Preston to Collect New Kit - cancelled so going to LLyn Peninsular
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The morning started cool, the kind of stillness that hints at adventure. We rolled out early, engines humming low and steady, heading west with the coast in our sights. No stops, no chatter—just the rhythmic roar of the road beneath us and the ever-widening sky overhead.
The A55 was our first companion, a fast, grey ribbon slicing through the landscape. We devoured the miles, wind clawing at our jackets, until Caernarfon appeared on the horizon like an old friend. From there, the route transformed. We turned off the main road and began the climb, Yr Eifl, or The Rivals as they’re known, rose ahead of us like slumbering giants, guarding the northern flank of the Llyn Peninsula.
The ascent was steep, winding, and glorious. Each bend revealed sweeping views—rolling green hills tumbling into the sea, stone walls clinging to the land like scars of history. Then came the descent, and suddenly we were in Nefyn, where the land feels older and the air carries salt and silence.
We pulled into The Newydd Inn, our familiar haven. There, amid the hum of soft conversation and the scent of sea air, we warmed ourselves with strong coffees, toasted paninis, and a shared bowl of chips that disappeared far too quickly.
Looking out over Aderdaron beach, where it was very warm and actually people on the sea 🌊🥶, which isn't bad for the beginning of April!! ☕️🫖🫖🌯🌯🍟
We love this place—not just for its remoteness or its staggering beauty, but for its moods. We’ve seen it under blazing summer skies when the rocks radiated heat and the sea shimmered like glass. And we’ve stood here during nature’s full-blown fury, November 2024, when Storm Bert battered the coast so violently we could barely stay upright. The wind howled like a living thing, waves smashing below with a force that shook the cliffs. (See previous blog: for that unforgettable day. Lighthouse for 4 Tour - Nov 2024)
This isn’t just a stop on the map. It’s a place that lives and breathes with the weather, the light, the seasons. A place we return to—again and again—because every time, it shows us a different face.
Thought I'd try my new trick of editing with the magic eraser; the next photo is an edited version of the one immediately after - scary!!!!
But the coast wasn’t done with us yet.
We rode on—further, lonelier, into the heart of the peninsula. The road narrowed, the landscape opened. Fields fell away to cliffs, and the sea took centre stage. At last, we reached Mynydd Mawr, a windswept outcrop where the land surrenders to ocean. There was no noise, just the whisper of wind and the cry of distant gulls.
Ahead lay Bardsey Island, ancient, mysterious, cloaked in cloud and myth. And just beyond that invisible line on the horizon—Ireland, distant but ever-present.
We stood for a long moment, letting the silence settle in our bones.
Sometimes, the journey isn’t about the destination. But every now and then, you find a place that feels like both.
We left Aberdaron with salt in our hair and sun still lingering on our leathers. The road pulled us inland, threading through the old spine of Wales—through Beddgelert, where time seems to hang in the trees, and onward toward the mighty Pen-y-Pass.
We didn’t take the pass itself—not this time. Instead, we skirted its edges, climbing gradually then descending toward Betws-y-Coed, the forested heart of Snowdonia. The road curved gently, light flickering through the trees, as if the land was inviting us to slow down.
And we did.
Just long enough to stop for an ice cream🍦🍦overlooking Yr Wyddfa, towering and majestic from the southern side. The summit was perfectly clear, as if the clouds had stepped aside just for us. To the left, the craggy sweep of the Snowdon Horseshoe; to the right, the fierce ridge of Grib Goch, jagged and unapologetic. Moments like that don’t need words. Just a cone in hand, a horizon full of giants, and the sound of engines cooling in the sun.
We finished the ride, as tradition demands, with a quick pint at The Alyn, a final toast to the road behind us. Then home, where the throttle was traded for beer and the open sky for the kitchen glow.Louis was home from uni, so the timing couldn’t have been better. We gathered round the table, stories still buzzing, cheeks still rosy from the ride. Tava Tea in hand🥘🥘🥘🥘, the evening rolled into something spiced and soulful—a hot, hot curry that left us all full and laughing.
And now we wait—helmets by the door, engines on standby.
Next stop? Preston, maybe this Easter Saturday if the stars (and weather) align. But if not... there’s always the next ride.
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