Riding Through History: Veterans, Ducatis & Scotland’s NC500 (Beamish • Britannia • Culloden)

Four British Army veterans, four brand-new Ducati Multistrada V4S, and a mission to Ride Through History. In this episode we dust off the classics, launch our veteran media HQ, then hit the road to Scotland for a North Coast 500 (NC500) adventure packed with military history, banter, and breathtaking scenery. Expect workshop prep, on-bike footage, and slow-mo hero shots—plus couch-chat in the studio answering “Who are you lot?” with honest, funny, veteran truth.

We stop at Royston RFC for a Royal Anglian Vets run-out, join the Regimental Gathering at Duxford, then head north: National Railway Museum (York), Eden Camp, Beamish, Royal Yacht Britannia (Leith), Biker Cove under the Forth Bridge, the Falkirk Wheel, the David Stirling Memorial (SAS), Culloden, Dunrobin Castle, John O’Groats, Dunnet Head, and a sunset feast at Scourie Bay. Along the way: gym mat CQC (the girls throw us about), a surprise ballroom session in The Salamanca Club, and plenty of rugby and veteran humour.

If you love real-life military stories, veterans’ voices, motorbikes, rugby, skiing grit, BAOR/Cold War Germany nostalgia, and cinematic travel vlogs, you’re in the right place.

Subscribe, drop a comment, and share with a mate who’d ride pillion on the NC500 tomorrow.

#BritishArmyVeteran #MilitaryStories #NC500 #DucatiMultistrada #RidingThroughHistory #Veterans #BAOR #Rugby #Scotland #TravelVlog

Transcript

“We reckoned it was high time to dust off the old bikes—the ones with more history than a National Trust plaque—and take ‘em for a proper nostalgic spin round the local area.”

“Not just for the joy of it—though that was definitely top of the list—but also to explore some of the hidden historical sites scattered around The Old Manor House.”

“With the cameras rollin’, even the prep turned into a cinematic, grease-stained ballet. Johan tried to look serious while tightening a bolt and promptly snapped the spanner.”

“And Stephen dropped another with absolute comedic timing. Honestly, it was slapstick on two wheels.”

“We filmed the lot—polishing tanks like they were Fabergé eggs, oiling chains with exaggerated precision, and, of course, the eternal argument over whose helmet smelled the least offensive.”

“Our route was planned with military precision—some habits really do die hard. We’d picked out a string of scenic stops, and at each one Tom, Jimmy, and Mary were lying in wait like camera-wielding commandos.”

“As we roared past, they’d leap into action, grabbing slow-mo hero shots that made us look like some strange mash-up of Easy Rider and Dad’s Army.”

“Once on site, we’d hop off the bikes and morph into amateur historians—walking, talking, sometimes forgetting key facts and filling in the blanks with sheer conviction.”

“And somehow, the format just worked. Bikes, history, scenery—and four slightly over-the-hill legends bumblin’ their way through it all? Turns out, that’s YouTube gold.”

“But one question kept cropping up in the comments—‘Who are you lot?’ People didn’t just want the glossy edits. They wanted the backstory, the journey, the chaos behind the calm.”

“So, we plonked ourselves down on the studio couches—coffee mugs in hand, whisky just out of shot—and hit record. No script, no plan, just us talking.”

“And it all came out—plenty of laughs, a few moments where the tears nearly showed, and the odd vague nod to classified ops.”

“Mostly, though, it was the ‘you-had-to-be-there’ stories. The kind you can’t write down without losing the sparkle.”

“We recorded the lot—partly so we could trim out anything that might summon the Official Secrets Act, but mostly so we didn’t ramble on for six hours straight.”

“Then came our wildcard hit. One evening, after a particularly good bottle of Claude’s 2009 Bordeaux, we wandered down into The Salamanca Club and filmed ourselves dancing for half an hour—waltzes, foxtrots, cha-cha-chas… the whole Blackpool Ballroom spectrum.”

“Johan even tried a tango. Looked less like a Latin lover, more like a malfunctioning mannequin. People lapped it up.”

“The comments section lit up like a Saturday night glitter ball. So we thought—why not ride the wave?”

“Next came a gym session video, free weights, rowing machines, and then the pièce de résistance: mat work. Vinka and Marlin decided to demonstrate close-quarters combat by chuckin’ Johan and me around like sacks of spuds.”

“The internet exploded. Views shot through the roof. Turns out there’s a worldwide appetite for watching two ex-Special Forces men getting thrashed by two very stylish, very smug women.”

“Who knew?”

“One gloriously sunny day—perfect weather for nostalgic two-wheeled wanderin’—we were out cruisin’ the countryside on our beloved old bikes. Wheezin’ along like vintage rockstars on a reunion tour.”

“As fate would have it, we swung by Pro Twins in Godstone—our long-time go-to for Ducati wizardry, obscure spare parts, and, let’s be honest, more temptations than we could handle.”

“Over the years we’d picked up more than a few treasures there, includin’ a couple of bikes. And sure enough, the showroom didn’t disappoint.”

“Right up front sat the new Ducati Multistrada v 4 S, practically purring ‘take me for a spin,’ and next to it, the Panigale v 4 S—straight off a MotoGP grid and directly into our midlife crisis.”

“We asked—very politely—if we could test ride both. Twenty minutes later, ridin’ like kids let loose on Christmas mornin’, we were utterly, hopelessly hooked.”

“Long story short? We didn’t just admire them—we bought four brand-new Multistrada V4S models on the spot. Each one spec’d to the absolute max.”

“Full touring pack—panniers, top boxes, heated grips, adaptive cruise control, radar blind spot detection, and suspension so clever it probably had a PhD.”

“Two weeks later, Tom chauffeured us back to Godstone, and there they were—four sleek beasts lined up like Italian stallions waiting for their knights.”

“And because subtlety’s never been our thing, we skipped the boring plates and went straight for personalised registrations.”

“Final payments made, insurance sorted, coffees in hand—we mounted up and thundered back to Gosport in formation. Laughing like teenagers, testing every gadget we could.”

“Except the horn, of course. No one ever hears a Ducati horn.”

“Rolling back into The Old Manor House on our brand-new Multistradas felt like a parade. Four gleaming red beasts in formation, panniers shining, exhausts purring like a choir of Italian tenors.”

“And we weren’t just on the bikes—we were kitted out head-to-toe in matching Ducati apparel touring gear. Jackets, trousers, helmets, boots—the works. Less Sunday ride-out, more glossy brochure for the ultimate adventure holiday.”

“The staff spilled out onto the drive, neighbours peeked over hedges, and for a moment you’d think the Red Arrows had landed—just with more Gore-Tex and fewer vapour trails.”

“Wendy shook her head in that ‘honestly, children’ way of hers, Doris clapped like she’d just seen the Queen, and the girls snapped photos like paparazzi at a film premiere.”

“It was glorious. We wheeled the bikes into the garage, lined them up like knights’ steeds, and headed inside—still grinning like teenagers who’d just pulled off the heist of the century.”

“Once we got home, still buzzin’ from the ride, we plonked ourselves down in the study and started schemin’—sorry, strategising. A Grand Tour was on the cards, no question.”

“We decided to build on our ‘Riding Through History’ theme and take on the North Coast 500—our way. Historical sites, hidden forts, battlefields, castles, war memorials… and of course, anywhere that promised a decent bacon bap.”

“Research mode hit like a full-on op order. Maps sprawled across the desk, laptops hummin’, notepads everywhere, and the whiteboard covered in colour-coded post-its. We do love a system.”

“Two solid weeks we spent plotting every leg—rest stops, must-see landmarks, drone-shot opportunities, and cake shops marked with military precision.”

“As luck would have it, the weekend we planned to set off lined up perfectly with Royston Rugby Club hosting the Royal Anglian Vets for a friendly—right before the Regimental Gathering at Duxford.”

“Couldn’t have asked for a better place to kick off the tour than a trip down memory lane at our old stompin’ ground.”

“With cameras mounted and spirits high, we rolled out the morning before and stayed that night at one of our old houses in Hitchin.”

“Fish and chips for dinner, cheeky bottle of Merlot on the table, and there we were, sittin’ round the old dining table havin’ a surprisingly civilised debate about the houses’ future.”

“Two options emerged: rent them out to fund more track days… or sell the lot and buy ourselves a vineyard in Portugal.”

“We chatted long into the evening over fish, chips, and a few glasses of wine—alright, a bottle each—arguin’ the pros and cons of keepin’ the old houses. Nostalgia versus practicality, like two drunk uncles fightin’ over a dartboard.”

“In the end, practicality just about won. We agreed to put them both on the market once we were back from the Grand Tour.”

“They still had a few bits of furniture in ‘em—mostly odds and ends too sentimental to bin and too useless to keep. Mismatched crockery, antique toasters, and that suspiciously creaky futon.”

“So we lined up a clearance company, called an estate agent, and before the ink was even dry on the listings—boom. Both sold, full asking price.”

“Turns out, ‘ex-military-owned, full of character, and possibly haunted by the ghost of late-night mess dinners’ was exactly what buyers were after.”

“Result!”

“The next morning, Harry dropped us off at Royston Rugby Club—and it felt like stepping into a time machine set to ‘friendly chaos.’”

“The match was a belter. Our beloved Royal Anglian Vets against Royston’s finest—tough, fast, fiercely fought. The Regiment nicked it right at the death thanks to tactical brilliance… or maybe divine intervention.”

“The club laid on a feast afterwards—roast meat, carbs piled high, and enough beer to float a destroyer.”

“Laughter bounced off the clubhouse walls as we caught up with old mates, swapped increasingly outrageous stories, and tried not to belt out regimental songs too loudly.”

“Harry reappeared right on cue—guardian angel and designated driver rolled into one—and ferried us home.”

“Where we promptly collapsed, still in our clothes. Classy as ever.”

“The next day started a bit… blurry. Couple of paracetamol, three strong coffees, and we managed to mount the bikes—slower than usual, mind you—and set off for Duxford.”

“It was the Royal Anglian Regimental Gathering—an annual day where serving soldiers and veterans from across the Regiment and our forebears come together to honour history and fallen comrades.”

“The weather gods must’ve been Anglians too—glorious sunshine for the Drum Head Service and the March Past.”

“Everywhere we turned, there were old friends and familiar faces—more medals on display than a Buckingham Palace ballroom.”

“Dozens of people came up saying they’d been following our adventures online. Some even quoted their favourite lines back at us.”

“It was heart-warming… and more than a little surreal to be called ‘YouTube legends’ by people who once made us scrub floors for fun.”

“That afternoon, still buzzing from the camaraderie at Duxford, we set off for York and checked into our hotel for the night.”

“Next mornin’, we made a beeline for the National Railway Museum—and filmed a cracking segment for the channel. Place is a steam-powered paradise, like kids in the world’s poshest sweet shop.”

“Our Ducati Multistradas gleamed in the sunshine, matching perfectly with our bespoke Ducati touring gear, and honestly, they turned almost as many heads as the Flying Scotsman itself.”

“One old chap even asked if our bikes were exhibits. We just grinned and told him, ‘Only if they’re parked too long.’”

“After wrappin’ up at the Railway Museum—where we only just resisted sneakin’ off on the Mallard—we saddled up and pointed the bikes towards Eden Camp, our next history stop.”

“Nestled just outside Malton, it had once been a prisoner of war camp during WWII—mostly Germans, with a few Italians who, legend has it, made the best pasta north of Rome.”

“The huts were still standin’, like slightly dodgy school portacabins, each one crammed with wartime artefacts, sound effects, mannequins that looked like they’d seen things, and more gas masks than a zombie apocalypse bunker.”

“We split up with the cameras rolling, popping in and out of huts like overexcited time-travellers—explaining the exhibits, occasionally leaping at the lifelike displays.”

“Could’ve spent the whole day geeking out, but the road was callin’—and we still had miles to ride and museums to conquer.”

“Next stop was Stanley, just outside Beamish, where we tucked into a comfy little hotel—creaky floorboards, suspiciously cheerful wallpaper, the lot.”

“Next mornin’, we were at Beamish Living Museum before the staff had even finished their tea. First in the queue, straight onto one of the vintage trams rattlin’ us down to the new 1950s town.”

“For a blissful half-hour we had the place to ourselves—filming as we wandered past prefab houses, old shops, and streets that looked uncannily like the ones we grew up on.”

“We stopped for a frothy coffee in the 1950s café—tea cakes, faux Formica tables, the works. Felt like steppin’ straight into a childhood memory.”

“Johan even swore he recognised the wallpaper from his nan’s parlour. The only thing that wasn’t authentic were the prices—definitely not from the ‘50s.”

“From there, we wandered over to the 1900s town, though by now the place was buzzing with school trips and wide-eyed tourists.”

“Didn’t matter—bit of clever camera work and some stealthy angles, and we kept most folks out of shot.”

“We stopped at the old garage, where a pair of vintage motorcycles from the 1920s and ’30s caught our eyes. Instantly, the spark was lit—project bikes!”

“Yep, another future restoration idea, ‘cause clearly the shed isn’t full enough already.”

“After a mooch around the bus depot and a quick clamber through the railway yard—where Johan seriously considered chucking it all in to become a steam train driver—we hopped an old bus back to the entrance.”

“Refreshed, re-inspired, and a bit giddy with ideas, we saddled up again and pushed north towards Scotland, bedding down just outside Edinburgh for the night.”

“The next mornin’, after a full Scottish breakfast that could’ve fed a rugby team for a week, we rolled into Leith to visit The Royal Yacht Britannia.”

“Timing was perfect—we practically had the place to ourselves. We filmed bow to stern without bumping into a soul until we hit the bridge, where we had to wait for a few dawdlers to clear before grabbing our grand ‘captain-at-the-helm’ moment.”

“The yacht was a proper floating time capsule—regal charm married to naval precision. You could almost picture Her Majesty sipping tea while Prince Philip inspected the engine room.”

“Wendy had promised to bring us back one day and share some real ‘juicy dits’ from her time aboard, and after seeing the yacht in all its glory, we couldn’t wait to hear them—preferably over a stiff drink in The Salamanca Club.”

“After our nautical brush with royalty aboard the Britannia, we pointed the bikes west and rolled into South Queensferry for a pit stop at the legendary Biker Cove Café, right beneath the Forth Bridge.”

“You couldn’t ask for a better backdrop—those great steel arches soaring overhead, the mix of two-stroke and espresso hangin’ in the air.”

“Just as we pulled up, a flock of Harleys thundered off into the distance, leaving behind a perfect row of spaces.”

“So we lined our gleaming Ducatis up neat as an advert: ‘Italian Engineering Meets Scottish Scenery.’”

“Now, none of us had ever tackled a haggis burger before—and let me tell ya, we’d been missin’ out. Rich, spicy, gloriously meaty… like bitin’ straight into Scotland itself.”

“We nearly broke into a spontaneous rendition of Flower of Scotland. Honestly, it was that good.”

“While we were chompin’ away, we clocked a couple of curious onlookers edging closer. Turned out they were fans of our channel!”

“Two bearded blokes from Dundee—said they’d followed us for ages and were over the moon to bump into us by chance.”

“So of course, out came the camera and we grabbed a quick off-the-cuff interview. Felt like bein’ on tour—only with more sheep and fewer mosh pits.”

“Fuelled by haggis and flattery, we carried on to the Falkirk Wheel—a frankly bonkers bit of engineering genius. Imagine a giant water-powered ferris wheel for canal boats and you’re halfway there.”

“We had to wait ages for it to actually move—turns out they don’t run it unless there’s a boat to shift. The next one up was packed with tourists lookin’ giddy as schoolkids, clearly just there for the ride.”

“When it finally started turning, it was like watchin’ a steampunk Transformer in action—absolutely mesmerising.”

“We filmed the whole lot—Johan giving nerdy commentary about torque and fluid dynamics while Vinka compared it to ‘a giant teacup ride for pensioners.’”

“From there, we made a solemn detour to the David Stirling Memorial, just outside Stirling, perched on a rugged Highland hill with a view that could knock the wind clean out of ya.”

“For us, it wasn’t just a statue—it was a tribute to the man who founded the SAS, the Regiment we’d served in proudly for more than a decade.”

“The place had the same power as the Commando Memorial at Spean Bridge. Stirring, humbling… it hit hard.”

“We laid a small wooden cross between us for the comrades we’d lost, and there wasn’t a dry eye behind the sunglasses.”

“A moment of silence, honour, reflection… until Marlin broke it with, ‘Right. Helmets on—let’s ride. I’ve just remembered I’m out of midge repellent.’”

“We pushed north toward Inverness, cruising through glorious Highland scenery—sheep giving us judgy looks from the roadside, rainbows popping up like we’d unlocked some sort of Scottish screensaver.”

“That night we pulled into a cosy hotel near Culloden Moor, the battlefield steeped in Highland tragedy. Dinner was perfectly seared venison, washed down with a few celebratory local ales.”

“Afterwards we collapsed into chairs by the open fire and, inevitably, talked shop—the bikes. Oh, the bikes.”

“All agreed: the Multistrada v 4 S was a revelation. Like ridin’ a rocket-propelled armchair—with heated grips.”

“Worth every penny. Cruise control was a blessing too, especially on the A9—basically one long game of ‘spot the speed camera.’”

“Great for fuel economy, sure, but no one’s writing home about averaging 50 miles an hour. Well, except Johan—he proudly announced he’d set a new record for longest stretch without overtakin’ anything.”

“The following morning felt like stepping into a piece of Scottish noir—a steel-grey mist hanging low over the land like a sulking teenager.”

“Breakfast was porridge with a cheeky splash of whisky—strictly medicinal, of course—while we mapped out our pilgrimage to Culloden Moor.”

“Haunting doesn’t even begin to cover it. This was where, on 16 April 1746, Bonnie Prince Charlie’s dream went up in smoke and musket fire.”

“Roughly 4,500 Jacobite troops cut down by the 9,000-strong Redcoat army under the Duke of Cumberland. Or, as the locals still mutter—‘The Butcher.’”

“Sadly, no filming inside the museum—probably just as well, given we’d have been tempted to replace the audio guide with our own dramatic re-enactments.”

“But outside? That was fair game. We walked the battlefield, filming as we pointed out the stone markers of the fallen clans—Fraser, MacDonald, Cameron—scattered across the sodden moor like whispers of a tragic past.”

“Johan took on the solemn bit, narratin’ the British troop placements with all the gravitas of a regimental lecture.”

“I gave a moving piece to camera beside the Jacobite line, while Marlin and Stephen were busy trying to outdo each other’s ‘windswept warrior’ poses.”

“A damp, dreich mornin’ well spent—if a little soggy round the edges.”

“Next on the list was the majestic Dunrobin Castle—a Highland stately home that looks like it belongs in a Disney film… if the Disney prince carried a broadsword and occasionally repelled Norse invaders.”

“We parked up, dodged a couple of coach tours spillin’ tourists like confetti, and set about explorin’ with the cameras rollin’.”

“Each of us took a turn presenting: Stephen in the Great Hall, playing whisky-fuelled tour guide; me in the gardens, waxing lyrical about the flower beds.”

“Johan analysed the hunting trophies like he was briefing an op order, while Marlin worked her charm through the drawing rooms.”

“Judging by the gawking faces sneaking into shot, we probably ended up starring in half a dozen strangers’ holiday videos.”

“We’d booked into the Bannockburn Inn in Helmsdale—a charming, slightly wonky little gem that looked like it had been built by pirates with a weakness for tartan.”

“The bikes were parked in the car park opposite, right where we could keep an eye on them from our bedroom windows, which gave us a certain peace of mind.”

“We tucked into a cracking meal—venison stew with tatties and neeps, followed by a rather generous sampling of the local whiskies.”

“Over dessert the chat turned to the next leg—John O’Groats, and then on to Dunnet Head, the actual northernmost point of mainland Britain. Sorry, Groats.”

“You could feel the excitement building. This was the top of the map, the edge of civilisation—or at least the end of a half-decent mobile signal.”

“We rose early and attacked our full Scottish breakfast with the gusto of warriors preparing for battle. The only real twist from the English version was the haggis—and, surprisingly, we were starting to enjoy it more with every meal.”

“Johan still looked at it suspiciously though, like it might jump off the plate and start a fight.”

“The fog was thick as porridge by the time we rolled into John O’Groats, the view dissolving into endless shades of grey.”

“We grabbed the obligatory signpost photo, squintin’ through the drizzle like damp explorers arrivin’ at the North Pole.”

“And truth be told… it was a little underwhelming. Very commercialised—gift shops flogging tartan tat, cafés pushing novelty fudge. But hey—”

“—we made it. And that’s what mattered.”

“The next leg was Dunnet Head—the actual northernmost point of mainland Britain. Take that, John O’Groats!”

“Sadly, we couldn’t actually see it. The mist had upgraded itself to stage-five Scottish fog—the kind where even your eyelashes feel damp and visibility’s measured in inches.”

“We parked the bikes and shuffled forward like lost ghosts in a Scooby-Doo episode, nearly walking straight into the lighthouse.”

“Honestly, we could’ve ridden straight off the cliff and not realised ‘til we were airborne.”

“The footage from the helmet cams looked less like a grand adventure and more like a low-budget horror film shot inside a bottle of milk.”

The fog finally surrendered, and what it left behind was so beautiful I actually forgot to breathe for a second. Scourie Bay stretched out below us, all silver water and rugged cliffs, the kind of place painters must weep over because they’ll never get the colours quite right. From our little Airbnb perched above the campsite, I could see forever—or at least until the horizon melted into the sea. It felt like Sweden and Scotland had shaken hands and decided to share their best views just for us.

I’ll tell you what, I wasn’t expecting much more than a bed and a kettle when we rolled up, but blimey—this place had front-row seats to God’s own theatre. Sunset dropped in right on cue, all orange fire and pink blush, like it’d been waiting for us to show up. Course, beauty’s one thing, but my stomach was thinkin’ with its own head by then.

Dinner was… well, divine. Fish and chips from the van by the campsite. I’d been sceptical at first—how good could fried food from a van really be? But one bite of cod in that golden, beef-dripping batter and I understood. Crisp shell, tender white flakes inside. Even the chips had character, like they’d been trained for years to achieve the perfect crunch.

Best in Scotland, they said. And for once, the hype wasn’t lying. I tucked in like a man possessed, chips in one hand, cod in the other, sea breeze whippin’ round my ears. Proper food of the gods. If Zeus himself had showed up, I’d have told him to sod off and get his own portion.