I’m more than happy getting to places in a fast and efficient manner if time is short or when treading a familiar path. That said, I generally prefer to see the back lanes, the winding estates and the obscure landmarks which you just can’t see from a train or a coach.
Fantastic towns and villages that non-drivers can’t reach by any other means: Leek, Dartmouth, Kirkby Lonsdale, Aldeburgh, Banff, Bawtry, Beer, Tideswell, Tenby, Tadcaster, Ullapool, Porthcurno, they’re all accessible by bus alone, even if there aren’t too many of them.
I’ll fully concede that hopping on a few buses isn’t going to be for everyone, but it’s not about the bus itself. It’s about the out-of-the-way, the overheard snippets of conversation, the weird and unfamiliar place names, the people you’re with, the unexpected.
This website will tell you about ace bus routes, give you ideas for days out to explore new places, and maybe even nudge you into planning some slow travel adventures of your own.
Click on the About section to learn more about how I got into all this shenanigans, and if you’d like to drop me a line, then head over to the Contact page.
Not that there was anything wrong at all with Birchover or the campsite, but it was my first time sleeping under canvas, and I just wasn't prepared for inadequate pillow facilities or to wake up covered in mid-sized spiders.
Putting the letter 'e' and a dash in front of a word doesn't make the object in any way more modern or desirable. Just like adding '2000' as a suffix to provincial club names in the 90s didn't make fights less likely to break out at their funky house nights.
The building is so oppressive that I'm developing the early stages of architectural Stockholm Syndrome towards it. Sheffield Syndrome, I suppose.
From a polar bear bench pressing a giant key in Norilsk, the magnificent minimalism of Magnitogorsk's black triangle, and the bag of wriggling puppies being drowned in a sack on Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky's standard, Russia has an instinctive understanding of how to best represent yourself on a flag.
As previously mentioned, I'm really not one for flying. The first time I got on a plane, I spent the first half an hour whimpering and shaking into my mum's bosom while she had me in a protective headlock. I was 31 at the time.
We're here because we're heading to Amsterdam to smoke loads of drugs and have it off with all the prostitutes (Eleanor), as well as maybe having an aimless wander around the canals and checking out the city's Botanical Gardens (me).
This is home turf for me; I grew up on Abbey Hey Lane, went to Abbey Hey School, and to complete the set, I even contrived to make sure that my first girlfriend was called Abigail Haye.
Understandably, he said that he “felt physically sick” when he saw the crossbow bolt sticking out of the astroturf, although he'd have doubtless felt worse if fate had sent it a few inches the other way.
A saintly Marcel Marceau, the conductor holds a bus pass to the side of his face and mouths to the more senior contingent that they'll need one of them to get on for free. The eldest lady pulls out a casino membership card, which doesn't quite work.