Motorcycle Touring

TET UK

Contributed by Tim Hewitt

10 October 2026

United Kingdom

A two-year motorcycle journey from Germany to the Algarve finished with a ride through the United Kingdom, following the Trans Euro Trail from the South West through Wales and up to the Scottish Borders. The trip challenged preconceptions and revealed spectacular landscapes across narrow lanes, rocky climbs and vast moorlands.

Stages

3

Also found on Dirtbike Jesus

More at Facebook

My aim here was to collect my thoughts on the trip, a trip which in the months prior I had mixed views about. I was born in the UK, in Canterbury, and spent my early years in Kent. I was now forty-one and had spent the last decade in Germany. In that time there had been Brexit and I had spent all of two weeks in Scotland. A large part of me was expecting fly tipping, bike theft, urban decay, depression, extreme wealth inequality, crippled public services and tension between racist bigots and well-meaning but misguided lefties like me. I was expecting everything I read about in the media.

I crossed the channel with not a little trepidation as a result. The sailing from Cherbourg to Poole was a funny thing. I had crossed Dover to Calais a few times, but this one was new to me, and they made it into a little cruise. I had problems to solve when I got off that boat and the ease of being fully in your own language was quite wonderful. The people who helped solve those problems were so incredibly helpful and friendly. The subtleties and sarcasms were understood. A very good start. Even riding on the left wasn't too terrible. Muscle memory, I guess.

I made my way to Land's End. I made my way through Wales. I sampled the Yorkshire Dales and then after a rest with my parents I went back to the dales, via the Pennines and the Lake District. How many fly tips did I find along the way? None whatsoever. I pointedly brought my new, super strong, super loud disc lock with me. I never used it.

The UK seemed to be alright. The biggest pain I experienced was the high prices and the exchange rate, closely followed by a hard impact with some slippery tarmac. The people were wonderfully friendly and communicative. I felt safe and comfortable. Even when my camping locations were less than legal those early morning dog walkers that would find a bleary eyed me crawling out of my hammock were friendly.

Did the landscapes compare with the Alps, Pyrenees, Atlas, Andes or Balkan ranges I had ridden? Yes. They did. They were completely different. They were nothing like as tall and nowhere near as steep. But they were simply something else, you didn't find an endless field of purple heather in the Andes. You didn't find an insane salt flat in the Yorkshire Dales. I could have my mountainous cake and eat it.

While we were being slightly negative, I could say this. It was all a bit of a variation on a theme. Wales, Dales or Lakes: green valleys with rivers and trees, moorlands with heather and sheep. But it was a deeply beautiful theme. The UK was glorious, the colours were, especially in the afternoon sun, quite spectacular. I do believe this trip had, to some degree, healed my relationship with my home island. Great Britain, it really was still great.

Stage 1: South West

High point

500

It was the culmination of a two year journey that started in Germany, in the Südschwarzwald and took me through France, Spain and Portugal to the Algarve. This year had seen me follow the TET though Spain and France to get to where I was in the south of Wales. Picking up the bike in France, near Caen, was not as uneventful as I would have liked. I was greeted with a bike that still didn't really want to start, both low fuel and a dead battery. Fuel I could fix. DRs didn't need their battery and I had a ferry to catch, I'd have to fix that problem along the way. Riding off I discovered a few more things not entirely to my liking, the biggest being that my mousses were not correctly installed. The bead wasn't in. I hoped the 150km would, as usual, pop the bead into place.

I rolled off the boat still wiggling all over the place. Try as I might, including bumping off of pavements and hitting obstacles at speed, nothing would seat my bead. Nor would anything charge my battery.

Poole provided. At an enduro specialist for opening time, when one of the two chiefs arrived I was happy to be told he would have a look there and then. I couldn't pull a mousse by myself with only one tyre lever. Both mousses were buggered. One had chunks out of it from mounting. Both were squishy and cooked. So I was back on tubes. Just down the road a friendly battery shop had a perfectly sized lead acid battery to replace my swanky lithium one. Back to old school tech there as well.

What about the trail riding? In the mixture of road and short trail sections, the whole of the south west was very much like Normandy. It was up and down, but never went above 500m of altitude. The trails were predominantly narrow, very little wide twin track like you would find in Spain. Narrow could mean fit a land rover down it and could also mean barely fit a trail bike. It was probably something like half single track, half narrow twin track.

Aesthetically, it was a beautiful landscape and many of the lanes and roads were tree lined, quite stunning in the right light. In terms of challenge, I turned around once, although I would probably have made it with some work and risk but I had a date with a solar eclipse which I didn't want to miss. I did sweat and swear my way up some, I cruised most. The deep ruts were deeply annoying.

Was it worth it? Yes. But in a very different way to the Alps or Pyrenees. You weren't on a gorgeous gravel track for a couple hours, you were on a lane for a couple minutes then back to the road. The route sometimes went well out of its way to put you on some rocks for 500m. I think if you were a seriously dedicated trail rider, someone who just loved smashing along a track, in it for the challenge, it was probably great. If you were a tourist who was in it more for the views it was still fun, but it was not a perfect match. Some of the scenery, trail or road, was spectacular, especially at the coast.

Things to watch out for? Slippery fords for one. I entered one with too much speed and too little respect. Down I went, falling hard. I could still feel my knees days later. I could barely walk that evening. Without my friends L and R from Leatt I think I would have been in hospital. The funny thing being that I landed on my DSLR. Which was fine. Nikon were truly the Suzuki of cameras.

I spent two nights at Richard's house right in the centre of the peninsula. He was also a DR350 guy and we had bounced countless ideas off of each other over the years. We took some day rides and fixed a few bits and pieces on Poe, including the crappy bracket that had been made for me in France and was seriously compromising my left side pannier holder. Good company and wonderful hospitality.

I picked up a Montana 700i outrageously cheap before the trip. It was wonderful to have a big screen satnav and it really made navigation nicer than it was, but it was no replacement for my old GPSMAP64. Sleeping in the wind shadow of a bronze age burial mound, also fun.

Stage 2: Wales

The nation of Wales was much smaller than I thought it was. Although I must admit, I did take a rather efficient route. After South West England taking a little longer than I would have liked I took an efficient route though Wales, skipping the Tetty Trail completely and following the Great Cymry Trail.

I joined the trail north of Newport and things started in a way I sincerely hoped they wouldn't go on. A huge steel gate with a stonking great chain on it. As something of a symbolic start for Welsh trails the big gate led me into a steep, rocky, rutty climb that, with my cautious riding style, took a while to get up. I was rewarded with my first taste of true Wales, open terrain, no trees, spectacular views. Very nice and worth the scramble up the rocks.

The next bit was up and down the valleys with steep, challenging terrain, although nothing that stopped me and forced a retreat. In the valleys were hard looking towns. Long, perfectly straight rows of terrace housing, working men's clubs, strangely dressed and slightly drunk people. I had been expecting hard trails and harder towns. Wales met my horrendously stereotypical expectations immediately.

I had also been expecting openness, friendliness, down to earth people, good food, beautiful landscapes and gates. Wales provided this, in spades. I think in the moments when I was hanging around by the bike, having a coffee or prodding at my satnav most people who walked past said hello. A significant proportion said hello and started a conversation. That wasn't usually the case. Most people looked askew at the stinky, weirdly dressed, muddy foreigner on a filthy bike. Not the Welsh, which felt very comfortable indeed.

An afternoon on the trails in the south was taking me broadly to the west and I wanted to go north. I cut right and made my way up north towards Brecon where I was presented with a choice. Go east and join the ACT for an easier time of it or go west and join the TET, which I knew could be difficult. I also knew the TET route included the Strata Florida, which I couldn't refuse. So I went west.

It was the right choice. It was fabulous, the road approach to Llandovery was stunning. The town put a very generous full English breakfast in my stomach, and it was time to go to Florida. From the south it started dead easy. The most challenging thing was not getting annoyed at the signs from the local trail riding association.

Strata Florida quicky got more challenging. It wasn't that it was extreme. With good judgement, a modicum of skill and the right bike and tyres I was able to plod my way through just fine. No alarming moments to speak of. But if you were missing any of those things it was maybe not a good trail to do solo. Even after the extended drought there was still a good quantity of water, the trail wove through the river multiple times and was deep at points. There were rocks and ruts and funny terrain that shook your bones. Point being, there were more than the average number of things that could go wrong. In peak riding season, in the middle of the day I met absolutely nobody on the whole length of the route. No phone signal either.

What was also really weird, and added a safety factor I guess, was that it regularly crossed easy, graded forestry tracks. That you were clearly not allowed to use. At the end you came out at the actual Strata Florida, an old abbey, where you could get a much deserved cold drink while dripping water from your boots all over the floor. It was a fabulous trail though, definitely to be recommended.

Then I followed the TET for a bit and took an efficient route through the squiggle around Ponterwyd. I would love to have taken all the squiggle, but time wasn't unlimited. Also, the climb just south of Ystumtuen, steep as hell. I made it to within 50m of the top but couldn't go further no matter what I did. Turning the bike around was not trivial, with the handlebars well above head height.

At Machynlleth I decided to join the ACT for a bit, I was happy I did, as the route was dead easy, narrow tarmac and some gravel, but it was stunning. As was the coastline when you got to it. The Fairbourne to Barmouth rail bridge was a heck of an experience to ride, the fact it was still permitted in modern day Britain was quite remarkable and I really enjoyed both the bridge and a wonderful Fish and Chips from Fairbourne, which had a remarkable mix of being profoundly run down but also perfect in its decay, with its rusty narrow gauge railway track, authentic chippy, tatty buildings, spectacular beach and wandering sheep.

Up and away from the coast and I was running out of time to find a place to camp. Hiding from the wind in the corner of two dry stone walls I was expecting a rough night sleeping on uneven ground, but with the rain starting I couldn't afford to look for trees. I closed my eyes and woke up eight hours later, fully refreshed and dry as a bone despite the rain. The next trail was both ACT and TET. Fences aside, it was a great one. I followed the Cymry Trail up from there, mostly, until Snowdonia National Park and the abandoned village of Rhiwddollon at which point I joined TET 7 to go through Snowdonia. Road. Beautiful though.

I would guess I had done a little under half of the total distance of the TET in Wales. Wales had been wonderful. Longer, more worthwhile trails than in the South West of England, which made a big difference. They were varied, challenging and gorgeous.

Stage 3: The North

High point

600

When I last wrote I had spent ten days or so making my way around the Southwest and up through Wales. On this leg of the journey, I was planning to make a fairly comprehensive loop of Yorkshire and then head on up to my parents in the Scottish Borders. I came out of Wales, found myself unexpectedly in Liverpool and then skipped the flatter and more urban bits towards the dales. I rejoined the TET near Lancaster and started on my way east. The first trail I hit was a taste of good things to come. The Hornby Road started with a slightly menacing sign, no cars and seemingly also no quads. Essentially, four wheels good, two wheels better, huge fines for bushwhacking. It was mostly a very easy gravel road with a slightly rougher section in the middle. But nothing to cause alarm. It was raining the whole time.

The weather got better over the next few days of heading broadly northeast. I found myself really enjoying Yorkshire. The trails were much longer and more substantial than in the Southwest but they were easier than Wales, so progress was confident and quick. I was plodding along, riding, eating and camping, slowly beginning to smell increasingly ripe as spare clothes and bathing became more of a distant memory. Neither weather nor water quality made rivers and lakes in the UK seem particularly appealing for a wash. I looked at the map and realised that I was as close as I was going to be to Coldstream and a warm bed, so I hopped off the TET, onto the road and made it to my parents just before midnight.

After a very calm, quiet, lazy couple of days talking politics and drinking coffee I had everything cleaned and it was time to head off. The TET started, or if you prefer it ended, just the other side of the river from Coldstream so I decided to follow it for a bit. It was lovely, a totally new perspective on where I grew up. But I wanted to get over to the lakes and back into the dales, time wasn't unlimited and UK prices were not kind on the budget either. So, I set a fairly normal road route and started out, which then bumped back into the TET Borderlands after an hour or so. The TET and I danced our way along the B6318, following the route of Hadrian's Wall. It was a stunning landscape. You could see why Hadrian had it built where it was, no Scottish army was sneaking up on it. Bits of the TET branched off the road to trail sections, noteworthy places and I think I even accidentally found a spot where I was legally riding on one of two parallel mounds, I assumed the path of the wall itself.

Then it was time to head for the Lake District. I really didn't know what to expect other than lakes and hills. I wasn't wrong. It had lakes and hills. It also had a fabulous TET route. I joined the TET between Carlisle and Keswick, heading west. The route went around the outside of the lakes, then cut into the very heart of it over a hiking trail, did a loop there and then skipped back out. There were a few small water crossings, some funny surfaces and some rocky bits. Some lakes too. All very pretty and very doable.

It was then back to the dales for me, aiming for the waypoint I dropped near Hawes when I made a beeline for my Mum and Dad's place. This time Yorkshire was blue skies and sunshine, which always helped. My memories up to the Hawes area were hazy. I recalled long trails, panoramic views of valley ends where you could see where the water had formed the landscape as it collected and flowed into the rivers. I had vivid memories of scrambling my way up a hill, 600 whole meters high, an altitude record on this trip, and eating a Belgian bun on the top. It was a bit of a bugger of a climb so I was hopeful the way down would be kinder. It wasn't. The powers that be had decided the trail needed a bit of surface dressing and dropped a motherload of loose rocks on it. As much as speed made things easier it did also make the consequences of a mistake worse, so a bit at a time and with a profound lack of elegance I made my way down. In Hawes I met my first trail riders of the trip, from Inverness no less.

The trails around Hawes were brilliant, scenic and long. One trail looked like a glitch in the GPX file when you looked at it. Straight as an arrow, like when you went through a tunnel or took a ferry. No. It was just an old roman road, must be a good ten miles or more of gravel in a straight line, some nice rain runoff bumps if you fancied a jump but my patched together luggage rack precluded anything unnecessarily kinetic.

By this point time was starting to run out, as was my rough budget for the trip. The UK was damned expensive. I made my way south through the Peak District but the weather wasn't as lovely, and my energy levels were dropping. My memories were as good as non-existent. It was pretty, but my capacity for noticing moorland landscapes was starting to decline. I tried to keep to B roads and the TET as much as I could but at some point I had to get my ass down to Dover. The only sensible way was motorway, even on my little DR.

The little DR handled the torture like a pro, despite torrential rain. After a visit to the elderly ones, it was time to hop across the channel for the trivial matter of 300km on the French motorways, again in driving rain. The trip ended in the car park of a little rural town hall where Vandalf the White was patiently waiting to take Poe and I home.

Whereabouts

• The route starts in Devon and Cornwall, runs through Wales via the Strata Florida and Snowdonia, and heads north through the Yorkshire Dales, the Lake District, and up to the Scottish Borders.

Camping

• Wild camping is possible, including spots like the wind shadow of a bronze age burial mound, though early morning dog walkers might spot you.

Costs & Finances

• The UK is expensive, with pub dinners costing around eighteen pounds.
• Lunching at chippies or cafes and picking up a supermarket meal deal for dinner helps manage the budget.

Trail Notes

• In the South West, expect a mix of road and short trail sections, mostly narrow single track or twin track, with deep ruts.
• The Strata Florida route in Wales weaves through the river multiple times, gets deep, and features rocks, ruts and challenging terrain.
• The Hornby Road in the north is mostly an easy gravel road with a rougher section in the middle, open to motorcycles but not cars or quads.
• The Lake District loop has a few small water crossings, funny surfaces, and rocky bits, but remains very doable.
• Trails around Hawes offer long gravel sections, including a Roman road that runs straight for ten miles.

Hazards

• Fords in the South West can be extremely slippery and require caution.
• The Strata Florida crossing can be hazardous solo due to deep water, rocks, ruts and no phone signal.