Paul Amess

Paul was born and bred in Hull, Yorkshire – a place so flat you can see next week coming. After years gallivanting around the globe in search of exotic wonders, enlightenment, and probably a decent tan, he eventually realised that the greatest place on Earth was… well, back where he started. Who needs Bali when you’ve got Bridlington?

These days, Paul spends as much time as humanly possible schlepping across England on foot, soaking up its ludicrously rich history and encountering a wild assortment of locals – some fascinating, some eccentric, and a few who make you quietly reconsider your life choices.

He’s dabbled in the big-name trails – the Coast to Coast, Hadrian’s Wall – but honestly? He prefers the lesser-known paths, the ones that sound like made-up places and end with you knee-deep in sheep, wondering when exactly your phone signal packed up. He’s firmly of the belief that the further you get from civilisation, the weirder and more wonderful the people become. And sometimes they even offer you cake.

Naturally, rural rambling isn’t without its hazards. Paul has been bitten by dogs, mowed down by a bus, and run over by an ice cream van (not simultaneously, although that would’ve made a cracking obituary). He also spends a significant amount of his time being completely and unapologetically lost, which he insists is “part of the charm.”

Somehow, he’s managed to turn this baffling lifestyle into a career, and has written several books about his misadventures – with another one currently in the works, because apparently the British countryside still hasn’t quite finished messing with him yet.