Roaring through Mendip Hills | Euro Road Trip

Ah, the Mendip Hills. God’s little gift to the English, though they’ll call it an “Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty” as if that isn’t the most bureaucratic poetry you’ve ever heard.
For us back home, we’d slap a sticker on it and call it a National Park. But here, in this peculiar slice of the world, they dress it up in something fancier, as if a title alone could preserve a piece of Earth from the madness of human hands.

It was, I think, Day 3 of our European Road Trip. Or was it 4? Time slips when you’re chasing sunsets and stumbling through strange towns. Daniel and I, ragtag cowboys on the wrong side of the pond, had just left Bristol—scene of debauchery, laughter, and a night that stretched too long into the Bristolian fog.

But the road calls, as it always does, and we threw ourselves onto the saddle of our mechanical beast once more. Destination? Exeter. Purpose? Daniel’s got a mission in this life, and it involves permanent ink under the skin. Two days there for the tattoo In Kingsbridge that’ll etch itself into his flesh like some ancient warrior’s mark. But first, a detour.

The Mendips. Hills, limestone-coated and windswept, not quite a mountain range but enough to make you pause, squint into the horizon, and wonder what the hell you’re doing here. England is not known for its towering peaks or majestic ranges—that’s for the Rockies and Sierras—

In fact, the UK is made up of 69% Farm lands.

but the Mendips? They’ve got charm, and charm is dangerous. You’ll find yourself lost in it before you even realize.

Our pursuit of the perfect sunny beach was, of course, a failure. This is England, after all. Sun is a rumor here. So, with the spa dream deferred, we veered east, through these rolling hills, with a pitstop in Cheddar (yes, like the cheese, and yes, we had a laugh).

The Mendip Hills, stretching from Weston-super-Mare to the valley of Frome, are ancient and alive in a way that our deserts out west could never understand. You could hike to the highest point, a noble 325 meters above sea level, or you could be like us—time poor, spirit rich—and drive through, glimpsing the wildness from your window.

And if you're inclined to pause, stop at Beacon Batch. World War II left its scars here too, cairns of stone stacked high to confuse German bombers looking to make Bristol their cratered masterpiece. Now, it’s just wind and whispers. But in the air, you feel it, the weight of history clinging to your bones.

They argue here too. Even in this landscape that feels timeless, modern bickering over wind turbines and ecological impact drags on. 102 meters tall, standing like sentinels over Chewton Mendip, these turbines stir the pot. Progress, or destruction? It depends on whose tea party you’re crashing.

For us? The Mendips were just a moment. A sweet breath of air on a journey that winds and twists with no discernible end. Cowboys, after all, never settle. Not in these hills, not anywhere.

And remember, Drive safe!

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