Veterans, V4S & Victory: Restorations, HMS Victory Mess Night & a 4,000-Mile History Ride

Four British Army veterans turn wrenches and roll cameras as we restore classic motorcycles (Rudge Ulster, BSA B31, Triumph Speed Twin, Norton Model 25) to concours condition—then road-test them alongside our Ducati Multistrada V4S fleet. Between oily fingers and 4K slow-mo, we don mess kit for a top-table dinner aboard HMS Victory (Senior Rates’ Mess), return for the legendary meat raffle, and fuel up on camaraderie before mapping a 4,000-mile Riding Through History European Tour.

Ride with us from the Normandy D-Day beaches (Sainte-Mère-Église, Pegasus Bridge, Sword/Juno/Gold/Utah/Omaha) through Compiègne, the Ardennes (Malmedy, Bastogne) and Spa, over the Grimsel Pass, Dolomites (Corvara), and Grossglockner, to Munich’s historic sites (Feldherrnhalle, Königsplatz)—with a VIP stop at the Ducati Factory & Museum in Bologna. Expect authentic military and life stories, veteran humour, rugby banter, skiing grit, BAOR/Cold War Germany nostalgia, and pro multi-camera production from our Solent studio.

If you love veterans’ stories, motorbikes, travel vlogs, and living history told by those who served in the 1970s–2010s, this episode is for you.
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#BritishArmyVeteran #MilitaryStories #DucatiV4S #MotorcycleRestoration #HMSVictory #Normandy #Ardennes #Dolomites #BAOR #RidingThroughHistory

Transcript

Over the next couple of months, we threw ourselves into the workshop like a band of caffeine-fuelled engineers running a vintage motorcycle spa. Our latest additions were stripped down to the last bolt, scrubbed, painted, polished, and rebuilt with obsessive love — and not a small amount of swearing. The goal? Nothing less than concours-quality restorations, tempered with just enough originality to stop the purists tutting. Once rebuilt, they would be ridden — not hidden — and, naturally, filmed in glorious 4K with dramatic music and even more dramatic voiceovers. The collection, now teetering between “motorcycle museum” and “hoarder chic,” was expanding so fast we seriously considered knocking through into the laundry room. Either that, or sacrifice the wine cellar to become a bike vault. Wine or wheels — a cruel choice, but someone had to make it.

Not long after, a rather splendid invitation arrived from an old friend — one of those rare souls still serving, and lucky enough to be posted where history and prestige meet. He was hosting a top table dinner aboard HMS Victory, no less, in the Senior Rates’ Mess — a rare honour indeed. His only stipulation? That we dust off our mess kits, pin our Veterans’ Badges neatly beneath the rows of medals, and try not to get lost in the dockyard. Challenge accepted, of course — though I did quietly wager that Stephen would be the first to take a wrong turn among Nelson’s cannons.

Tom, ever the dutiful driver — and no doubt angling for brownie points to secure a turn on the Ducati — dropped us at the Gosport ferry in good time. We crossed the harbour and stepped through Victory Gate, which sounded far grander than the security checkpoint it actually was. A polite young rating met us there and proceeded to escort us across the dockyard with all the gravity of a royal parade. Climbing aboard HMS Victory was like walking straight into a living museum: timbers groaning underfoot, the rich scent of varnish and rope in the air, and that unmistakable sense of Trafalgar’s shadow pressing in all around. We were then ushered up to the poop deck — cue Johan’s schoolboy snickers — for a welcome drink and photographs, where we did our best to appear noble rather than windswept.

The Senior Rates’ Mess was like dining in a time capsule — oak beams, polished brass, and more naval history on the walls than some museums could boast. We took our places at the top table, bowed our heads for grace, and then set to with a starter of smoked salmon and prawns that would have brought a tear to any admiral’s eye. The main course was a lamb shank atop buttery mash, so tender it yielded before the fork even touched it, and dessert was a simple but glorious dish of fruit and cream. Just as we thought we could manage no more, out came the cheese and biscuits, followed by coffee and, inevitably, port for the toasts and speeches. The toasts were as hearty as the laughter, yet every word carried the reverence the old ship deserved. We left the Victory that night buoyed with food, stories, and pride, catching the last ferry back to Gosport where Tom, loyal as ever, awaited with a thermos in hand.

But the tale didn’t end there. The following Friday lunchtime we found ourselves once again aboard, this time for that time-honoured naval ritual: the meat raffle. A fiver each into the kitty, and we tried to look nonchalant while eyeing up the prizes. I carried off a leg of lamb large enough to feed a battalion, Marlin claimed a pork joint, Johan pocketed a fiver on the football card (which evaporated into celebratory beers within the hour), and Stephen, predictably, won nothing at all — save the honour of being reminded, at great length, that he had “the luck of a bilge rat.” Still, there was something glorious about it all. Meat, mates, and maritime mischief aboard Nelson’s flagship — what more could one ask for?

Between bouts of oily fingers and vintage engine tantrums in the workshop, we kept the live shows ticking over like a well-serviced Norton Commando and began plotting our next grand odyssey — because apparently we’re allergic to sitting still for more than a weekend. The spark came during a long weekend at the Adventure Bike Riders Festival in Warwickshire: a glorious muddle of mud, machines, campfire yarns, and bootleg bands who knew at least three chords and, on a good night, most of the words. We mingled with fellow bikers, sat in on some cracking talks, and barely had a quiet moment. To our mild astonishment, a fair few people actually recognised us from the channel, which made even a trip to the loo a more social occasion — fans waiting outside the portaloos, ready for a chat, as if it were all part of the programme.

The festival itself was a marvel of contrasts — immaculate adventure bikes parked beside mud-spattered relics that looked as though they had just limped back from the Khyber Pass. Tents sprouted across the fields like a patchwork quilt, some neat enough to impress a drill sergeant, others sagging so badly you wondered if the owners had simply given up and gone to the bar. We wandered through it all, chatting with riders of every stripe: grizzled veterans with tales taller than their panniers, bright-eyed newcomers still learning which way round the tent pegs went, and everyone in between. I loved the sheer camaraderie of it — no one cared whether you arrived on a £20,000 machine bristling with electronics or a battered old thumper held together with gaffer tape. The only real competition was who could tell the funniest story round the fire, and judging by the laughter, it was a very close race.

Somewhere between the third dodgy burger and the second pint of “locally brewed” ale — which tasted suspiciously like it had been siphoned from a tractor — the idea struck. Johan had been eyeing a map of Europe tacked up in one of the stalls, and with the kind of flourish usually reserved for battle plans, jabbed his finger at it. “There. That’s where we’ll ride next.” Unfortunately, his finger was squarely on the Bay of Biscay. “Brilliant,” I said, “we’ll take snorkels and call it amphibious touring.” That set us off, and within minutes the grand plan had shifted north, south, and back again, depending largely on whose pint glass was fullest. By the end of the night, we had about six different expeditions pencilled in, ranging from “Nordkapp or bust” to “let’s just see how far Cornwall really is.”

From this bubbling cauldron of two-wheeled inspiration emerged our next grand scheme: a Riding Through History European Tour — 4,000 miles across the continent, cameras rolling from the first wheel-turn to the last. Packing for such an expedition had long since evolved from the old “chuck it in, sit on the lid, and hope” routine into something approaching art. Each pannier had its place: one side strictly clothes (rolled, never folded), the other devoted to camera gear, spare microphones, and enough batteries to power a village fête. The top boxes we left empty — a trick learned the hard way — so our helmets could be stowed while we wandered historic battlefields, rather than stomping about looking like surplus extras from Judge Dredd.

We booked the overnight ferry from Portsmouth to Cherbourg — partly for the romance, partly for the late-opening bar, and mostly because it meant our first full day could be spent at the Normandy beaches. We began at Sainte-Mère-Église, where poor Private John Steele found himself dangling from the church spire during the D-Day drops. (A dummy still hangs there as tribute — quite effective, though I wouldn’t care to meet it after dark.) The morning was spent filming in our usual rhythm: one of us on camera, the others catching B-roll from ambitious angles, or doubling up for a chat that left us looking faintly like a historical version of Top Gear. It worked brilliantly — slick, banter-filled, and, for once, efficient. The footage looked superb, and so far no one had fallen off a bike or mangled “Sainte-Mère-Église” beyond repair.

After a stirring visit to the Airborne Forces Museum, we pressed on into several intense days of filming across Sword, Juno, Utah, Omaha, and Gold — each beach alive with echoes of history, heroism, and, somewhat less romantically, an endless tide of tourists in Union Jack bucket hats. Our Riding Through History format was working like a dream: one of us playing the on-screen historian, the others doubling as a mobile camera crew on two wheels, weaving through selfie sticks like slalom poles. At Carentan we captured some of the most gripping footage of the trip, filming around the town square where the 101st Airborne had fought house to house — scenes straight out of a World War II epic, only this time with us trying not to trip over café chairs while narrating.

That afternoon we paused for tea at the café beside Pegasus Bridge, and to our astonishment were joined by none other than Madame Arlette Gondrée herself — the little girl who had been just six years old when British troops liberated the café in the early hours of D-Day. Now in her eighties and sharp as a tack, she sipped her tea with quiet dignity and shared memories that gave us goosebumps and left us utterly spellbound. To be honest, we were a little starstruck. Afterwards we crossed the bridge to the Pegasus Memorial Museum, where the staff waved us through free of charge after spotting our Veterans’ Badges — proof, perhaps, that the perks of service occasionally stretch further than priority boarding and polite nods at airports.

After three powerful and emotional days in Normandy, we turned our wheels east towards Compiègne, to the clearing where the Armistice Wagon once stood — the site of peace in 1918, and of bitter humiliation in 1940. We arrived just in time, naturally, to see the gates closing. Typical. Undeterred, we found a charming little hotel nearby, complete with creaky beds and the scent of fresh croissants at breakfast, and returned the next morning. Filming there carried a sombre weight, standing in the place where the end of one war had bled into the beginning of another.

That afternoon we meandered across the countryside, dodging tractors, rainclouds, and one particularly irate goose, before rolling into Stavelot where we unearthed a cosy little hotel and an even cosier restaurant. The next morning, after a proper Belgian breakfast of bread, cheese, and a generous helping of confusion, we made for the Spa-Francorchamps Circuit Museum. Sadly, the staff refused to let us take the bikes for a cheeky lap — probably just as well, as a Ducati exhaust note mingling with priceless race cars would not have ended in polite applause. So, we mounted up and continued to Malmedy, filming at the solemn site where eighty-four American POWs were massacred by the SS. Today, a beautiful and peaceful memorial marks the place, and we each removed our helmets for a quiet moment of reflection — hearts heavy, silence absolute.

Our final stop of the day was Bastogne, where the hundred and first Airborne Museum simply knocked our boots off. The exhibits pulled us straight into the frozen hell of the Siege: immersive audio, authentic kit, and a chilling recreation of the foxholes that left us shivering in sympathy. The pièce de résistance? A photograph of Hitler himself standing outside the very building — the only occasion, we agreed, when he’d ever been remotely welcome near it. A brilliant museum, an unforgettable day, and more raw footage than poor Jimmy would know what to do with.

The road through the Ardennes was everything you’d expect — sweeping bends, brooding forests, and the occasional chocolate shop that tested our resolve more than any steep climb. It was hard not to feel the weight of history pressing in from every direction; these hills had echoed with tank engines and artillery not so long ago, and now here we were, four veterans on gleaming motorcycles, swapping hand signals and bad jokes between villages. At one stop, Johan managed to order what he thought was black coffee but turned out to be hot chocolate with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a wafer biscuit on the side. He drank it anyway, very seriously, like it was the ration issue of a hardened paratrooper, which nearly finished Marlin and me with laughter. The balance of sombre reflection and ridiculous banter carried us all the way through — the essence of our tour, really.

Rolling south into Luxembourg, we stumbled across a gem of a hotel — the rare sort where the staff actually smile at bikers in full Ducati apparel and don’t blanch when you ask for extra sausages. The rooms were plush, the beer reassuringly cold, and the pillows so soft it was almost criminal to abandon them. But abandon them we did: breakfast demolished by half past six, panniers locked by seven, and engines purring soon after. Our mission for the day? Nothing less than to conquer the Alps — or, failing that, to notch up a legendary Swiss mountain pass or two before the sun slipped behind the peaks.

We paused in Colmar — a town so pretty it might have fallen out of a fairy tale and landed softly in Alsace. Half-timbered houses leaned this way and that, flower boxes spilled colour in every direction, and the croissants were so buttery they should have come with a health warning. It was the perfect place to stretch our legs and refuel — though afterwards we were all mildly croissant-comatose. Still, once back in the saddle we aimed the bikes towards the Grimsel Pass, a sinuous ribbon of tarmac threading through craggy Alpine grandeur. It was everything we had dreamt of and more: switchbacks to make your heart race, scenery to steal your breath, and, blessedly, not a tourist coach in sight.

The revelation of the trip, however, was our new intercom headsets. Gone were the frantic hand signals and wild gesturing that made us look like a mute orchestra on motorbikes. Now we could choreograph the ride in real time: “Vinka, overtake on the next bend!” “Johan, hold that line — camera left!” “Marlin, smile, you’re on helmet-cam!” It transformed the Grimsel into a rolling production studio and delivered footage that, even by our standards, was nothing short of spectacular.

By early evening we’d coasted down to the southern shores of Lake Como, checking into a charming little hotel that, against all odds, boasted shockingly good Wi-Fi. As the sun bled into the lake in a blaze of colours fit for Instagram, we set ourselves up and went live with our regular stream. Back at base, Tom, Jimmy, and Mary ran the chat like seasoned professionals, fielding questions and relaying feedback while we uploaded the day’s cinematic triumphs. For once the connection held steady, the signal didn’t stutter, and even the coffee at reception was worthy of applause. A perfect end to a perfect day in the saddle.

The next morning we set off like children on Christmas Eve who’d been slipped a double espresso — because this was Ducati Day. The holy grail of Italian horsepower: the factory in Bologna. By mid-afternoon our hearts were revving almost as eagerly as the bikes beneath us. And then, there it was — unmistakable. Scarlet banners fluttering, the faint hum of machinery drifting through the air, and that intoxicating scent of polished metal mingled with race fuel. A temple to speed, precision, and just a touch of madness.

To our astonishment, out came one of the senior managers to greet us — not the usual handshake-and-hurry-you-along variety, but a proper VIP welcome, the sort that makes you briefly wonder if they’ve mistaken you for somebody far more important. He was disarmingly charming, quick with a joke, and every bit as besotted with bikes as we were. Without fuss he whisked us inside for a private, behind-the-scenes tour of the factory. Cameras, alas, were absolutely forbidden — not a single nut, bolt, or half-built superbike was to be committed to film. National secrets, no doubt. Still, we drank it all in, wide-eyed and grinning like lifelong fans suddenly let loose in the paddock at a MotoGP.

Thankfully, in the Ducati Museum it was all cameras go — and go we did! We filmed to our hearts’ content: historic race bikes, rare prototypes, gleaming Desmosedici masterpieces, and every ounce of two-wheeled history our SD cards could carry. The place felt like hallowed ground, and we wandered it with the reverence of monks on pilgrimage — only with more Ducati jackets and fewer vows of silence.

That evening our host swept us off to a proper local trattoria — no laminated tourist menus, just homemade pasta, Chianti that might as well have been bottled by angels, and tiramisu so good it made one of us emotional. (We won’t say who, but Johan definitely needed a moment.) Stuffed silly and laughing until we wheezed, we were delivered back to the hotel like minor rockstars. “Tomorrow, coffee,” our host promised, “then your bikes.” True to his word, the next morning began with strong Italian espresso and more laughter, before we returned to the factory to collect our trusty steeds. Then it was eastward into the Dolomites, towards that little mountain town where, once upon a time, we had skied like lunatics. This time there was no snow to carve — only corners.

Corvara in Badia — jewel of the Dolomites and proud owner of the finest apple strudel this side of heaven — was exactly as we remembered it. Tucked into the northern curve of the Sella Ronda like a pearl in a mountain shell, it welcomed us with blue skies, pine-scented air, and that glorious sense of alpine calm. We’d booked back into the Hotel Predat, a cosy family-run gem where the welcome is warmer than the soup and the balcony views could make a postcard blush. As for the food — well, let’s just say the chef was clearly practising witchcraft. Every bite left us half-tempted to hug her.

We allowed ourselves two nights here, a proper mid-tour pit stop. Time to catch up on admin, wash socks (Johan’s boots alone could have been patented as a bio-weapon), and give our saddlesore backsides a brief reprieve. The hotel’s sauna and hot tub became our sanctuary — four overgrown teenagers grinning like idiots, beers in hand, swapping tall tales and bickering over who had the smoothest cornering technique. For those few bubbling, blissful hours, life was perfect.

The next morning, instead of clattering about in ski boots, we rolled out in Ducati boots — a little louder, a lot faster, but every bit as exhilarating. Riding through the Dolomites felt like skiing the Sella Ronda all over again: sweeping turns, sudden drops, and scenery so staggering you forgot to breathe. Every bend whispered of winters past, when we’d flung ourselves down these slopes like lunatics, laughing all the way to the bottom. This time, the laughter was the same, only with the satisfying growl of Italian engines echoing off the cliffs. At one point Stephen shouted through the intercom, “Reckon these hairpins are easier on two wheels than skis!” He wasn’t wrong — though judging by the squeals from Marlin, the jury may still be out.

At checkout we promised the owner we’d be back in winter for another ski trip — already pencilled in, of course — and in return she pressed a little farewell schnapps into each of our hands. “For good luck and smooth roads,” she said with a wink. Suitably blessed (and slightly foggy-headed), we climbed back onto the bikes, kitted fresh and bellies full, and pointed ourselves towards Innsbruck. A quick wander round the town centre, bratwurst or two devoured, cameras rolling for good measure — and then we were off again, throttles open, aiming for the legendary Grossglockner High Alpine Road.

If the Grossglockner were a rollercoaster, it would come with a waiver and a warning label. Hairpin after hairpin, switchbacks so tight you’d swear your mirrors were overtaking you, and scenery so dramatic we half expected a dragon to swoop past. We stopped often — partly to film, partly to let the adrenaline ebb — but mostly just to stand there grinning like fools, trying to take it all in. The sun blazed, the bikes purred, and for those precious hours, we were truly living the dream.

By early evening we rolled triumphantly into Munich and parked up for a couple of days’ filming. The beer was icy cold, the pretzels were bigger than our helmets, and the night stretched ahead like an open road.

Back in Munich, fortified with fast Wi-Fi and coffee strong enough to reanimate a corpse, we seized the chance to upload a mountain of footage for Jimmy to sink his editing teeth into. Bless him, the man practically lives on iCloud these days — when he eventually marries, I fully expect Apple to stand in as best man. Between files transferring and camera batteries charging, we realised it would be nothing short of cultural negligence to skip the Hofbräuhaus. One-litre steins, oompah bands in full blast, and waitresses who could carry six beers in one hand while skewering you with a disapproving look in the other — it was everything we had hoped for, and more.

The Hofbräuhaus did not disappoint. Within ten minutes Stephen and Johan were clinking steins with a table of Bavarians who looked as though they’d been born in lederhosen, while Marlin and I tried not to choke on our pretzels from laughing at their attempts to keep up with the locals. The oompah band struck up a tune that sounded suspiciously like a marching cadence, which had the boys straight-backed and foot-tapping before they even realised it. By the second round, Stephen was explaining the finer points of rugby to a man who clearly thought he was talking about wrestling, and Johan had managed to lead a toast in three languages, none of them particularly recognisable. We left before midnight, dignity mostly intact, though I suspect our singing on the way back to the hotel will not soon be forgotten by anyone living within a two-block radius.

Once our heads stopped ringing — from the brass section, not the beer, probably — we got back to business. A full filming itinerary awaited, including several places that carried echoes of our younger days. When Johan and I had first set foot in Munich as sixteen-year-olds, the city had seemed vast and faintly intimidating. Our sightseeing then was confined largely to barracks, parade grounds, and the occasional bratwurst stand. Now, armed with cameras, credit cards, and the confidence that comes with a few decades under the belt, the city felt like an old acquaintance we were finally getting to know properly.

We spent the day walking through history, tracing the darker footprints of Munich’s past with respectful curiosity. Our first stop was the Feldherrnhalle — the Field Marshal’s Hall — once considered sacred by Hitler and the site where the failed 1923 Beer Hall Putsch came to its bloody end. Standing there, nearly a century later, it was surreal to think how those very steps had helped alter the course of world history. From there we moved on to the Königsplatz, that vast square once dominated by rallies and goose-stepping parades. These days it was mostly tourists snapping photos and students weaving through on bicycles — a far healthier spectacle, and one we all agreed was a vast improvement.

We wandered on to Odeonsplatz and the Old Town Hall, once hotbeds of propaganda and pageantry. Both retained their Bavarian charm, though the sinister grandeur had long since faded into the cracks of the stonework. 

It was odd: some places looked exactly as we remembered from our teenage visits, while others had shifted so much it felt as if we’d stumbled into a different city altogether. “Either they rebuilt that building,” Johan muttered, “or my memory’s been on the schnapps again.” Probably both.