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The Summer Solstice

Today marks the Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, when the sun seems to pause in its arc across the sky. It’s a moment that ancient peoples watched closely, not for mysticism, but for meaning, rhythm, and survival. To many pagan cultures, this wasn’t just a curious astronomical event, it was a signal. Crops were nearing their peak. The land was fertile. The hard work of planting was…

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COMING SOON: The Shape of Belief

A historical thriller across continents & centuries.

A mysterious amulet.

A hidden gate.

And the ancient truth behind all faiths—buried for a reason.

From Viking churches to Persian fire temples, Egypt to the deserts of Turkmenistan, The Shape of Belief uncovers symbols shared by every religion, serpents, fire, light, sacrifice.

Coincidence?

Or memory?

Philosophy meets suspense.

This book explores the line between myth and memory, asking:

– Where do gods come from?

– What was before scripture?

– And what happens when truth is too dangerous to believe?

Enter:

– Lux Noctis, the order sworn to protect the lie.

– Custodes Veritatis, the ones who remember.

– Julian Cross, a man caught in between.

The Shape of Belief

By Anthony McCulley

Coming soon.

Controversial. Thought-provoking. Spiritually explosive.

And it may just change how you see the world.

Follow for updates.

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The Shape of Belief

A Thriller That Uncovers What Faith Tried to Forget New Novel coming soon At the heart of every civilization, there’s a flame. It burns in myths, in rituals, in stories passed through centuries. But what if that flame didn’t begin as faith? What if it began as truth, so powerful, it had to be buried? About the Book The Shape of Belief is a global thriller that blends ancient history,…

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Beyond The Heather

A MOTORCYCLIST’S JOURNEY ON SCOTLAND’S NORTH COAST 500 I’m delighted yet nervous to announce the launch of my new book,  Join me on the ride of a lifetime through the rugged beauty and mystic past of Scotland’s Highlands, a captivating travel memoir that blends raw adventure with deep historical insight. Join me on a two wheeled pilgrimage through the North Coast 500, where every twist of the…

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A Ride Into The Past

There’s something uniquely exhilarating about combining the raw freedom of a motorcycle ride with the mystery of one of the world’s most ancient monuments. My recent trip to Stonehenge wasn’t just about ticking a World Heritage Site off the list, it was a pilgrimage of sorts, across open roads and through England’s rolling countryside, toward a destination shrouded in myth, history, and awe. I…

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The Road That Healed Me

Riding a motorcycle offers so much, the sense of freedom as you feel closer to the road, more open to the elements. There’s the adrenaline rush as you lean into a bend, the subtle vibration of the engine beneath you, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the tarmac. But beyond all that, it presents something rare: a chance to blow the cobwebs from your mind. In a strange way, riding can be…

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Perfect Roads, Clear Skies, Open Mind

It had been a dark, dull week. The rain hadn’t stopped pouring the sky only changing from grey to black. But today was different, I woke to the humming of the birds in the trees outside, the sun creeping in through the gap in my bedroom curtains. Drawing back the curtains and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face, it didn’t take me long to decide on what I was going to do that day.  Decision…

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The Road, The River, and The Wreckage

When the call of the open road becomes too loud to ignore (and why would you ignore it?), I follow it. I venture down the roads that everyday life leaves behind. Today was one of those days, a ride with no destination, no sat nav, no pre-planned route. Just me, the bike, and wherever the road wanted to take us. It was early morning. I couldn’t sleep. The world was still cloaked in darkness,…

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From the top of the world to the edge of the world.

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Soaked to the bone, but I’m still smiling

As the seasons change and biking season returns, it doesn’t take much to tempt me to get the bike out. After a week of work and the daily grind, that thirst for freedom needs to be quenched.

It’s early on a Sunday morning and the sun is out. I hadn’t been on the bike since riding the NC500, and today felt like the right time. With no real plan, I knew there was a race on at Donington Park. I decided to avoid the motorway, take the scenic route, and make the trip last a few hours.

Uncovering the bike and firing up the engine is the best feeling. The vibration running through my fingers, feeling the power of the bike underneath me reminds me just how much I’ve missed the open road (it’s been two weeks).

I passed through Leek and Ipstones before calling in at the Cottage Kitchen Country Café for my first pit stop.

Arriving at Donington Park, I headed for the café. The car park was packed with bikes. My senses came alive, the smell of petrol, the low thunder of Harleys, and the high-pitched zoom of track bikes.

Walking among the rows of bikes, I was struck by how we subconsciously choose machines that reflect our personalities. Some riders wear more protection than the people on the track and favour brightly coloured sport bikes. Others ride cruisers, relying on tattoos more than textiles for protection, their bikes’ colour schemes matching their bold attitudes.

Yet despite our differences, we’re all part of the same tribe, kindred spirits chasing freedom. There’s a beautiful unity in seeing a Harley parked next to a Kawasaki Ninja 300, the riders dressed like chalk and cheese, yet swapping road stories over coffee and laughter.

At the café, I sat down with a brew, soaking in the atmosphere. It wasn’t long before someone struck up a conversation. That’s the thing about motorcycling, no matter who you are or where you’re from, if you ride, you have friends everywhere.

I wandered into the bike shop and, as always, fell in love with every machine I saw. Sensing I might leave with a lighter wallet and a new set of keys, I made a swift exit and headed home.

The ride back was just as thrilling, until the British weather had its say. About an hour from home, the sky turned slate grey and the temperature dropped. Hoping to beat the rain, I jumped on the motorway to outrun the storm.

How wrong I was.

It started with a few scattered taps on the helmet, the kind you hear before you see. Then it came. Rain lashed down. The large drops burst like water balloons on my legs; the small ones felt like pebbles. The mist kicked up by traffic wrapped around me like a foggy veil.

For 45 minutes I rode through it, fingers going numb, jeans soaked and heavy, vision narrowed by spray. Finally, I reached my junction. As I neared home, the rain stopped, a small mercy, though the wind still cut through me like a knife.

Pulling up to the house, soaked and freezing, I smiled to myself.

If the weather holds… maybe I’ll go out again tomorrow.

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I’ve always believed that some of the best stories are written on the road, penned not with ink, but with rubber, grit, and throttle. For me, British motorcycles have always held a special place in that story. Whether it’s the timeless growl of a Triumph, the classic lines of a Norton, or the modern punch of a Royal Enfield, these bikes aren’t just machines, they’re character on wheels.

This blog was born out of my passion for riding and a deep curiosity to explore the roads less traveled. I’m constantly searching for new routes, hidden gems, and scenic byways—places that don’t show up on tourist maps but leave a lasting impression on the soul. Every ride is a new chapter, and this is where I share those chapters with you.

But this isn’t just about me and my rides.

This space is about building a community, a gathering point for anyone who finds freedom in the hum of an engine and adventure around the next bend. Whether you ride vintage or modern, café racer or cruiser, whether you’re just starting out or have thousands of miles behind you, you’re welcome here.

Expect ride reports, gear reviews, route recommendations, mechanical tips, and real stories from the road. Let’s share our findings, our routes, and our passion, and grow something real together.

Because the journey is better when it’s shared.

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The Ride, The Woods, and the Wild Night,

The wife and kids went away on a girly weekend. Naturally, the second I heard this, I started planning a bike ride. I decided to break from the usual routes and go camping in the Lake District.

I headed for a woodland spot right on the tip of Lake Windermere. The ride through the Lakes was sublime, winding lanes that weaved through quiet villages. I passed people sat outside pubs, soaking up the evening sun while looking out over the lake.

By early evening, I had reached my destination. A flat patch of ground hidden beneath a canopy of trees, with a view of the lake. It was perfect. I pitched the tent and decided to walk a little stretch along the water. There’s something soothing about the sound of calm water brushing against the shoreline.

I headed back to the tent and lit a fire. I sat in silence, listening to the slow swaying of the trees in the cool breeze. This was the break I needed. As the fire died down and the popping of the logs softened, I decided to go to bed. Zipping up the tent, I found myself thinking about the next day’s ride.

As I climbed into my sleeping bag, I wondered if I should just sleep outside. This place was so peaceful. There’s something nomadic about sleeping beneath the stars, it connects you to the earth. I often think that no matter how much the world moves forward, there’s always a longing to return to nature, to a simpler time.

Just as I began to drift off, I was jolted awake by a nasal, one-syllable honk that made me jump out of my skin. The deathly silence only seemed to amplify it. The geese were awake and, for reasons unknown, were hellbent on keeping me that way too.

As the sound died down and I started to relax again, I heard the sound of something running past my head. I sat upright, only a thin layer of tent separating me from whatever was out there. I could hear rustling just outside. Then, whatever it was ran off. I assumed it was a fox.

The temperature had dipped drastically now—it was just above freezing. The geese were still honking the night away. I was tired, and I was cold.

Trying to fall asleep again, I was suddenly shaken by the sound of heavy hooves galloping toward me. I bolted upright, thinking something was about to crush the tent. Just as I reached for the zip, it stopped. Right next to me. I could hear it breathing.

I sat in silence, barely breathing myself, waiting for the next move. What felt like an age was, in truth, only minutes. Then, the creature ran off.

It was pitch black, and I debated whether or not to get out of the tent. Before I could decide, I heard multiple paws thudding around the tent—then the barking of a dog in the distance. Where the hell had the dog come from? Who was out here?

I unzipped the tent and stepped out. The world seemed calmer outside the tent. Moonlight was the only light, casting reflections on the lake. I scanned the woods. I could hear a conversation faintly in the distance. I had thought I was alone in the wilderness.

I stood near the bike, hand on the headlamp, just in case. No one approached. The sky was starting to turn a light shade of blue, the sun was on its way. It was 4 a.m.

I climbed back into the tent, trying to salvage some form of sleep. No chance.

As I lay there freezing, I heard the familiar clink of my coffee cup and kettle. Something was moving and sniffing around my bags. I slowly unzipped the sleeping compartment and peered toward the noise. My eyes met the eyes of a badger.

We held each other’s gaze for a moment both unsure what to do. Then it turned and bolted out of the tent.

A quick glance at the watch: 5:30. I gave up on sleep. I sat in silence for another half hour and decided that I was no longer under siege, it was time to get up.

Stepping outside, the sun was now fully up, casting a golden glow across the hills on the far side of the lake. As I stood there thinking back on the night’s antics, I heard footsteps approaching.

A man with a dog appeared from the path.

“Morning, rough night, wasn’t it?” he said with a wry smile.

He told me he’d camped nearby and heard the whole thing. Apparently, foxes had attacked a geese nest, which explained the noise. He had a badger trying to get into his tent too, but his dog scared it off, that would explain the barking. And the creature with hooves? A deer running around in the dark.

I laughed, nodded, and looked back at the lake.

Despite the chaos of the night, I realized something: even with the cold, the honking, the hooves, and the badger standoff, it was still worth it. Because even chaos in the wild beats silence in the suburbs. And somewhere in that sleepless night, I found the peace I’d come looking for.