Wales

Carpenters Arms

Three hours on the ferry from Dunkirk and we ride into Dover, the famous white chalk cliffs in the background. After a confrontation with London’s Friday evening rush hour which makes me realize that traffic misery, unfortunately, isn’t exclusive to Antwerp, we turn into the green Welsh countryside a few hours later. The contrast could hardly be greater.

Our first stop is the Carpenters Arms, a cozy pub where the stove is lit and a retired man is behind the bar just for fun. Ceilings so low I constantly have to duck, staff of a blessed age, and it seems the whole village has come out on this pleasant Friday evening. This is also where I immediately discover Anna’s Dutch knack for striking up conversation. Within minutes she’s chatting with the entire staff; after dinner we get a tour of the kitchen, and even the other guests don’t escape a chat. We’ve only just arrived and it seems like the whole village already knows us.

Llanthony

The next morning we finally unload the bikes from the trailer. The starting point is at the ruins of Llanthony. Somehow ruins capture the imagination more than perfectly restored abbeys as if the decay suits the landscape better. The remains of the old building seem to almost merge into the green ridge in the background, which also forms the border between Wales and England.

As we take photos, groups of young hikers walk past with nothing more than a map and a compass. It gives me a pang of nostalgia for simplicity. Look at us standing here: with our 360 cameras, a drone, an electronic airbag vest and three different navigation apps. I’m fortunate to have this job, but sometimes I long to just head out without depending on all this technology…

Anna waves at a sheepdog riding on the back of a quad, and then it’s time: off we go! The British countryside is breathtakingly beautiful in nearly every respect. But riding here is quite a challenge. Many corners are completely blind due to tall hedges, roads are sometimes absurdly narrow, you practically have to aim your bike through them and the asphalt bears suspicious resemblance to the state of Belgian road maintenance. Gravel, moss and sand also seem to be neatly scattered right along the ideal line. Not easy, so keeping enough margin and focus is essential.

As we climb the Gospel Pass, the hedges briefly disappear from view, giving way to the first sweeping panoramas. Once down, we roll into the charming Hay-on-Wye. With barely two thousand residents, the village has more than twenty bookshops. Not for nothing does it carry the nickname “Town of Books.” We only window-shop; buying heavy books now doesn’t seem like a good plan. Staying light is the goal, since the off-road section is coming up.

A little later it feels like we’re riding onto a farmyard, but behind a large barn a steep stone track climbs upward. Thick boulders, loose ground, and beside the path two male peacocks that, loudly shrieking, seem to cheer us on like gatekeepers. The real work begins here. Switching off traction control is essential. The bikes claw their way up as if the stones were water and the tires were paddles. And then, after barely a few hundred meters: the first sheep gate. Something tells me this won’t be the last.

Fforest Inn

On the mountainsides, narrow gravel paths follow with spectacular views, but there’s little time to look around. Inevitably, something goes wrong: Anna has her first slip and the Aprilia ends up sideways on the trail. Together we right the bike, and the motto of this trip immediately reveals itself: it’s going to be one of falling and getting back up.

A little later we ride hemmed in between stone walls covered in flowers of every color, heading toward the next off-road section while crossing paths with another group of riders. Without exchanging many words, we take turns holding the sheep gates open for each other, until we come to a halt at a herd of cows — not in a pasture, but in the middle of a spruce forest. As used as I am to seeing cows in open grassland, this image feels almost surreal.

When I, too, lose control on wet grass a little later, it’s time to find a lunch spot and give our legs some rest. We find that rest at the Fforest Inn, a typical British pub where time seems to stand still. We both order a steak and receive a plate so packed that the food almost falls off. The owner reacts wittily to our surprise: “We feed the farmers.” And that says it all.

Dolgellau

In the afternoon our paths split. Anna takes the asphalt to Dolgellau, while I continue on in search of more off-road. The route crosses a few highlands when the weather turns. On the descent I pass a monument with a sheep gate next to it. I’d already gone past it when my navigation calls me back. And that’s exactly the beauty of the ACT: routes selected so you can ride with confidence, but ones you’d never dare turn onto on your own.

The surface for this section is loose slate, while the road runs steeply downhill. The silver-grey ribbon I have to follow winds as far as the eye can see. Half riding, half sliding, I descend into the valley, park the bike and exhale for a moment among a flock of sheep. Until a shepherd appears and makes clear to me, in a strange dialect, that only the gravel road is public land. All the green next to it is private property and must not be entered. It feels somewhat absurd to be nitpicking over a few meters in this vastness while I’m lying in the grass, but I understand his frustration. On an annual basis, he tells me, thousands of motorcycles pass through here. Possibly exaggerated, but it’s a familiar story: a success story that inevitably risks becoming its own victim. I apologize and ride on to Dolgellau, a charming little town with the feel of an old market town.