I rolled away from the Humber Bridge on my bike named ‘Gertie’ and headed east along the southern bank of the Humber to the coast and then turned south.

Learning how to travel

The east coast proved a relatively gentle introduction. Long stretches of sea wall, promenades and quiet coastal roads allowed me to settle into the rhythm of life on the bike.

For the first few days I was obsessed with distance and daily targets. I found myself hurrying from one planned stop to the next, always looking ahead rather than around me. Then something changed.

I began stopping only when I found a bench already occupied. It became an unofficial rule. Within seconds the same question would be asked: “Where are you cycling to?” The answer invariably led to a conversation.

Those chats became one of the defining features of the ride. Sitting beside complete strangers gazing out to sea, I heard stories of fishing boats, wartime memories, family holidays and local history. The ride became richer than a simple challenge of miles and maps.

I discovered that solo touring offers a unique state of mind. Sometimes I was intensely focused on the road, my body and the bike beneath me. At other times I would emerge from a daydream and realise I’d covered several miles almost without noticing. The movement became both physical and meditative.

By the time I reached Worthing at the end of the first stage, I knew the project might actually be achievable.

Around the corner

The south coast and Cornwall brought a completely different challenge. The flat miles of the east disappeared. Every fishing village seemed to sit at the bottom of a steep descent followed immediately by a punishing climb. For days the route rose and fell relentlessly.

Initially the gradients were intimidating. Then, gradually, I realised something important: the hills weren’t getting easier, I was simply learning to accept them. Once I stopped treating the journey as a challenge, each climb became just another part of the experience.

Rounding Land’s End felt like reaching the first major milestone. It was one of those moments that had occupied my imagination during the planning stage. Standing there, knowing that I’d reached Britain’s south-western corner under my own steam, gave me a huge sense of progress.

North Cornwall offered no mercy. The climbs continued, often steeper than those before Land’s End, but mentally I’d crossed a threshold. The challenge no longer felt daunting. It felt exciting.

The Atlantic stretched endlessly to my left. Some days were wrapped in mist and drizzle; others brought sunshine and distant horizons. Every headland revealed another spectacular view and another reminder of why I was there.

Wales, ferries and finding a rhythm

One unexpected joy of the journey was Britain’s network of ferries. Over the course of the ride, I used 27 ferries, from tiny river crossings to larger sea routes. Each brought a little uncertainty: Would I make the sailing? Would the weather hold? Could I fit one more stop into the day?

More importantly, ferries provided a different perspective. Looking back at the coastline from the water often revealed landscapes that couldn’t be appreciated from the road.

Crossing into Wales felt significant. The ride was no longer a sequence of disconnected stages; it was becoming a continuous circuit of the country.

South-west Wales was one of the highlights of the entire journey. Quiet lanes threaded through beautiful coastal scenery, linking small communities and dramatic headlands. The cycling felt wonderfully varied, and there was always another viewpoint inviting me to stop and stare.

By then I had become completely immersed in the routine of life on the road: ride, pitch camp, eat, write notes, edit photographs, check tomorrow’s route and sleep. The simplicity was deeply satisfying.

I found myself appreciating small things more than ever before: a well-positioned bench, a good cup of coffee, an evening sunset, a campsite with a hot shower. The journey had slowed me down in the best possible way.

A perfect moment

The stretch from west Wales to Cumbria delivered one of the most memorable moments of the entire adventure. North Wales brought castles, holiday towns and busy coastal routes.

Liverpool arrived dramatically via the Mersey ferry before the route swung north towards Morecambe Bay and the western fringes of the Lake District. The scenery constantly changed. One day I was riding through industrial docklands; the next I was gazing across huge estuaries or winding through quiet rural lanes.

Then, between Ulverston and Barrow, it happened. I had stopped to take in the view of the ruins of Gleaston Castle. I was alone in the landscape. There was silence apart from birdsong and the distant sound of sheep. Warm sunshine bathed the scenery and a gentle breeze moved across the fields. Without warning, I became overwhelmed.

I stopped and found myself crying tears of pure contentment. There was no dramatic achievement, no summit, no finish line. It was simply one of those rare moments when everything feels exactly right.

The freedom of being outdoors, the privilege of travelling through such beautiful places and the satisfaction of pursuing a long-held dream all came together. Years on, it remains one of my clearest memories from the ride.

Setbacks and Scotland

The journey wasn’t entirely straightforward. In 2023 I underwent my first knee replacement. After three months of rehabilitation, I was ready to resume the ride when another setback arrived. A serious attack of cellulitis left me hospitalised for almost three weeks and required a hard fight to get back to being bike fit.

In hospital I wondered whether the project might be over. Instead, the interruption made me even more determined to continue. Returning to the route where I had left off at Gretna felt emotional. Every mile north felt hard earned.

Scotland very quickly became the most spectacular section of the entire journey. The coast of Dumfries and Galloway provided the perfect starter to the West Highlands coast which offered an endless succession of sea lochs, islands, ferries and mountain scenery.

From Kintyre to Oban and onward through Ardnamurchan, Moidart and Wester Ross, the landscapes seemed to grow more dramatic every day. There were moments when I rode for miles with virtually no company beyond the sound of Gertie’s tyres on the road.

The Bealach na Bà was a massive highlight. Its steep switchbacks and mountain setting make it one of Britain’s most famous cycling climbs. Reaching the summit in perfect weather and looking west towards Skye was one of those unforgettable rewards that only arrive after considerable effort.

Beyond Applecross the scenery somehow became even grander. Torridon, Assynt and the far north-west Highlands provided days of riding through landscapes that felt almost otherworldly. The roads were often demanding, with relentless climbs and descents, but I never wanted them to end.

The kindness of strangers

By the final 1,000-mile stage, the ride had become about far more than scenery. Again and again, I encountered extraordinary generosity. One of the most memorable incidents occurred near Inverness.

Days of incessant rain had rendered my brake pads almost useless, notwithstanding daily adjustments, and I arrived in Inverness extremely anxious to get them fixed. A chance conversation with a local cyclist led me to a mechanic who offered to help.

Not only did he repair the bike overnight, but he stripped a brake from one of his own bikes to use and he refused any payment. When I explained that I was raising money for the MND Association, he revealed that he was the uncle of former Gloucester rugby player Ed Slater, whose battle with MND had inspired so many people.

The coincidence was astonishing and overwhelming to me. Through his kindness, I left with functioning brakes and a renewed sense of purpose.

There were countless other examples. A campsite owner who offered shelter from the rain. Another who shared an evening meal with me when I arrived without supplies. Complete strangers who seemed genuinely invested in helping me complete the journey or simply to share their time for a chat.

This proved to be a two-way experience as on one occasion, I joined a man at a bench looking out to sea. Our chat revealed that he was both recently retired and widowed.

He explained that my ride and spirit of adventure inspired him to pick himself up and work hard to live his life to the full. By this stage I realised that the ride had become as much about people as places.

Heading home

The final weeks carried me down Britain’s east coast. The Highlands gave way to fishing villages, harbours and long stretches of shoreline. Crossing the Forth Road Bridge in bright sunshine was one of many memorable moments. Then came Northumberland.

After months of travelling around mostly unfamiliar coastlines, I found myself riding through landscapes that felt increasingly familiar. There was comfort in that familiarity but also sadness.

Over three years, this project had shaped my life. The final stage in particular had become all consuming. Each day brought a new destination, a fresh challenge and another story; now the finish was drawing near.

Back in Yorkshire, I lingered whenever possible. I revisited favourite places and took detours that allowed me to stretch the journey a little longer. The Holderness coast was especially meaningful. My mother’s family were from the area, and I called in on family and friends. Cycling those roads connected the adventure to my own history.

On the final day there was initial bright sunshine, but heavy dark clouds gathered as I cycled through Hull. Family and friends waited near the Humber Bridge to welcome me home. With barely a mile remaining, the heavens opened and torrential rain drenched everyone. It was a fitting end.

The British coast had delivered every kind of weather imaginable, sometimes within the same day. Why should the finish be any different? As I rolled to a stop beneath the bridge, I felt a mixture of pride, gratitude and sadness.

Pride at having cycled 4,223 miles around mainland Britain. Gratitude for the support I’d received from Sue, family, friends and countless strangers. Sadness because the adventure was over. Or perhaps not.

The ride had shown me that retirement wasn’t the end of adventure but the beginning of a new chapter. It had raised valuable funds for the fight against MND and revealed reserves of resilience and determination that I thought might have run out.

Most of all, it reminded me how rewarding it can be simply to travel slowly through a landscape, powered only by your own effort, open to whatever the day might bring. And yes, one day I’ll be going back to Cape Wrath. There’s still a lighthouse waiting for me.