There’s something about a blazing May Day in Dorset that feels like a glimpse of summer’s promise. The sun was already high when I fired up my motorbike in Bournemouth, the engine purring like it knew this would be a ride to remember. With the forecast promising clear skies and highs pushing 22°C, I set my sights on a classic route: across the Sandbanks Ferry, down to Swanage, and on foot to the breath-taking cliffs of Old Harry Rocks.
The coastal ride to Sandbanks was vibrant—bright sea glinting off chrome, the salty air cutting through the heat. Pulling up to the chain ferry, I joined a small congregation of cyclists, scooters, and cars. The crossing was short, but as always, that brief float over the entrance to Poole Harbour felt like a gateway to a different pace of life. I disembarked in Studland with the kind of grin only sun, sea, and a bike can provide.
From there, the road wound gently through verdant hedgerows and flowering countryside, leading into Swanage. After parking up near the seafront, I changed into my hiking shoes and set off along the South West Coast Path toward Old Harry Rocks. The sun was fierce, but a coastal breeze kept it from being oppressive. The views, however, were overwhelming.
Old Harry Rocks never fails to deliver. Jagged white chalk stacks jutting defiantly into the blue—a photographer’s dream. I spent a good hour just wandering the clifftops, camera in hand, framing shots of the dramatic landscape, the sparkling sea, and the occasional paraglider drifting lazily overhead. Each angle offered a new perspective, each step a new appreciation of this prehistoric, weather-hewn wonder.
By late afternoon, with memory cards full and legs pleasantly tired, I made my way back. The return route took me to The Bankes Arms Inn in Studland, a proper English pub nestled on the edge of the cliffs with a beer garden that might be one of the finest on the south coast. I ordered a thick, juicy bacon cheeseburger—the kind that drips down your fingers and leaves you no choice but to embrace the mess—and paired it with a pint of the Isle of Purbeck Brewery’s core beer. Cool, crisp, and satisfyingly bitter, it was a brew that spoke of the local soil and sea air.
Sitting in the pub garden, burger demolished and pint half gone, I let the heat of the day sink in. Conversations floated around me, a dog barked lazily in the sun, and the view stretched endlessly out over Studland Bay. There was no rush to move—but eventually, the bike called.
The ride back to Bournemouth in the golden hour was effortless. Shadows stretched across the tarmac, the engine hummed a steady rhythm, and the satisfaction of a day well spent settled warmly in my chest.
Dorset in May, with the right weather, the right route, and the right pint, is pure motorbiking magic.
