Within two days, we realised we'd made our first real mistake: we'd planned for comfort, not reality.
We'd set off to cycle around Britain, stopping at every RNLI lifeboat station along the way. The bikes were overloaded. The panniers were crammed with gear we were convinced we'd need.
By the second evening we were stripping weight at the side of the road. Fishing rods. Saucepans. Camping Stoves. We kept what mattered and let the rest go.
The plan had started simply. Over a pint and a paper map, we traced the coastline and circled every lifeboat station in Britain.
One of us had grown up on the south coast. The other had spent childhood holidays on Anglesey. The sea drew us in. We'd pictured remote beaches, camping by our bikes, cooking freshly caught fish.
What we didn't know then was what we were getting into. The entire coastline was too abstract, too far off to think about. We were just focused on the first leg — where to start, where to stop, what to pack.
In the end, we were choosing years. It took seven.
Not because the idea was complicated, but because life keeps happening between the annual bursts of making a line on a map. We rode in the summer. We paused for work and responsibilities. We navigated family life and injuries. We saved money, raised money, and kept coming back.
Over those years we rode thousands of miles of coastline: postcard harbours, industrial docks, windswept promenades, towns quietly holding themselves together.
Paper maps gave way to GPS. The kit got lighter. The lessons got heavier.
At every lifeboat station we met volunteers who lived ordinary lives until their pager sounded — mechanics, teachers, fishermen, office workers. People who would leave a family dinner or a warm bed without hesitation. There was no performance or ego. Just competence, courage, and a kind of quiet readiness that made you sit up straighter.
And then there were the moments that changed us.
A long day in the saddle. Salt and sweat streaked, spent, looking for somewhere to eat. A coastal pub appeared. Then discovering someone we'd never met had quietly paid for our supper. No note. No need for thanks. Just a small act that made the whole world feel smaller.
We set out to raise money for the RNLI. Over seven years, we raised £78,000.
But the money was only part of it. What stayed with us was the pattern: friendship, community, and generosity arriving without fanfare.
We came from a privileged world. Good jobs. Good families. Options. Out on the road, it was often the people with the least who opened their doors, pressed a note into our hands, offered us their spare bedroom, cooked us a meal. Their generosity wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
By the time we rolled into London on the final stretch, pride wasn't about the miles or the map we'd drawn. It was about what those years had stitched into us — friendship tested and strengthened on the road. Stories we’d tell our grandchildren.
Advencha grew from that experience. Not as a slogan, but as a belief we'd lived.
Growth doesn't come from one grand leap. It comes from small, repeated acts of moving in the right direction.
Adventure isn't the summit, the medal, or the photo at the end. It's the shared miles, the first sip of beer after a long day, the conversations that only happen when there's nothing else to distract you. It's the feeling of being slightly out of your comfort zone — and exactly where you're meant to be.
And somewhere along the way, almost without noticing, the person you want to be starts to show up.
Growth Through Adventure.