The Tower Room
What began as a search for somewhere to sleep ended with an unforgettable story.
People often ask us about the landscapes, the wildlife, the roads and the challenges of riding across continents. What they ask less often is about the people.
Yet when I think back on our journey, it is the faces that come to mind first.
Along the way, complete strangers offered directions, shared meals, invited us into their homes, introduced us to their families, and transformed brief encounters into lasting friendships. Some we met by chance at fuel stations or campsites. Others we had first connected with years earlier through social media and finally met in person on the other side of the world.
By the time we rolled into Boscastle, the light was fading and our options were running out. Richard disappeared into The Wellington, one of the oldest coaching inns in the region, to ask whether they had a room. While I waited outside, I struck up a conversation with Joey, a local woman from nearby Tintagel.
When I mentioned we didn't know where we'd be sleeping that night, she didn't hesitate.
"If they're full," she said, "you can stay with us."
I'd known her for barely five minutes.
As it turned out (and much to Joey's disappointment), we didn't need to accept her generous offer. Richard emerged with a smile – we'd been given the Tower Room, apparently Thomas Hardy's favourite.
The atmosphere felt suitably literary... right up until midnight, when the curtain rail detached itself from the wall and crashed to the floor in a shower of plaster, jolting us both awake.
The following morning, reception barely blinked.
"Ah yes," they said, exchanging knowing glances. "The Tower Room."
Excerpt from : The Accidental Motorcyclist, 2026
