This was not the book I thought it might be.
I was ready for maps, journey times, lists, the voice of a seasoned pro with a few words of caution or warning for the wannabe, like me.
Instead I met Mike Carter. He skipped over the prosaic details, and settled on those moments of his journey when he was awed by his encounter with the natural world, or fascinated by the people he met.
He had a gift for getting people to talk: shopkeepers, ferrymen, camp site owners, commuters, hippies, monks, bishops. Everyone opened up to Mike. They began with small talk and soon they were sharing their inner lives and dreams. It was fascinating.
I read with delight every time Mike rode down upon some unsuspecting village square or rural pub. The locals were in for a treat.
Soon, I was living Mike’s journey, tracking his route on Google Maps (because I do like maps), thinking what I might do, where I might go, when I followed in his footsteps (which, by now, I desperately wanted to do).
It was when he reached the Hebrides, I understood why I loved this book so much. It was a pilgrimage. Mike was looking for true purpose and his true self. The convivial, gregarious, host of One Man and His Bike began declining hospitality, and riding past B&B’s, preferring nothing more than his simple one man tent, his beloved nightly routine, and an open view of sea and sky. And when the end of the journey around the coast of Britain neared, and the ego self returned, his sense of loss was palpable.
He wasn’t just losing sight of the solitary wild places of Britain, he was losing touch with the solitary wilderness within.