Friday
There’s a certain romance to arriving at a motorcycle festival fully loaded on two wheels — every item carefully considered, every cubic inch of luggage space fought over like prime real estate. It’s part of the ritual. But this year, for our second visit to the Burning Bike Fest at MotoCamp Wales, we decided to trade romance for something far more luxurious: space, shelter, and the radical freedom of bringing the car.
Last time, we rented a camper van from Camper Van Hire Mid Wales and parked up alongside friends in their beloved VW camper, “Scooby.” It was sociable, a bit chaotic, and exactly what you’d expect from a weekend like this.
This year, though, we went in a different direction.
We booked one of the off-grid pods — a small but welcome upgrade from canvas life — and arrived on the Friday with Theo, our American Akita, in tow. The car, as it turns out, is something of a game changer. Gone was the need for military-grade packing discipline. Instead, we embraced a more… generous approach. Chairs, extra layers, cooking gear, and a few “just in case” items that would never have made the cut on the bike all came along for the ride. There may even have been a hint of overpacking. No regrets.
Welcome to Wales
On arrival, the weather was doing its usual Welsh impression — unpredictable but not unfriendly. Bright spells broke through the clouds, giving everything that fresh, just-washed look. It felt like we’d timed it perfectly.
Naturally, I decided to push my luck.
I’d picked up a tarp for the trip and, seeing a window of opportunity, set about rigging it over the picnic table beside the pod. It went up without too much drama, and for a brief moment, I admired what I assumed was a job well done — a solid bit of foresight that would no doubt prove useful later.
And then, almost on cue, the weather turned.
What started as light showers quickly escalated into heavy, cold rain, driven sideways by gusts of wind that seemed personally offended by my tarp setup. To its credit, the tarp held. Mostly. There were moments where it billowed dramatically, threatening to detach itself and make a break for the horizon like some kind of nylon hang glider. But it stayed put, clinging on with just enough determination to justify the effort.
Underneath it, we huddled, dry-ish, watching the rain sweep across the site. Theo, entirely unbothered by the drama, took it all in with the calm indifference of a dog who knows he’s not the one responsible for pitching anything.
It wasn’t the sun-drenched arrival I’d optimistically planned for, but in a way, it felt more authentic. This is Wales, after all. If you’re not testing your shelter against the elements at least once, have you really been?
And besides, there’s something oddly satisfying about sitting out a storm, knowing you’ve carved out a small pocket of comfort in the middle of it. Even if that comfort occasionally tries to take flight.
Trashing the camp
We’d barely settled under the tarp — damp, slightly smug that we hadn’t been completely defeated by the rain — when the weather decided it hadn’t quite made its point yet.
In what felt like a matter of seconds, the rain turned. Not eased, not shifted politely… turned. One moment it was cold and miserable, the next it was a full-blown hailstorm. And not the gentle, decorative kind either — these were gobstopper-sized lumps of ice hammering down with real intent. Within moments, the ground was transformed into something resembling a winter scene, only far less festive and significantly more painful.
There’s a very specific kind of panic that sets in when the sky starts firing frozen projectiles at your head. It doesn’t lend itself to calm, rational decision-making. It becomes a sprint.
We bolted for the pod.
Dignity was abandoned somewhere between the picnic table and the door as we made a frantic dash for cover, pelted all the way by what felt like nature’s version of hard-boiled sweets. Once inside, we stood there for a moment, catching our breath, listening to the relentless drumming on the roof and quietly reassessing our life choices.
For a brief window, it felt less like a weekend away and more like a low-budget survival exercise.
Thankfully, as violently as it arrived, it passed. The storm moved on, leaving behind a landscape littered with piles of ice that looked almost surreal against the Welsh countryside. The calm that followed had that strange, post-apocalyptic stillness to it — like everything needed a moment to process what had just happened.
The reality, though, was less poetic. We were soaked, off-grid, and very much without heating.
Time to get practical.
Man make fire!
I managed to get a fire going in the fire pit — not without a bit of effort, given everything was damp enough to qualify as a sponge — but once it caught, it became the focal point of camp. There’s something deeply reassuring about fire in situations like that. Primitive, maybe, but effective.
Theo, meanwhile, had his own upgrade. I backed the car up to the camp, flipped the tailgate open, and turned the heating on full. It wasn’t exactly a five-star setup, but it gave him a warm, dry refuge — and, if we’re being honest, a place we were all slightly jealous of.
Dinner, at this point, felt optional.
I’d brought steaks with the optimistic assumption that things would go according to plan. Standing there, cold and damp, it was a genuine 50/50 call between cooking them or admitting defeat and writing the whole idea off as wildly ambitious. But stubbornness tends to win in these moments.
So, I went for it.
Out came the camp stove, and against all odds — and possibly common sense — the steaks were cooked. Not perfectly, not elegantly, but cooked nonetheless. And in that moment, they tasted far better than they had any right to.
With some warmth restored and morale just about intact, we decided to venture out and see what the rest of the site had to offer. That’s when we discovered the covered bar area.
New to us — whether genuinely new or built sometime in the last year — it felt like exactly what was needed. Dry, sheltered, and filled with the low hum of people who had all just endured the same bizarre weather event, it had an immediate sense of camaraderie.
There’s a unique comfort in shared adversity. One minute you’re dodging airborne ice, the next you’re standing with a drink in hand, swapping stories with strangers who get it without explanation.
After what we’d just been through, it felt less like a bar and more like a sanctuary.
Saturday
Morning arrived with a different kind of vista.
Everything was covered in frost. The kind of frost that crunches underfoot and makes you question whether your fingers will ever function normally again. But, in a rare show of mercy, the sun decided to make an appearance and actually stick around. As it climbed, the frost gave way, the light softened, and for the first time that weekend, it felt… pleasant.
Not quite Caribbean, obviously. Let’s not get carried away. But compared to the previous day’s hail-driven chaos, it might as well have been.
With conditions no longer actively trying to kill us, I set about re-establishing camp like a man reclaiming territory. Coffee was first — priorities matter — followed by sausages on the stove. There’s something about a proper campsite breakfast that resets everything. The previous day’s drama started to feel like a distant, slightly ridiculous memory.
Theo, however, had no interest in reflection.
Breakfast was quickly followed by a walk into the woods, which in reality meant being dragged along behind an American Akita who had clearly picked up the scent of something far more interesting than us. Whatever woodland creature had crossed his path earlier was now the centre of his universe, and we were just along for the ride.
Nearby, something far more deliberate was taking shape. Tom, from Caru Coed Woodland Adventures, along with a small group, was hard at work constructing a wooden motorcycle. Not a small token effort either — this was clearly destined to be the centrepiece of the evening’s bonfire. Watching it come together added a strange sense of anticipation to the day. There’s something inherently satisfying about knowing an object’s entire purpose is to be set dramatically on fire later.
With the weather holding, we took advantage and headed out for a drive. The car, once again, proving its worth. We made our way through Blaenau Ffestiniog and on to Betws-y-Coed, which was exactly as expected — busy enough to make you immediately reconsider your life choices. A quick loop through the car park by the train station confirmed it wasn’t worth the effort, so we did the sensible thing and left.
Back the way we came, back to MotoCamp, just in time for what could generously be described as a late lunch. Cheese, biscuits, and a surprisingly good bottle of wine. Not exactly survival rations, but no one was complaining.
It wasn’t long before things shifted gears again.
The burning of the bike
Steph Jeavons gathered everyone and announced the bike procession for 7pm. As plans go, this one had a certain theatrical appeal. As dusk settled, the crowd formed, torches were lit, and the wooden motorcycle was carried in procession toward the waiting bonfire.
There’s something undeniably primal about it. Fire, darkness, a group of people all focused on the same moment. The bike was placed onto the unlit pile, a brief pause hanging in the air before it was set alight.
Then it went up.
Flames climbed quickly, licking into the night sky, consuming hours of work in a matter of minutes. It was loud, bright, and oddly hypnotic — the kind of spectacle that doesn’t need explaining.
We drifted back toward the bar. There were drinks, and live music from Two Sick Steves, which carried the evening along nicely. Apparently not everyone (Theo) shares the same appreciation for turning things up to eleven. Who knew?
Eventually, the pull of warmth and a horizontal surface won out.
Back to the pod we went, and this time, sleep came easily. No hailstorms, no midnight survival scenarios — just a quiet, mild night that felt almost suspiciously normal.
And then it was over
Morning arrived bright and breezy, as if the weekend hadn’t spent its opening act trying to freeze us into submission. Packing up was less a careful process and more an exercise in strategic stuffing. The car, once again, proving its superiority over any kind of carefully packed pannier system.
And just like that, it was over.
Another Burning Bike Fest done. Slightly weather-beaten, marginally more experienced, and with just enough chaos to make it memorable — which, when you think about it, is probably the whole point.
