The Star Hotel, Kingussie: a Highland hellhole, which fortunately has now been refurbished. Picture: Google Maps

Motorcycles are sexy. Travel is exciting. Making money is attractive. Combine all three and what do you get? Sometimes, more than you bargained for – and at other times, not even a half-decent meal after a five-hour drive. Here’s a taste of life on the road in the UK motorcycle industry …

Thunder in the Glens, Aviemore

Thunder in the Glens is a no-holds-barred Hogfest of all that is Harley Davidson, taking place every year in the Highlands of Scotland. Thousands of Harley-mad owners – and others – descend on the tiny town of Aviemore, taking over the whole place, which is why we ended up staying at The Star Hotel, Kingussie*. 

Read on for the full horror story … 

A threadbare, faded red tartan carpet greeted us as we entered the terraced Victorian building’s empty reception area. 

We had been late booking accommodation for the Thunder in the Glens motorcycle extravaganza in the Scottish Highlands, and this sorry place housed the only available accommodation. 

With good reason. 

Our so-called ‘hotel’ for the next three nights – featuring the smallest room I have ever encountered containing a double bed –  represented a sad shadow of its former self. 

Judging by the decor, the building’s heyday no doubt coincided with the Bay City Rollers topping the charts, when prawn cocktail was the height of decadence on the menu and shaggy-haired guests tackled the slippery, shiny stairs in their flapping flares and stacked platform heels. 

Orange varnished pitched pine panelling lined the walls, adorned with cheap picture frames containing faded prints of local landmarks. 

Yes, we were in touristy Scotland – but this was not the Scotland of the romantic advertising campaigns. 

Oh no. 

This was budget Scotland from the 1970s, with no discernible investment since then. 

After a four-hour road trip, this was not the welcome we needed. 

But sadly, we couldn’t wave Bye Bye Baby to this faded tartan terror.

There wasn’t a room to be had for love nor money within Harley-Davison wrestling distance of Aviemore, so we had to Give A Little Love to the Highland hellhole, and stay.

This miserable collection of bricks and mortar had been the victim of architectural vandalism in its boom years, an ugly ‘feature’ modern staircase bisecting the two main reception rooms, wrecking the traditional Victorian double-fronted layout.

I mused that the unhappy building had been occupied only by British tourists –  taking cheap coach holidays – ever since.

One couldn’t imagine any discerning traveller wanting to set foot in this poor apology for accommodation, let alone someone wanting to buy it and run it as a business. 

And yet, it had new owners.

But travelling beggars can’t be choosers, and we had a job to do: to sell Visorcats from our trade stand at Thunder in the Glens in Aviemore. 

The room was a place to lay our heads, at least, before facing the sensory overload of all that is Harley-Davidson over the next few days.

After introducing ourselves to the owner, a friendly guy who had recently moved from China to run the hotel with his family, we found our way to what was described as an ensuite double room. 

We fell through the door, with our bags, onto the bed – there was nowhere else for us, or for them. 

The room was so tiny that we had to plan our moves around it with military precision, negotiating who was to go to the wardrobe or en-suite, so that we didn’t have to clamber over the bed to avoid crashing into each other. 

We joked that the room was too small even to change our minds, let alone our clothes. 

A pre-dinner drink was a major priority, but the bar resembled a soft play area, with a large playpen as the room’s focal point. 

There was no gin, so we consumed foul-tasting coffee while surrounded by toys and other baby paraphernalia. 

Clearly, this was a family-friendly establishment.

We soon decamped to the nearest pub, grateful for the cheery beer and many packets of crisps. 

The pub’s kitchen was closed so we couldn’t get a meal, and our hotel’s restaurant was “booked up“ – despite the fact there was no one in it.

The next morning, all made sense: a coachload of Chinese tourists had turned up – and were tucking into breakfast. 

Stafford Classic Bike Show

Stafford Classic Bike Show is a must-visit if you’re an old bloke who likes tinkering with something in your garage (a motorcycle, I hasten to add). It’s more for people who like fettling rather than riding, but nonetheless, it’s a great show with loads to see, especially if you’re over a certain age and/or want to buy a widget for your cherished old British beauty, which you ride once a year with your friends from the old codgers’ bike club. 

The show is so full-on that after a day’s trading, it’s good to escape from the noise and motorcycle overload, which is why we chose the excellent Stone House Hotel more than once. 

Minding my own business while ordering drinks at the bar, I found myself in conversation with a very smartly-dressed gentleman who was attending a posh civic do being held at the hotel that night.

Taking the view that a day at a bike show in jeans and boots should be followed by an evening dressed in a skirt and heels for dinner, I found myself being invited to the Mayoral event (complete with the Mayor in full regalia) alongside women with hats, haute couture and heels,  by the cheeky gentleman, who didn’t have a partner for dinner. 

Finding the invitation highly amusing, I politely declined. 

However, I was secretly pleased that I still had the ability to string a few words together and look presentable after a full-on day of selling Visorcats from our trade tent at the Stafford Classic Bike Show. 

Looking back, maybe I should have accepted – the only thing on the bar menu that night (for lowly travelling salespeople) was pizza. I imagine the Mayoral menu would have been somewhat more imaginative.

Motorcycle Trade Expo

We once attended a traders’ event in Kenilworth, Northamptonshire, staying at a hotel booked at a special rate by the organisers. 

After a 300-mile drive and five hours on the road, we arrived in the early evening, looking forward to a drink and a meal in the Ramada hotel’s Indian restaurant: handily, the menu had been left in the very comfortable room, so, having made our choice, we headed hungrily to the bar for a pre-dinner pint of local ale. 

The beer was off, so we opted for gin and tonic – and enquired about the potential for a mouthwatering curry, hopefully washed down with a pint of Cobra or Kingfisher. 

“Sorry, the restaurant is closed at the moment,” said the woman who had served our drinks. “The chef is on holiday. He’s back next week.” 

I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

“The beer is off and the restaurant is closed?” I said to our friendly (but obviously stressed) waitress. “Is anything else wrong?”

“What, apart from the fact that I still work here?” she blurted out. 

“Oh er um … I didn’t mean that, “ she blushed. 

‘No, of course you didn’t, luv,’ I said to myself.

Several more gins and tonics later, a food order was placed, after struggling to communicate with the waiter. (Language was not the only barrier – we may have been slurring speech at this point).

An entire bottle of wine was consumed before the offering was eventually served – probably the worst apology for food I have ever encountered in a hotel.

My microscopic vegetable lasagne was dry, shrivelled, colourless and tasteless, and it was accompanied by a small mountain of sweet potato fries and a couple of lettuce leaves (I’d ordered a large salad and a side of fries). A larger mountain of the fries appeared on a separate plate.  

To be fair to our hosts, the sweet potato fries were edible  – but I would have considered eating a hog roast, I was so hungry and drunk by this point (I’m a vegetarian).

The manager was summoned – and hilariously offered us a free meal there the following night. 

Eat there again? I would rather have consumed my elderly Sidi motorcycle boots. 

Instead, we took an Uber to a nearby restaurant in Kenilworth and shared the exasperating story with our helpful driver. 

“Chef on holiday …? He left months ago,” said the cabbie.

We started to compare the Ramada with Fawlty Towers.

The harassed bar lady could easily have been Polly, and Manuel our waiter, except that some of the jokes weren’t at all funny.  

Disturbingly, we heard that a member of staff had let himself into a room in the middle of the night – occupied by a single young woman who had attended the motorcycle event – on the pretext of “checking something”. 

When she protested, he immediately apologised and left, but after everything else that had gone on during our short stay there, alarm bells started to ring.

I was so concerned about the incident that I reported it to the agency that had booked the hotel for us.

On the morning of our departure, I spotted another young woman eating breakfast alone. I immediately warned her to make sure her bedroom door was deadlocked on the inside when she retired for the night. 

Hopefully, she heeded my warning.

*The Star Hotel has (fortunately) since been refurbished, and Thunder in the Glens has been consigned to the history books.