INSANE TATTOO | A DAY IN KINGS BRIDGE | ERUO ROAD TRIP

TATTO DAY

The day had finally come. The reason we’d been barreling across the UK on this mad quest—two outlaws seeking ink from the legendary Paul Davies, the tattoo wizard of Kingsbridge. Not the first fools to make the pilgrimage, and certainly not the last. Danny Boi, my trusty companion, was about to get nine straight hours under the needle, while I, poor soul, had to find ways to fight off madness in this cozy town by the sea.

The night before we had plans, good plans—rest up just outside of Exeter, recharge before the big day. But when England’s playing Spain in the Euro Championship final, all bets are off. You don’t just sleep through something like that. No, you roll with the tide of humanity and dive into the chaos. Exeter looked like a ghost town when we pulled in, but inside every pub, every hovel that served alcohol, the town’s collective spirit roared. A historical night, another chapter for the books.

We stumbled out of there with new friends and a head full of memories, riding our steel horse down to Kingsbridge. Rain, of course. Always rain in this green land. We walked through the wet streets, just enough time to snatch breakfast and pick the brains of the locals—“What do you do when you’ve got nine hours to kill in a market town on a rainy day?”

Then there was Paul. A quiet storm of a man, his imagination louder than any words he might utter. His girlfriend, a bright spark, the yin to his brooding yang. She loved hearing about our wild UK odyssey, laughed at our tales of mischief on the road.

I killed time the best way I knew how: a stop at the local laundromat to clean my travel-worn gear, worked on some client videos, wandered the streets looking for... something. A woman, perhaps? A bit of company? But instead, I settled for a hand rolled cigarette and a conversation with a lovely local at the bus station.

Stumbled across the world’s smallest nightclub, too. A phone booth, naturally. England loves its quirks. The phone was busted, but the idea lingered—this tiny town, with fewer than 7,000 souls, felt like a place where a man could settle someday. I couldn’t help but imagine life here, always wondering what it’d be like to trade the endless road for a small corner of the world like this.

Danny Boi emerged almost ten hours later, transformed, inked with the words of a warrior poet: “It’s better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war.” A bold mantra for a wild cowboy, and damn if it wasn’t true.

We said our goodbyes to Paul, mounted our mechanical steed, and rode off into the night. The end of this wild road trip was fast approaching, like a freight train you can’t stop. Tomorrow, Danny Boi would fly back to the States, and me? Well, who knows. That’s the beauty of it all, isn’t it? The open road, the unknown. The freedom to not decide—just keep exploring until the next wild adventure finds you.

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