055 Motorcycle Group North Devon Tour
From Margate to Westward Ho!, Jolly’s, Bideford Bike Show and Margate Meltdown: Four days, three big stops, several fuel lights and absolutely no lessons learned
A long weekend in North Devon. Glorious weather. Great roads. Good company. Nine bikes. Several fuel stops. One or two missing riders. And the usual amount of 055 “organisation”, which is to say: just enough to be dangerous.
The adventure began at Polar Helicopters before heading west towards Westward Ho! via Yorkletts, Fleet Services, the M25, the A303 and Ilminster. Naturally, things started smoothly — right up until we discovered one bike only had half a tank and the fuel pumps weren’t working.
Elite-level planning.
Filtering through Bank Holiday traffic quickly separated the group into several smaller, unofficial expeditions. Some made it to Fleet early. Some made it later. One arrived after conducting emergency fuel research. By the time we reached the A303, Stonehenge appeared on the route — a world-famous prehistoric monument, sitting in a field, being quite large and ancient.
Somehow, a few still missed it.
An eyesight check may be required before the next ride-out.
After a few more miles, more traffic, more filtering and some light philosophical debate about whether this was still technically a “group ride”, we eventually reached Westward Ho! Bikes parked, gear dumped, beers located. Nobody had been permanently attached to a lorry, which we all agreed was a solid result.
Day two took us to Jolly’s Bike Shop in Bovey Tracey, via some absolutely cracking Devon roads. Or, depending on who you ask, via “where the hell have Chris and Allan gone?” Jolly’s did not disappoint: bikes, coffee, food, dinosaurs, film props and enough motorcycle weirdness to keep everyone happy. We also met up with some of the Kent FireFighters, because obviously the most efficient way to see people from home is to ride 250 miles to Devon.
From there it was on to Dartmoor and The Warren House Inn, the highest and loneliest pub in southern England. Stunning views, brilliant roads and, naturally, conversation of the highest cultural standard. Some groups discuss poetry. We discussed dogs’ anal glands.
Evening entertainment came courtesy of an ABBA tribute act, several beers and a late-night hunt for food after the kitchens had shut. Disaster was narrowly avoided thanks to emergency pasties. Never underestimate the power of pastry when hungry bikers are close to civil unrest.
Day three was the big one: Bideford Bike Show.
After breakfast at the Rock Pool Café — sadly with no smashed avocado for Peter, thoughts and prayers — we rode into Bideford and found the place already packed. Rows and rows of bikes, hundreds more rolling in, and temperatures climbing fast enough to make motorcycle gear feel like medieval punishment.
With thousands of bikes on display, old friends to catch up with, firefighters appearing again, and plenty of premium-grade biker nonsense being talked, it was a brilliant day. Some of the group sensibly hid in the rugby club to escape the heat. Others carried on wandering around looking at bikes until their brains melted.
That evening was quieter. Mostly. Fish and chips were successfully obtained, seagulls were monitored for hostile action, and talk eventually turned to the ride home. When asked what time we were leaving, “about an hour after I get up” was apparently considered too vague. Some people are obsessed with details.
The final day started early. Very early. Leaving Westward Ho! at 5:53am, the ride back should have been simple: A39, A303, M25, Margate.
Naturally, that is not what happened.
A missed turn meant an unscheduled M5/M4 route, motorway fuel prices that would make Dick Turpin blush, and a fuel light appearing at exactly the wrong moment. A detour through Bracknell solved the problem, thanks mainly to Bracknell having a roundabout every eight seconds.
By 11:30am, Margate Meltdown was reached. Five and a half hours after leaving Devon, the seaside was full of bikes, friends, noise, sunshine and the usual happy chaos. Somewhere between 5,000 and 7,000 bikes had turned up, which is either a brilliant motorcycle event or a very loud midlife crisis with parking issues.
All in all, it was a proper 055 weekend: great roads, great weather, great company, missed turns, fuel-light bravery, mild confusion, and memories made all the way from Margate to Westward Ho! and back again.
Would we do it again?
Obviously.
Have we learned anything?
Almost certainly not.
