Celtic Crows In France

When the call of the open road hits, there’s no ignoring it. For Celtic Crows brothers Alex and Trevor, that call turned into a 900-mile adventure that took them from Cornwall to Folkestone, under the Channel to Calais, across the northern coast of France, and back home to Plymouth. Four days, two bikes, endless laughs, and more than a few close calls — this is their story.

DAY ONE: Baptism by Storm

Cornwall Services, 9:30 AM. The engines fired, spirits were high — and so were the winds. What was meant to be a crisp morning ride quickly turned into a full-blown weather battle. Sheets of rain and 43mph gusts greeted the riders as they tore up the M5, A30, and A303 toward Stonehenge for a much-needed pit stop and saddle stretch.

The three-hour buffer they’d planned for delays? Gone in a heartbeat. By the time they hit the M25, it was a race against the clock. Miraculously, they rolled into Folkestone 30 minutes late — just in time to catch the Le Shuttle, saved by a delayed departure.

Thirty-five minutes under the Channel later, the doors opened to Calais. France at last. Spirits high, they punched the address of their first accommodation into the sat-nav — and were met with the first surprise of the trip. The “room” they booked turned out to be the owner’s spare bedroom. Not exactly glamorous, but after a day of battling the elements, it felt like luxury.

DAY TWO: The Great Breakfast Fiasco

The next morning began with strong coffee, aching muscles, and high hopes for a hearty breakfast. Cue the first problem: McDonald’s in France doesn’t open until 10:30 AM. So, with empty stomachs, they hit the A16 to Caen — 356 km of highway, drizzle, and occasional bursts of sunshine.

After checking into a budget-friendly hotel, the lads went hunting for French cuisine. What they found instead was an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet that left much to be desired. Still, spirits were soon lifted when they hopped in an Uber bound for O’Donnell’s Irish Pub, where the Guinness flowed freely and laughter filled the air.

DAY THREE: Remembering Heroes, Chasing Steaks

Day three was about history — and respect. The Crows spent the morning riding between the D-Day landing beaches: Pegasus, Sword, Juno, and Gold. Standing at the Normandy War Cemetery in Bayeux, they took a quiet moment to honour those who rode before them — not on bikes, but into battle.

From there, they headed 100 km west for their final night in France, checking into a comfortable IBIS hotel. Determined to finally sample true French cuisine, they scoured the area — only to end up at Oncle Scott’s American Diner.

The irony wasn’t lost on them, but the steaks were superb — and after three days on the road, no one cared if it was horse or cow. With bellies full and helmets off, they turned in early for the final push home.

DAY FOUR: Racing the Clock to Roscoff

The final morning began with the kind of French breakfast that would make any Brit groan — bread, ham, cheese, and watery coffee. Nevertheless, they saddled up and set out for Roscoff, 310 km away, confident they had plenty of time before the 3 PM ferry.

Confidence soon turned to chaos as the weather played its old tricks — bursts of sunshine, sudden downpours, and relentless crosswinds. At a pit stop straight out of the 1970s (complete with no toilet seats but incredible pastries), Alex indulged while Trevor nervously eyed the clock.

Time was slipping. The throttle twisted. Speed limits blurred. They reached the Roscoff terminal with just 15 minutes to spare.

“Get lost, did you?” asked the lady at check-in.Trevor grinned. “No, I’m just an old slow fucker — but I always get there in the end.”

Moments later, the bikes were strapped down on deck, the ferry engines rumbled to life, and the Celtic Crows leaned against the rails, watching France fade into the horizon.

Five hours of turbulent seas later, they rolled off in Plymouth, grabbed a proper coffee at Trerulefoot, and shared a firm handshake — the kind that says more than words ever could.

The Ride That Mattered

Four days. 900 miles. Two bikes.

From brutal rain to battlefield beaches, the Celtic Crows brothers proved that a true ride isn’t about the destination — it’s about the journey, the laughs, the near misses, and the unbreakable bond between riders.

Here’s to the next one.

L&R — Trevor and Alex