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I rarely cycle long distances. But when I do, each seems to last 1000 miles! Both times have been from Land's End to John O'Groats, from one end of Britain to another.

Watermelon Bicycle
The first attempt was undertaken with little planning, resulting in a thirteen day wayward adventure across Britain, with two friends, Alan and Nick.

The journey helped change my life for the better and also shaped Alan's future in a way he never envisaged!

This is why I decided to tell the story!

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Since its publication, the positive feedback from numerous readers has been heart-warming. 

After many serious reads pursued through / post lockdown this was the tonic needed. Cheered me up a lot. Brilliant stuff on a dark, cold evening

Very entertaining holiday read. Well written

Really enjoyed this and would recommend to anyone who enjoys tales of travel and the maxim of it being about the journey not arriving.

Was I looking for inspiration to undertake a similar journey? Yes. Did I find it? Quite possible.
But quite apart from that i felt like I was being told the story by the side of a fire in one of the pubs which they visited on the way.



I never noticed the first cloud, or the second, but the third was hard to ignore. Just how they had eluded us was something of a mystery. I stopped pedalling, and for the first time in an hour, looked up from the road to study the sky. The hazy blue that we had cycled beneath all morning was being displaced by a band of pale clouds sweeping down from the north. With each mile that we travelled, they gathered strength and loomed ominously on the horizon, turning dark and moody as the border approached.

By mid-afternoon, they were closing in on all sides, akin to the pincer movement of attacking Zulus. The black clouds resembled the head and horns of a mighty bull, and we were heading straight into their midst. Cars refused to slow and hurtled close by, just as the first bolt of lightning pierced the sky.

I dropped to the rear of the pack, stared through the gloom at Nick’s luminous yellow poncho, and wiped raindrops from my face. Alan was out there somewhere too, his khaki poncho rendering him invisible against the English countryside. Cocooned inside my poncho, I concentrated solely on keeping the handlebars straight, as articulated lorries roared alongside. We were halfway between Land’s End and John O’Groats, and within two hours, one of our lives would be changed forever.







Meet Gretna!

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