Author Topic: 'Actually, I'm English' - hiking book  (Read 208 times)


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'Actually, I'm English' - hiking book
« on: 15:48:47, 03/12/18 »
Apologies for the mild spam, but some of you might enjoy this - my self-published book currently on Amazon.

"Forty years is a long time to be away. Travelling on foot and by motorbike, Nick Adams discovers that while many things have changed, the things he loved; the hills, the pubs, the back roads and yes, even the weather, are undiminished.[/font][/size]Join Nick as he hikes the length of Wales, hitting all the high spots. Then follow him up the spine of England on the Pennine Way, through brutal February weather. On his third trip, circumstances conspire against him. The original plan was to walk from Chepstow all the way to the Lake District. It didn’t quite work out that way. Lastly, follow Nick across the North York Moors at night, then on across the country to the Cumbria coast.
As if the snow, rain and endless miles weren’t enough while hiking, jump on the back of the motorbike and ride from Scotland to Devon via Norfolk, dodging hypothermia, then through the Lakes, the Pennines and Wales.[/size]Nick’s idea of a good time seems to involve bad weather, difficult terrain, stealth camping and innumerable pubs. This is one man’s view of a country he loves, told in a simple, engaging style.
Come along for the ride.

Here's a sample:

 I didn’t tarry at the ruins but plugged on by. A notation on my map
suggested that there were two pubs in Stanbury - a mere 1 ½ miles down
the valley. There were a few people on this part of the path but I had no
time for social discourse other than a quick ‘hello’. Suddenly my legs
were tireless, my pack felt lighter and the ground started to fly
underneath my feet. I could already taste the first pint. I made Stanbury
just after 12.
Stanbury is a single street village, with modest stone houses
crowding the road, leaving barely enough space for a walker - especially
one carrying a heavy rucksack - between their flat fronts and the narrow
road. I arrived, sweaty and thirsty at the first pub I found. It was called
“The Friendly”, but struggled to live up to its ambitious name. I was
treated with practised disinterest by the landlady, who served me as if I
was a mild annoyance. I suppose I can’t blame her. In the summer she
must have to cater to an endless stream of foreign sounding tourists, all
of whom expect quaint ‘olde English’ hospitality. My North American
accent and my rucksack must have thrown me firmly in that camp. I
hadn’t expected to be treated as a local or a long-lost cousin, but some
basic warmth and civility would have been welcome. Not surprisingly, I
only stayed long enough to gulp down a couple of pints and a bag of
crisps and headed out the door looking for a less chilly spot to spend my
Within a couple of hundred yards I came across the Old Silent Inn, a
formidable barn of a pub, one wall of which rose vertically from the edge
of the road. From the outside, I formed the impression that it may have
been recently ‘done’ to attract people more interested in old beams, warm
fire-places and fine pub food than in a greasy bar and copious booze. I
wasn’t wrong. Nevertheless, I was greeted with a modest welcome and
somewhat to my surprise, wasn’t made to feel out of place when I settled
myself and my gear near the big log fire to consume the pint of John
Smith’s I’d just ordered. Another soon followed. Still, my enthusiasm for
lunchtime pints was definitely on the wane. After a few minutes I
drained the rest of my pint, shouldered my pack and headed somewhat
groggily into the sunlight.
Book: "Actually, I'm English: rediscovering my homeland on foot and by motorbike" (