As this blog is a testament to, I absolutely love the Piaggio Beverly maxi-scooter platform. In fact, I have two: a 2017 Beverly 350 that lives with me in Northern Ireland, and a 2023 Beverly 400 that I keep for when I'm in Spain.

As I've covered previously, the 350 is the bike I've been slowly updating and improving over the last year. It's been a great machine, not to mention a fantastic classroom for learning how the whole scooter/CVT dark arts work, but it is nearly ten years old. So naturally, I'm often flicking through the classifieds to see what its replacement might look like.

There are zero Piaggio dealers in the whole of NI, so the obvious option, just buying a newer Beverly 400, isn't really an option without a massive logistical headache. But over here, they do love their Hondas. With quite a few dealers in the region, a potential replacement that constantly pops up is the Honda ADV350. Which along with its sibling, the Forza 350, it is just about the best-selling maxi-scooter duo in Europe right now. So it has to be worth a look, right?

For those who have been living under a rock, the ADV350 is the machine that kickstarted the whole "adventure scooter" trend. Think of it as a regular commuter scooter that's been hit really hard with the adventure bike stick. The marketing bangs on about it being great on and off-road. But, just like your average Range Rover, the most "off-road" most ever see is a muddy track to the local football pitch. Nonetheless, there is no denying it's a fantastic, manly, rugged looker. So, as a manly, rugged man myself (joke!), when a used one popped up at the right price at a local dealer, I had to give it a try.

The dealer in question was GS Motorcycles. In total, a 3-hour round trip for me taking the scenic route. But even putting the test ride aside, it was a worthwhile trip just to see their fantastic showroom and meet their genuinely helpful staff.

Enough waffle. Let's get to the ride.

Round One: The Showroom Showdown

After a 90-minute scenic ride, I arrived at the showroom and saw the ADV lined up out front alongside three "proper" motorcycles. I duly parked my trusty Beverly 350 next to it and stepped back for a look.

Honestly? The Beverly looked a bit pretty pathetic.

Compared to the others, it looks small, demure even. It just didn't look the part compared to the others. It looked every inch the polite Italian scooter, and I mean that in the worst way possible. By contrast, the ADV slotted right in with the adventure bikes. It has the same frontal proportions, and at a quick glance, you wouldn't even clock it was a scooter.

Visuals: Big win for the ADV. Big loss for the Beverly.

My contact for the test ride came out and fired the ADV up. Honestly, if it wasn't for the dash flickering to life, I wouldn't have known it was running. It is so quiet. Now, in the motorbike world, quiet is usually seen as a bad thing. But I'm completely done with the "loud pipes save lives" bollox. Loud pipes give you a fecking headache; quiet, in my book, is good.

I threw a leg over it, and it immediately felt comfy. For a tall, adventure-style bike, the seat-to-footrest distance is surprisingly short, noticeably tighter than the Beverly, but not quite enough to be a dealbreaker. The bars did get worryingly close to my knees at full lock, but since they are exposed tubular bars, a set of riser blocks would easily sort that out. (Full disclosure: I'm six foot three.)

The lady I dealt with told me I had an hour and to take my time. I fully intended to. I hit the open road, initially pootled around to get a feel for it, and almost immediately discovered my first niggle.

The Suspension: Showa Marketing vs. Reality

Honda makes a massive deal about the suspension on the ADV350. It has "proper" motorcycle suspension: dual-crown forks up front and remote-reservoir rear shocks, all made by Showa. According to the blurb, this, ladies and gentlemen, is the real deal.

Except, it's not.

I've no idea what went wrong in the R&D department, but it wouldn't be an exaggeration to bluntly call it shite, well OK maybe not shite, but it certainly doesn't live up to the hype.

Before I verbally pull it apart, let me qualify that: I know suspension. I was a pro mechanic on high-end mountain bikes for 20 years. A huge part of that job was selecting and tuning suspension. I understand shim stacks, rebound, compression damping, and spring rates. Granted, this isn't MTB suspension, but the mechanical principles are exactly the same.

And I can tell you, the ADV's suspension is nothing special. Yes, it has a Showa badge. Yes, it has gold paint on the outside. But I guarantee the internals are pure bottom-rung stuff. To stop the bike bottoming out when (or if) it's taken off-road, they haven't employed clever high and low speed damping circuits; they've just massively over-sprung the entire thing. It is incredibly harsh, harsher even than the 10-year-old Beverly 350. It's all marketing, no class-leading ride quality.

The Performance: Where's the Magic?

Okay, so the ride is jarring. Let's look past that and get it onto the fast roads.

This brings me to niggle number two: the performance. I know it's only a 330cc engine, but I was really expecting some clever Japanese engineering magic to make those CCs shine. There wasn't any. It feels more or less identical to my Beverly 350, except once I hit the motorway, the Honda ran out of legs much sooner. It was just... okay. It was smooth, the power delivery was predictable, but it was just ... OK.

Now, I know it's unfair to compare the ADV350 to my Beverly 400, cus the Bev has the full 399cc's, but I'm going to anyway: there is absolutely no comparison. In every single metric, the Piaggio 400 completely smokes the Honda. Unfair? Maybe. But it's the truth. Yes, it's got more displacement, but everyone bangs on about how Japanese bikes are greater than the sum of their parts when it comes to performance. Really? I think not. And that's before we even get to the old school dry clutch (ADV350) and the moto tech wet clutch found in the Bev erly 400. But I digress...

The Weather Protection: Form Over Function

I realise I'm biased. I like the traditional "Vespa" style of scooter, which begs the question: Why look at an ADV? But aside from aesthetics, there is a very practical reason most scooters use that traditional shape: Wind protection.

The whole point of the scooter platform is that you can ride it in regular clothing without freezing. And that is my third niggle: the ADV350 offers practically zero wind protection. The narrowed front fairing is shaped to look aggressive, meaning it punches a very small hole in the air. That adjustable screen? You might as well unbolt it. There is no discernible difference between the highest and lowest settings. I bet if it wasn't there you'd feel no difference.

The reality: once I got over 40 mph, I was getting absolutely battered. I'm talking naked sportster battered. Wind blasted my torso, my helmet, and straight up my legs. I guess that's the trade-off for adventure styling. In the summer, you could suffer it. But in a wet Northern Irish winter? You'd be miserable. It relegates the ADV350 to a "fine weather machine", which entirely defeats the point of buying a scooter as a daily rider.

The Storage Myth: Size Isn't Everything

Finally, we arrive at niggle number four. Along with the "awesome" suspension, Honda constantly brags about the enormous 48-litre under-seat storage, claiming it easily swallows two full-face helmets.

Well, I can tell you: one of those things might be true. It might technically hold 48 litres of water, but it absolutely cannot swallow two full-face helmets. I couldn't even get one of my helmets to fit!

As any woman (or man!) will tell you, it's not just about the size; it's about how it's used.

Because the ADV has so much ground clearance, the underside of the bike is pushed high up into the chassis. To keep the seat height manageable, the storage space gets squeezed in the middle. The result is a space that is very long, fairly wide, but incredibly shallow. You don't have an under-seat bucket; you have an under-seat tray. To make matters worse, the floor isn't even flat, it slopes forward dramatically. They've even had to install little plastic retaining walls just to stop your gear from rolling to the front. The numbers might look great on a spec sheet, but in the real world, it's seriously impractical.

The Verdict

And that, firmly and finally, removes the Honda ADV350 from my list of potential replacements. I love how it looks, but I just couldn't live with it day to day.

Sure, some people will read this and say I'm just a Piaggio fanboy who never intended to give the Honda a fair shake. But I'm not just a Piaggio fanboy; I'm a fan of function first. For me, the ADV350 is 100% form over function. Yes, it looks incredible parked up. But when it comes to doing its actual job, being a comfortable, practical, year-round commuter, it fails miserably.

So, I'm keeping the Beverly 350. And when the time eventually comes to upgrade, even if it means flying to GB and dealing with ferries, the only logical choice is another Beverly 400.

If you read my previous post on upgrading the Beverly 350 with Dr. Pulley sliders, you’ll know I’m a big advocate for ditching Piaggio’s stock round rollers in favour of Dr Pulley Sliders. Back in Northern Ireland, I put standard-weight (16g) sliders in the 350 with a very specific, singular goal: to drop the RPMs at motorway speeds. I even brought out the OBD scanner to give hard, undeniable data that it worked exactly as planned.

Fast forward to now. I’m back in Spain with my Beverly 400 HPE. I do like this scooter, very much, although it's fair to say we have a love/hate relationship. Yes, it's much more powerful than the 350 back in NI (way more powerful than the measly 50cc upgrade would have you think). Plus, it's infinitely smoother than the 350 too, but it has its gremlins. All in all, it's just not as lovable as my pure workhorse analog 350. Nonetheless, as good as the ride and handling of the 400 is, it's not perfect.

At slow speeds, I'm talking making your way along the tight, narrow streets of the typical Andalusian village, and crawling along the coast in bumper-to-bumper tourist traffic' it's not the best-behaved scooter I've ever ridden. The Beverly 400 struggles to maintain the theoretical first gear when the revs drop right down to a crawl, it can annoyingly drop into neutral when you least expect it, then juddering back "into gear" when you, even gently, apply the gas. And whilst the power delivery once you're up to speed is up there with the best of them, below 30 km/h it can often be a bit of a judderfest.

So, after the success of sticking some Dr. Pulley sliders into the 350, I started to wonder if they were the solution for the 400 too. After a bit of thinking, I headed back to the Dr. Pulley site and ordered up some 25x16 17g sliders, having them shipped to Spain. This turned out to be a big mistake. When the previous sliders arrived into NI from Taiwan there was no duty to pay. But this is Spain, and the government always wants their little bit extra, and duly slapped a €35 import duty on them. Cheers Pedro!

Why I Dropped the Weight

With the 350 back home, I stuck to the stock 16g weight, because the goal was to lower the RPMs at motorway cruising speeds. But the 400 presented a different problem, so it was time to experiment a little.

The factory roller weight for the 400 is 18g, and at motorway speeds, thanks to the extra power, it already purrs along at a low RPM. Because of their unique cam shape, Dr. Pulley sliders physically push the belt higher on the variator, essentially acting like a heavier round roller in the mid-to-top end. So if I had put 18g sliders in, it would have risked bogging the bike down once we hit 100+ km/h. Especially when, unlike the 350, the 400 often has to haul me and a pillion.

The general rule of thumb for Dr. Pulleys is to drop 10% to 15% off your stock weight to maintain the factory power curve. I decided to compromise and drop to 17g. It’s a conservative drop, but I figured it would perfectly balance the low-speed control I desperately wanted and introduce only a small high-speed overdrive; cus hey, within reason, the lower the cruising RPM the better, right?

The Shakedown Results (No OBD Required)

Unlike the testing I did with the 350 and the sliders, I didn't have an OBD scanner to hand, so I had to rely on the trusty "bum dyno". But...

After fitting the sliders, I took the 400 out for a proper shakedown ride. I bedded them in along the glorious N-340 Nerja to La Herradura run (if you ever get the chance to ride this stretch of road, trust me, take it: breathtaking!). Then I jumped on the A-7 and headed for Torre del Mar. Here is exactly how the bike’s character has changed across the speed range:

0-30 km/h: The Magic Fix

There is no noticeable change in power here, but the delivery is vastly superior. The roll-on/roll-off throttle is incredibly refined, with all the snatchy "gear" take-up completely banished. I tested it at a literal crawling speed, and the wet clutch now stays firmly engaged right down to 9 km/h (compared to the old 15-20 km/h drop-out). When it finally does disengage, bringing the drive back in is utterly seamless. No jolts. Just smooth, linear forward motion. This was the perfect result, and will make inching forward in the summer traffic much more comfortable.

30-60 km/h: The Small Sacrifice

As expected with a slightly heavier effective ratio, there is a minor loss of grunt in the mid-range. You have to twist the throttle a bit harder and up the revs to get a big power surge out of a corner. It's a shame, but honestly, it's a completely acceptable trade-off for how good the low speeds feel.

60-80 km/h: Status Quo

Feels virtually identical to stock.

80-120+ km/h: The Sweet Spot Overdrive

This is where it gets interesting. As you approach 120 km/h, the RPM for a given speed is lower. Not as dig a difference as experienced with the 350, but a difference nonetheless. With the old round rollers, I was averaging 105 km/h at roughly 6,000 RPM. With the 17g sliders, it’s now cruising at the same speed about 500 RPMs lower.

But here's the kicker: acceleration from 105 km/h to 130 km/h is actually stronger. Why? Because the Piaggio 400 HPE makes its peak maximum torque right at 5,500 RPM. The Dr. Pulley overdrive has essentially dropped my cruising RPM dead-center into the engine's maximum pulling range. When I open the throttle at 100 km/h now, the bike surges forward with a lot more force than it did with the stock rollers.

The Verdict

When I ordered these sliders, the mission was simple: fix the low-speed handling for tight Spanish villages. I wanted to eliminate the neutral drop-outs and smooth out the 0-30 km/h delivery.

That core objective has been achieved flawlessly; the low-speed manners of the 400 are now near perfect. The fact that the bike also gained a subtly more relaxed highway overdrive that somehow sits perfectly in the peak torque band is just the cherry on the cake.

Chasing MPG: How I Got 74 MPG Out of a Piaggio Beverly 350

After posting a quick update in one of the Beverly Facebook groups about hitting over 74 MPG on my 350, I had quite a few people asking how I managed it.

Piaggio’s official laboratory claims for the Beverly 350 sit somewhere around the 65-70 MPG mark, and most owners on the forums report getting an average of 55-65mpg in mixed riding. So, pushing a 330cc maxi-scooter into the mid-70s without riding at a dangerously slow crawl takes a bit of explaining.

As regular readers will know, I don't really trust the "butt dyno." I prefer data. I’ve been tracking every drop of fuel that goes into this bike, along with the mechanical configurations for each tank. Over the last few months, I’ve taken the bike from a baseline of around 63 MPG up to a record 74.4 MPG.

I'\ve done this without riding it like an 80 year old, ie. I'm not pootling around at 20mph all the time. I'm not a "fast" rider; I don't go from zero to max at every opportunity. But, I'm not a slow-coach either. I'll cruise on the main roads at the road legal (sometimes above if I need to overtake), I tend to filter to the front at most stops so I usually need to get away fast, and I like to feel the wind in my hair. Bottom line: I've not got a high MPG by riding frugally.

More importantly, the bike is now significantly better to ride. It cruises at motorway speeds effortlessly, it overtakes cleanly, and the "agricultural" vibrations are gone. I was actually considering upgrading to a 400 for long-distance runs, but this process has completely killed that idea.

Here is exactly what I changed, and the data to prove it works.

Step 1: The Transmission (Dr. Pulley Sliders)

The first major change was swapping the stock variator rollers for Dr. Pulley sliders.

Most people fit Dr. Pulleys to get a faster 0-30mph time, so they drop the weight. I didn’t want a boy-racer traffic light GP machine; I wanted to drop the RPMs at motorway speeds. So, I stuck with the stock 16g weight.

Because of their unique cam shape, the sliders push the belt slightly higher up the variator face than traditional round rollers can. It essentially acts as an "overdrive" gear. My OBD2 data showed that at 70 mph, the Dr. Pulleys dropped the engine speed by about 350 to 500 RPM. That is a massive reduction in engine strain, vibration, and fuel consumption for the price of a few pints.

Step 2: Aerodynamics and the Screen

During the winter, I was running a massive "barn door" Givi screen. It kept the weather off, but it ruined the aerodynamics.

I've swapped back to a smaller custom screen now the warmer weather is here, with a crucial tweak. When I first fitted it, the screen was angled quite slack towards me, which dumped turbulent air straight onto my helmet. I was acting like a parachute. I adjusted the screen to a steeper, upright angle. Only a couple of degrees, but it's made a difference.

Counter-intuitively, this reduced drag. By punching a taller hole in the air, the wind was forced completely over my helmet in a clean slipstream. Less turbulence means less drag, which means less fuel.

Step 3: The Exhaust Curveball

I ran a Malossi exhaust for a few tanks. It breathed better at the top end, and the numbers jumped up to an impressive 72.1 MPG. But eventually, I swapped back to the heavy, quiet stock exhaust.

Why? Because of exhaust gas velocity. The stock pipe has internal baffles that maintain a specific backpressure. While the Malossi is great at the redline, the stock exhaust uses that backpressure to create a massive wave of mid-range torque. With the stock exhaust refitted, my 60-80 mph roll-on acceleration actually improved. I don't have to wring the throttle to pass a lorry; the bike just tractors past it.

The Data

Here is the complete fuel log from the autumn through to the spring. You can clearly see the progression as the weather warmed up and the mechanical tweaks were dialled in.

The Verdict

Hitting 74.4 MPG isn't magic. It is the result of getting the CVT to hold a lower RPM at cruising speed, fixing the rider aerodynamics, and retaining the factory mid-range torque.

If you are doing long motorway commutes on a 350 and finding it a bit thirsty or "shouty," sticking a set of stock-weight Dr. Pulley sliders in and tweaking your screen angle is the best money you will ever spend on the bike. No 400cc upgrade required.

I’ve just finished a task that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, or even a client who asks for "just one more small change" at 4:55 PM on a Friday. I’ve just audited the .htaccess files for nearly 75 of my sites.

It turns out, I’ve been living in a digital hoarders' house.

For the uninitiated, the .htaccess file is the nightclub bouncer of your website. It’s the silent authority that decides who gets in, where they’re redirected, and whether the connection is "secure" enough for the posh seats. But as I discovered, most of my bouncers were standing around in stained uniforms from 2014, shouting instructions for PHP versions that have been dead and buried for years.

"I found sites running on PHP 8.1 that were still religiously trying to 'talk' to PHP 7.0. It’s like trying to run a Tesla using a manual for a steam engine."

The "I'll Fix It Later" Tax

We’ve all done it. You move a site, you upgrade the server, and cPanel shoves a few more lines of auto-generated code into the file. You think: "It works, don’t touch it."

The problem is that .htaccess doesn’t clean up after itself. It just accumulates layers of "cruft" like a Victorian chimney. My audit revealed a graveyard of redundant rules, broken redirects, and security settings that were about as effective as a "Please Don't Steal" sign on a bicycle.

The Gold Standard (How to stop being crap at this)

After staring at regex patterns until my eyes bled, I’ve settled on a "Gold Standard" for my network. If you’re looking at your own server files and they look like a bowl of alphabet soup, here’s the hygiene routine:

1. Kill the Redundancy: You don’t need RewriteEngine On four times in one file. Once at the top is plenty. It’s a toggle, not a prayer.
2. Force the Marriage: Don’t let your site live in two houses. Pick https://www and force everyone there. It’s better for SEO and stops your analytics from looking like a crime scene.
3. Silence the Errors: There is nothing more "amateur hour" than a site hitting a snag and showing a visitor the exact file path of your server. display_errors Off is your best friend.
4. The 404 Trap: Stop redirecting 404s to your homepage. It confuses Google and annoys humans. Give them a proper "Not Found" page so they know the link is dead, not just hiding.

The Moral of the Story

My .htaccess files were a mess because I treated them as "set and forget." But servers evolve, PHP versions march on, and security threats get smarter.

If you haven't looked at your server config files since the last time a Star Wars movie was actually good, do yourself a favor: go in, delete the junk, and align your PHP handlers. Your server will thank you, and you’ll stop getting those daft support emails that keep us all up at night.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stare at a blank wall that doesn't have any code on it for a few hours.

UPDATE: I've now put some miles on the new sliders and noticed something in the ride. It wasn't something I was looking for or focusing on, so I didn't spot it in the initial post-upgrade write-up. But it's a good one. Scroll to the bottom of the article to find out what!

First off... WTF are Dr. Pulley sliders? Unless you are into your scooter customisations, you'll be clueless about them, and that's fair enough. In a scooter CVT system, the variator (think of it as a gearbox) contains round rollers. As the engine speeds up and spins the variator, these rollers are pushed outwards by centrifugal force. This essentially changes the scooter’s gears, making it go faster. It's an incredibly clever system, but it has its weak spots, and the rollers are it. They exist inside a dirty part of the drivetrain, getting coated in belt dust and road grit, and yet they still have to roll smoothly. It’s a big ask, and often, they just don't.

Dr. Pulley sliders do things differently. They don't roll; they slide. This is a massive bonus because they don't wear as fast and are significantly less affected by dust and debris. Due to their clever shape, they also have a couple of other advantages (more on that later).

Most of the internet is full of people telling you that Dr. Pulley sliders changed their life and made their scooter faster. They'll bang on about how much quicker it is off the line and how the top speed has improved. Most of this is anecdotal bollox. I have spent enough time messing with my Beverly 350 to know that "feeling" faster and actually being better are two very different things.

In general, I'm really happy with the 350; it's my go-to when I'm back home in Northern Ireland. But one area where it falls way behind my Beverly 400 that lives in Spain is on the motorway. The 400 will cruise at 120kmph all day long with the engine merely ticking over.

The 350, on the other hand, tends to get a bit shouty once it hits about 60mph. It's only natural; it's got less power than the 400 and a lot less torque. But after reading up on it, I had a feeling that the Dr. Pulleys might help make it a bit more "400-like" for the 150-mile motorway round trip I’ll be making regularly in a few months.

Dr. Pulleys are best known for improving take-off speed, but due to their unusual shape, I figured they’d also help the top end by effectively introducing an overdrive.

Techy Bit (For Those Who Know How This Stuff Works)

Because the Dr. Pulleys have a unique wing-like shape rather than being round, they can slide further out in the variator tracks than a standard roller. This pushes the belt higher up the pulley face, effectively giving the bike a taller top gear or an "overdrive" for the motorway. It proves these bits aren't just for kids trying to wheelie; they are a legitimate tool for making a bike more capable for long-distance touring.

As most people buy Dr. Pulleys to get a punchier take-off, they usually drop the weight compared to stock to get the revs up early. I didn't. I stuck with the stock 16g weight because I wasn't looking for a boy-racer upgrade to win the lights-to-lights GP. I wanted to lower the RPMs at high speed.

And as usual, I wasn't happy to just go by "feel." I wanted data. I plugged in my OBD2 kit and went on two identical runs: one before installing the sliders, then the same run again after.

Anecdotal "Feel"

The bike didn't really feel much different off the line, but it did feel much smoother. Scooters can often "stutter" when you roll on and off the power. It's because the rollers are trying to roll up and down the variator faces and often get "hung up." Sliders slide, so the transition is much smoother. Much, MUCH smoother. It really changed the character of the 350 into a more refined machine.

Did the high-speed RPMs drop? Anecdotally, I was saying yes. Not a lot, but a bit. Sometimes it's hard to work out if a difference is real or just in your head, so it was time to pump the data from the two runs into my trusty AI tool and let it analyse the numbers.

Numbers Don't Lie

I did a baseline run with the stock 16g rollers, then swapped to the 16g sliders and did the exact same route. I held steady speeds to see exactly what the engine was doing.

Through most of the range, 0-50mph, there wasn't much of a difference. This was fine; it’s what I expected. If I’d wanted to improve off-the-line acceleration, I’d have gone with a lighter slider.

But past 50mph, things started to change, and the faster I went, the bigger the change.

At 60 mph, the difference is minor, about 170 RPM. But once you get up to 70 mph, the sliders really start to work. The stock rollers were sitting at 7,553 RPM, whereas the Dr. Pulleys dropped that to 7,193 RPM.

At 80mph? Well, obviously I didn't do 80, as that's illegal, but if I did, I'd have expected to see a drop around the 500rpm mark. ;-)

That is a drop of 350-500 RPM at motorway cruising speed. That's a lot! It makes a real difference to how the bike feels, how the engine wears, and I suspect, how much fuel it needs.

Why Weight Matters

By staying with the stock 16g weight, I kept the low-end delivery almost identical to the factory settings. If I had gone lighter, the bike would be screaming its head off every time I pulled away. By sticking with the same stock weight, I left the low end the same (or so I thought), but dramatically changed the top end.

The Verdict

The data proves it actually works. At 70 mph, the engine is working significantly less hard.

Beyond the numbers, the bike feels much smoother. The stutter you often get when rolling the power on and off at high speed has completely vanished.

For the price of a few pints and an hour in the garage, it is probably the best value modification you can do if you have a long commute.

Oh, and why are they called "Dr. Pulley"? Absolutely no fecking idea!

UPDATE 23/03/26

As covered above, I know that most people upgrade to Dr. Pulleys to improve off-the-line speed (by fitting a lighter weight). This wasn't my goal; I wanted to lower the RPMs at motorway speeds, in effect introducing an "overdrive." This was achieved; happy boy. :-)

So when I went out on the post-upgrade ride to log the data, I didn't really focus on the low-end speeds, but on the high end. However, having put a few miles on them, something struck me... Is the bike pulling better now at low speeds with the new sliders? It felt like it, but I'm well aware that we as humans can often convince ourselves of things we want to believe, so I went back to the numbers.

And yep. There it was in black and white (numbers don't lie, etc.). Even sticking with the stock roller weight, thanks to the weird shape of the sliders, not only have I lowered the RPM over 50mph, the sliders have also increased them below 20mph. And if you understand how a CVT works, a higher take-off RPM means more power.

Here's what’s actually happening...

From 0-20mph, the RPMs have increased by up to 150rpm. In the mid-range (20-50mph), they have stayed more or less the same as the stock rollers. Then, from 50mph plus, the RPMs have lowered (as per the original article above).

And in a pretty graph...

So this is pretty astonishing. Upgrading to the Dr. Pulley sliders has made some really key changes to how the Beverly 350 runs. It's achieved the "Holy Grail" of tuning: Better low-end acceleration and better top-end gearing.

If you were thinking of getting some for your own BV350; stop thinking. Do it.

Take a look at the maxi-scooter market today, and you will notice it has splintered into three distinct tribes: the wanna-be adventure bikes, the heavy cruisers, and the traditional "step-thru" designs.

The manufacturers will tell you each has a highly specific, perfectly engineered use case. But let us be brutally honest; most people are buying based on image and style, not actual utility. We are buying the dream, but riding the reality. Let's break down the marketing bollox.

1. The "Wanna-be" Adventure Bikes

The Culprits: Honda ADV 350, Peugeot XP400, Aprilia SR GT

We all love the rugged, go-anywhere style of an adventure bike, and the manufacturers know it. Enter the Honda ADV 350. It looks the business with its chunky block-tread tyres, aggressive plastics, and those flashy gold inverted forks.

But let us not kid ourselves about what is actually underneath. Those forks? Yeah, they might be inverted, but they are still only a single-crown setup. Mechanically speaking, a single-crown inverted fork on a heavy scooter is arguably less suited to taking off-road hits than a standard "right-way-up" fork. And that gold anodising? That is just pure marketing to make you think of Öhlins race suspension.

Who is really taking their ADV 350 off-road? Even on a mild gravel track? I am betting it is less than 1% of owners. It is a brilliant marketing exercise, but at the end of the day, it is still a regular scooter dressed up in a North Face jacket and hiking boots to go to the supermarket.

2. The Land Yachts (Cruisers)

The Culprits: Yamaha TMAX, Suzuki Burgman 400, Kymco AK550

Okay, these do have a niche. They are low, long, and supremely comfortable. They look like spaceships and have enough under-seat storage to hide a body.

But my god, they are heavy. Whenever you read a review or talk to an owner, they always throw out the classic line: "It is actually much more nimble around town than you would expect for the weight." Let me translate that for you: "It is an absolute pig in traffic, but it is 'OK' once you get used to wrestling it." Sure, if you are eating up motorway miles by the hundred, these make sense. But again, let's be honest. If you are purely doing long motorway stints, there are much better, proper touring motorcycles out there for the job.

And people conveniently forget the drivetrain. These things are still scooters. They use CVTs, and most rely on dry centrifugal clutches. If there is one thing a dry clutch absolutely hates, it is being subjected to long, fast, high-load runs, especially in warmer climates like the Spanish summer. You are cooking that belt and clutch assembly just to look like Judge Dredd on the M1.

3. The Traditional "Step-Thru"

The Culprits: Piaggio Beverly 350/400, Honda SH350i, Vespa GTS 300

Finally, we get to the traditional scooter designs. In today's market of aggressive angles and rugged marketing, they can look a bit dated. They look like... well, scooters. They do not look particularly "sexy" or aggressive.

I know this first-hand because I own two of them, a Beverly 350 and a 400. Only the other day, someone looked at my bike and referred to it as my "moped". Yes, that stings a bit. People see the traditional step-thru shape and instantly think "50cc learner bike", completely ignoring the fact that a 400cc maxi-scooter will absolutely leave a lot of proper motorbikes for dust off the lights.

But am I going to trade it in for something with fake gold forks just to "look the part"? Not a chance.

Here is the kicker: these traditional shapes actually tick all the boxes the other two claim to own. Because they do not weigh as much as a small moon, they are genuinely brilliant around town. Because they have a proper riding position and decent engines, they are absolutely fine sitting at 70mph on the motorway. And honestly? Thanks to their lighter weight and larger front wheels (usually 16-inch on the Beverly and SH), they are no better or worse on a gravel track than the rugged ADV-style machines.

They just do not shout about it.

The Verdict

There is nothing wrong with buying a bike just because you like how it looks. If you want the gold forks or the spaceship dashboard, buy them and enjoy them. Just do not let the marketing department convince you that you have bought a Dakar rally bike or a cross-continental tourer. Underneath the plastic, it is still mostly bollox.

(Header Image: Lake Viñuela from a plane, taken March 2026. Copyright The Mostly Bollox Blog)

If you’ve driven past Lake Viñuela recently, you’ve seen it. The turquoise jewel is back. We are sitting at roughly 75% capacity, which is a far cry from the terrifying 7% puddle we were staring at in early 2024.

The locals are cheering, the politicians are patting themselves on the back, and the estate agents are probably updating their "stunning lake views" listings as we speak. The general consensus down the bars seems to be that the drought is over because the rain finally turned up.

Well, I hate to be the one to piss on the parade (or fill the lake, as it were), but that is absolute bollox.

Don't get me wrong, the rain helps. We’ve had a biblical amount of it in the last 18 months. But to say the lake ran dry solely because of "a lack of rain" is lazy. It ignores the uncomfortable truth that what happened in the Axarquía wasn't just a meteorological drought. It was a man-made disaster.

Here is the reality of why we nearly ran out of water, and why it will happen again if we aren't careful.

The "Green Gold" Rush

If you drive around the Axarquía, you see them everywhere. Avocados and mangoes. Thousands of acres of lush, tropical green trees covering the hillsides.

Now, I like a bit of guacamole as much as the next man, but there is a slight snag. Avocados are tropical plants. The Axarquía is semi-arid. These trees are thirsty beasts, and for the last decade, the authorities handed out agricultural licences like they were flyers for a dodgy nightclub.

They allowed the "Green Gold" industry to expand massively without checking if there was enough water in the bank to cash the cheque. The demand from these farms outstripped what the reservoir could sustainably provide years ago. We were running a structural deficit long before the rain stopped.

The Illegal Straws

As the lake level dropped, you’d think the logical step would be to turn off the taps, right? Not quite.

As the surface water vanished, a black market for water kicked off. Farmers who couldn't get water from the lake started drilling. In a crackdown called Operation Chaak, the Guardia Civil found over 250 illegal wells and boreholes in the area.

Think about that. While our water was going off at night, there were hundreds of illegal straws sucking the groundwater aquifer dry to keep the fruit trees alive. It depleted the natural backup system that should have saved us.

The Housing Madness

Then you have the planning departments. You would think, logically, that if a region is running out of water, you might stop approving permits for new swimming pools and massive urbanisations. Not a chance.

While the reservoir level was dropping like a stone, the cranes were still up, building more holiday homes and apartments. The logic seemed to be that if we just built enough houses, the water would magically appear to fill them. It’s the classic Spanish approach of waiting until the engine seizes before checking the oil.

The Desalination Fairy Tale

And then there’s the desalination plant. Do you remember the local mayor (I won't name names, but you know the one) proudly announcing back in 2024 that we’d have a fully operational plant within four years?

Bollocks.

It is now 2026, and that plant is still stuck in the "preliminary paperwork" phase. Between the local councils, the Junta, and Madrid, they can’t agree on whose job it is to sign the form, let alone lay a brick. At this rate, we’ll be drinking desalinated tears before we get a drop of water from that plant.

The Reality of the "Cuts"

And let’s clear up a myth about the restrictions. People outside the area think we were just politely asked to turn the tap off while brushing our teeth.

If only.

For those of us living here, the reality was the water shutting off at 11pm sharp. If you wanted a shower after a late shift, tough luck. And the worst part wasn't the cut-off; it was the switch-on. When the water came back in the morning, it hammered through the pipes with the force of a small army.

It blew the seals off taps and, in my case, destroyed the boiler. Nothing says "water conservation" like having to replace your entire heating system because the council treats the mains pressure like a light switch.

So, Are We Safe?

For now, yes. The lake is full, and we have a buffer of maybe two or three years. To be fair, they have started rolling out the "purple pipes", using recycled water for the farms instead of draining the drinking supply. It’s a sensible move.

But here is the cynical kicker: recycled water costs money to pump and treat. Lake water is "free" (until it runs out). Now that the reservoir is brimming again, how long will the farmers stick to the expensive purple stuff before quietly switching back to the cheap tap?

If there is one thing you can rely on in local Spanish government, it’s that lessons are rarely learnt. The rain didn't fix the problem; it just covered up the cracks. If we go back to the old ways, we will be back at 7% in a few years.

Enjoy the view while it lasts, cheers.

I’ve had it up to here with the constant whining about Airbnb being the sole reason nobody can find a flat in Spain. It’s lazy, it’s trendy, and it’s mostly bollox.

The real villain in this piece isn't some tourist with a suitcase on wheels. It’s the Spanish government and their utter failure to understand how human beings actually work. I’ve got a place out in Spain, in a usual year I'll spend 50% of it there, but in 2026 and maybe even 2027 I plan to travel and not use it, so I thought I’d do the decent thing and rent it out. I'm not looking to make any money from it, more really just keep it occupied and "lived-in". I figured I could find a young Spanish couple who needed somewhere to live for cheap while they save for a deposit.

Now, I’m no right-wing nutter (I was a Labour man back when the party actually had a backbone). I’m all for social policies that look after people, but they have to actually work in the real world. Spain’s current lot are proving that "good intentions" are a poor substitute for common sense.

So my plan seemed perfect. A young couple get a foot up and the household bills covered. Everyone wins, right?

Wrong. As soon as you look at the Ley de Arrendamientos Urbanos (LAU), the whole plan goes down the swale.

The Five Year Trap

I wanted to offer a one-year contract, maybe with an option to extend to two. But the law says if I rent to an individual, they have a right to mandatory extensions up to five years (or seven if I were a company). I can’t get them out unless I need the place for myself or my family, and even then, it’s a legal minefield.

The government thinks they’re "protecting" tenants, but they’ve just scared off every decent person who isn't a massive hedge fund. By trying to force a "perfect" long-term solution, they’ve killed off the flexible, medium term options that people actually need. So, instead of a young couple getting a helping hand, my house sits empty. I’m actually going to have to pay a maintenance firm to check the pipes while a perfectly good home sits empty. It’s insanity.

The Ghost Houses of Iberia

You want to talk about supply? Spain has roughly 3.8 million empty homes. That’s about 14.4% of the total housing stock. Airbnb is a drop in the ocean compared to that.

The reason they’re empty is two-fold:

• The Inheritance Tax (Sucesiones) Standoff: In many regions, unless you’re a direct descendant, you can get hit with tax rates between up to 34%!. If you can’t afford the tax to "officialise" the inheritance, you can’t sell the place. So, siblings often just lock the door and wait, hoping the laws change.
• The Plusvalía Trap: Even if you do sell, the local "Plusvalía" tax (a tax on the increase in land value) can eat another chunk of any profit. Many people reckon it’s simply not worth the faff and the bill, so the house just sits and rots.

The Squatter Fear (Okupas)

Then there’s the big one: the law is so heavily weighted towards the person inside the house that if someone breaks in and changes the locks, it can take 18 to 24 months to get them out through the courts. If you’re a small-time owner, why would you risk your life savings on a rental market that treats you like a criminal the moment something goes wrong?

Probate and Bureaucracy

Then you’ve got the houses where the owner died decades ago and the paperwork is tied up in a system that moves at the speed of a tectonic plate. A standard probate can take 10 to 18 months even when things are simple. There’s no efficient system to bring these derelict shells back into the market. Locals want to buy them, but the deeds are stuck in a dusty file in a basement in Madrid.

The Reality Check

By making it "impossible" to evict and "mandatory" to keep tenants for half a decade, the government has choked the supply. Landlords have three choices:

• Go the Airbnb route (where you actually have control over your property).
• Rent to wealthy foreigners on "temporary" seasonal contracts.
• Leave it empty.

Most are choosing the last two. The rental shortage isn't a holidaymaker problem. It’s a policy problem. This isn't about being "anti-socialist"; it's about being pro-reality. If you make it a nightmare to rent out a house, people stop renting out houses. Simple as that. Cheers to the government for making sure everyone (except the maintenance company) loses.

Even though I’ve been a massive fan of two wheels since childhood (I haven’t owned a car for over a decade, preferring bicycles, and even owned a bike shop for nearly 20 years) I’d never been bitten by the motorbike bug. The "biker scene" just never appealed to me.

So when I bought my first powered two-wheeler in 2024, a humble 125cc Piaggio Liberty, it was purely driven by practicalities. I live part-time in Spain, and while I loved cycling, the hills and distances were limiting. My wife and I had spent over €1.3k on hire cars in 2023 alone, so the decision was made to buy a 125cc moto (which you can ride on a car licence in Spain) and see how we liked it.

To cut a long story short, we loved it.

I loved the freedom of nipping down the A7 to Nerja or heading into the mountains. My wife surprised herself by thoroughly enjoying riding pillion. In our heads, we were Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday, riding around the Riviera, wind in our hair, sun on our faces, not a care in the world.

Until we tried to use the motorways. Then things got a bit less "Hollywood" and a bit more Dumb and Dumber.

The problem was simple. 125cc scooters are the perfect means of transport right up until you need to go faster than 60mph uphill with a passenger. We had a choice, stick with the 125 and limit our ambitions, or get a bigger bike.

So, by the end of 2024, I was back in Northern Ireland taking motorbike lessons.

I learnt on a 650cc something-or-other. It was winter, I was freezing, and after a lifetime of using my hands to brake on bicycles, I was trying to rewire my muscle memory to use my right foot for stopping and my left foot for going. And clutch control? Yeah, right. I got there eventually, but I didn’t much enjoy the experience.

Once I had my full A-licence, I could ride whatever the hell I wanted. But I soon decided that what I wanted wasn’t a "motorbike." Sure, they’re fast, sexy, and will almost definitely make me feel incredibly manly, but they are supremely impractical if your goal is "everything a 125 scooter does, just quicker."

So I ignored the advice of my biker mates and bought the big brother to my little Liberty, a Piaggio Beverly 350.

The rest, as this blog will attest, is history. In Spain, where it’s warm and dry, maxi-scooters are ubiquitous because they make sense. But what about Northern Ireland? When I told my biker friends I was going to use a maxi-scooter as my main means of transport in an NI winter, they laughed. "You mean a moped? Wise up."

Undeterred, I found a decent used Beverly 350, bought it, and immediately added a full screen and a Tucano Urbano leg cover (the famous "apron").

Now, nearly a year later, I have the last laugh. As the weather got colder, I just kept riding. In the Winter of '25/'26, I have used that scooter almost daily. I haven’t needed a diving suit to stay warm, just the apron, a good jacket, and gloves.

Meanwhile, every "real biker" I know has their machine sitting in the garage on a battery charger because "it’s too cold and wet to ride."

This brought me to the core question. Why do UK riders buy machines they can only use for three months of the year, when the perfect tool for the job exists?

I genuinely couldn't work it out. So I asked the internet. And that’s where it got fun.

The "Humiliation Ritual"

I posted my theory online, suggesting that the UK bike market is declining because we are too snobby to ride Maxi-Scooters.

I expected some debate about wheel sizes or suspension travel. Instead, I got a fascinating, and slightly terrifying, glimpse into the psyche of the British male.

The responses fell into three distinct categories of denial.

1. The "It’s a Hobby" Defence

The most common argument was that in the UK, motorcycling is a hobby, not transport. "I don't want to commute, I want to have fun on sunny Sundays."

Fair enough. But surely if your hobby involves riding, wouldn't you want to do it more? This creates a self-fulfilling prophecy. You treat it as a hobby because you bought a toy. If you bought a tool, you might find it becomes transport. But because your toy is miserable to ride in the rain, you take the car.

It seems nuts to limit your hobby (which is surely the act of riding, not just the act of owning) because you’ve chosen a machine that can only operate in perfect conditions.

2. The Maths Failure

"I'm not spending £12k on a scooter!" cried the masses.

I am genuinely confused where this number comes from. I saw this comment over and over again. Yes, a top-spec Yamaha TMAX is expensive. But a brand new Honda Forza 350 is roughly £5,500. A Honda ADV350 is under £6k.

Meanwhile, these same guys are dropping £18k on a BMW R1250GS to ride to a café twice a month. If you can’t make the maths work on a vehicle that does 80mpg and costs half the price of a "real" bike, you shouldn't be trusting yourself with a clutch.

3. The Fragile Ego

And here we get to the crux of the matter. The real reason UK bikers won’t ride scooters isn’t cost, and it isn’t performance. It’s fear.

One commenter (riding a CBR650R, naturally) summed it up with accidental brilliance:

"Scooter and apron might as well be a humiliation ritual. No thanks."

Let’s unpack that. To this rider, arriving at work warm, dry, and on time is a "humiliation." Presumably, the "dignified" alternative is arriving on a CBR650R, soaked to the bone, with frozen fingers and a stripe of road grime up your back.

Another commenter cut straight to the chase and simply questioned my sexual orientation because I ride a vehicle with an automatic transmission.

And there it is. The reveal. For a huge chunk of the UK biking population, the motorcycle is not a vehicle, it is a prosthetic. It is a gender-affirming device. If you take away the manual gearbox, the noise, and the "power ranger" aesthetic, they feel vulnerable. They feel... "soft."

Gregory Peck rode a Vespa in Roman Holiday and looked like the coolest man on Earth. But our CBR friend is worried that if he puts a blanket over his legs, his testosterone levels might drop.

The Conclusion

The UK motorcycle industry is in decline. Dealers are struggling, and garages are full of depreciating assets. We could save it by embracing the Maxi-Scooter, the practical, European solution to our wet, grey reality.

But we won't. Because in the UK, we’d rather get wet, cold, and miserable on a "real bike" than risk looking like we chose the sensible option.

If having a dry crotch is a "humiliation ritual," then sign me up. I’ll be the one riding past you while you’re waiting for the bus.

As well as messing about with bikes and maxi-scooters, and pretending I live the occasional high life on the Costa del Sol (fat chance), my day job is as a freelance web designer and "digital marketeer." What a completely pompous, pointless sounding title that is. It’s total bollox, but it pays the bills, so I digress.

In my marketing role, I work with small firms to help them get the most out of their online presence. Most of my clients aren't exactly tech-savvy, so they usually just let me get on with it and do what I know is right for them.

But some... some are not only tech-clueless, they also haven't a foggiest how the online world actually works in 2026. Despite that, they have some very rigid ideas about what they should be doing every month. Sometimes, as a freelancer, you have to try and drag them kicking and screaming into the modern age, even if it means you might lose a well-paying gig. This is one of those stories.

I reached that point again. You know the one. You’re sitting at your desk, looking at a client’s brief for the coming month's campaign, and you realise that if you yet again just do what they’ve asked, you’re essentially helping them set fire to their own cash.

The temptation is always to just shut up and take the cheque. Especially when it’s a long-standing, decent-paying client. But there comes a time when "just doing your job" starts to feel a lot like professional negligence.

I’ve been working with a firm stuck in a 1990s marketing loop. Their approach is basically: "Here is a product, it costs X amount, please buy it." In this day and age, that isn't marketing; it’s just white noise.

I’ve spent months (years, actually) trying to explain that the world has moved on. Search engines aren’t just looking for keywords anymore. AI is looking for authority. If your website looks like a dusty brochure and your blog reads like a sales catalogue, the internet is going to ghost you.

I even built them a demo website for free to show them what was possible. They nearly pulled the trigger on a new, all-singing, all-dancing site, but then their "existing web company" (the blokes who presumably enjoy being paid to do sweet FA) whispered in their ear that everything was fine. So, they stayed with the status quo.

"We don't get much business from our website," they told me, "so there's no real point in investing in a new one." I tried to point out the glaringly obvious oxymoron there, given they pay me a nice sum every month to drive traffic to the bloody thing, but the logic was lost on them.

So today, I decided to play the nuclear card.

They sent me the usual monthly brief: "We’ve got a great deal on product X, please buy product X... NOW!" I promptly binned it and put together the campaign I knew they should be doing. No "Buy Now" buttons, no blunt sales pitches. Just pure, authoritative advice that proves they actually know what they’re talking about.

I didn't ask for approval. I knew they’d knock it back. I just published the first element of the campaign, a blog post, straight to their website and set it to "live." I then told Google the new content was up and to get indexing it.

Before getting on with the rest, I fired off an email. I told them what I’d done and sent them the link. I told them straight: we are playing the long game now. We’re going to build some real authority in your sector, and we aren’t doing any more "please buy from us" campaigns. And if you don’t like it, I’m out.

I honestly thought I’d just talked myself out of a nice monthly retainer. But I figured I’d rather be fired for being right than kept on as a "yes man" while their business slowly vanishes from the search results. If you’re going to be an analogue company in a digital age, don't be surprised when the world stops calling.

I sat back and waited for the fallout.

The reply came sooner than expected, but it wasn’t what I thought: "We love it! It makes us sound really professional and on the ball," they said.

"YES! I KNOW! IT’S WHAT I’VE BEEN TELLING YOU FOR TWO FUCKING YEARS!" was the response I had to delete from my drafts. A simple "Great, I’ll get on with the rest of the campaign" felt like a more balanced way to handle it.

So there it is. Two years of trying to faff about and convince them, when all it took was for me to ignore their instructions and just do it anyway.

What was it Henry Ford said? "If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses." Or something like that. The point is, I’m the expert (allegedly) in this relationship. Instead of trying to convince the client what they needed, I should have just given it to them. Because, well, that’s really what they’re paying me for.

There’s a message there for all freelancers. Stop asking for permission to do a good job.

So, this dry skin. It’s pretty bad. Back when I was a LOT younger I went to loads of doctors about it. Lots of words got used, and I was prescribed lots of creams and ointments. Most of them were horribly sticky messes, none really worked, and none were practical.

But on that holiday as a 14-year-old, within a week my skin was clear. Not a dry crack (no puns please!), no rough spots, nothing. I’m cured, I thought. But then, a few weeks later back in the UK, it was back to normal. I soon worked out it was the sun. And so, a lifetime of regular trips to Spain, and sunbed use in between, became the norm.

A quick note about sunbeds: Yes, I know, I’ve heard all the talk. Sunbeds kill. Yeah, so does booze, sue me! As with all things in life, moderation and control are the key. So, let's move on from the “don’t use a sunbed you’ll die” stuff!

Back to the story: Often, I got the timings right. I managed to get just enough sun time (real or fake) to manage the problem. But sure as anything, if I missed a holiday or a trip to the tanning salon, the dry skin returned. Hey, any excuse to book a holiday :-)

Roll forward to now (too many decades later!) and my dry skin is mostly a thing of the past. I get enough time in Spain to get enough sun to almost never need the sunbed. But recently things changed. No idea if it’s my skin aging, or maybe I just haven’t been in the autumn Spanish sun enough, but over the Christmas holiday period back in NI the dry skin returned with a vengeance. Since the tan shops were closed for the holiday, I had to tough it out. But once back in Spain in early Jan, I knew it was going to be made worse by the hard Spanish tap water.

So I fired up my trusty AI engine and asked for some ideas.

The advice? “You’re in Spain, so just head to the local supermarket and get some Urea lotion.”

I’d never heard of Urea before, but as instructed I headed for the local Eroski. There on the shelf was a massive display of various Urea products by a brand called Instituto Español. Sounds very grand! Like it’s some sort of Government-backed cosmetic company! I asked AI if it was any good.

“Hell yeah, that stuff is gold, get it!” was the reply. (Okay, I’m paraphrasing a bit, but that was the gist of it!)

So I bought the lot. The 10% strength shower gel, the body lotion, the repair cream tub, and the super powerful 20% strength tube. I had no real idea what any of it did, but it was so cheap (huge bottles of this lot cost less than €20 combined), I went back to my little Spanish village home to try it out.

It’s now been three days. And the dry skin? Nope. It’s gone.

Now for the science bit

Why does this stuff work? I could get all techy and jargony at this point, but to keep things as simple as possible:

Most of the creams doctors prescribe are just grease (emollients). They sit on top of your skin like cling film to stop water getting out. But if your skin is already dry and hard, you're just sealing the dryness in.

Urea is different. It does two things:

1. It’s a Humectant: This means it actually grabs moisture from the air and pulls it into your skin like a magnet, rather than just sitting on top.
2. It’s Keratolytic: This is the magic part. It dissolves the "glue" that holds dead, crusty skin cells together.

So, instead of just greasing up the dead skin, it actually dissolves it and hydrates the fresh skin underneath.

So how do you use this stuff?

The Big Bottles (Lotion & Shower Gel): This is the regular 10% Urea strength. Use away at it. The Shower Gel is the real game changer. Unlike soap, which strips your skin, this hydrates you while you wash. The Body Lotion (in the big pump bottle) is for slathering on all over after the shower.

Instituto Espanol Shower gel (10%)

Instituto Espanol Body Lotion (10%)

The Red Tub (Repair Cream): This is also 10% strength, but it's a thicker cream formula than the lotion. It’s great for localized use where you need a heavier barrier. My forearms always get it bad, so I use the tub there.

Instituto Espanol Repair Cream (10%)

The Tube (20% Ultra Hydration): This is the rocket fuel. This is for the really rough spots, think heels, elbows, knees, or calluses. Because it’s double the strength, it works harder to break down that thick, dead skin. Use this sparingly on the problem areas.

Instituto Espanol Intensive Repair (20%)

Yeah, OK, but we’re not in Spain...

This is where it gets scandalous. You can get this exact brand in the UK. It’s imported by some smaller retailers, but expect to pay 3 to 4 times the price.

You can also get UK-specific brands with different names, usually French-sounding pharmacy brands, and yep, you’re ahead of me, expect that stuff to be even more expensive.

So what’s the takeaway?

For me, this stuff works, really, really well. Far better than anything I’ve ever been prescribed by a doctor or recommended by a pharmacist. If you have suffered from dry skin all your life, it might work for you too.

But if you want to get it in the UK, it’ll cost you. So my advice? Get a cheap flight and a big suitcase. Head over to Spain for a cheap weekender, visit the local Eroski, and stock up. Your skin (and your wallet) will thank you.

Of course, if regular holidays to Spain aren't an option (sort your life out!) head to Amazon UK, they seem to carry it too. You'll pay for it, but it's often only double the price rather than triple.

VIDEO: I've made a video of the entire process, scroll to the bottom to see it.

I first tried heated grips on a motorbike back at the start of 2025. I was taking lessons in Northern Ireland to get my full A motorbike licence and it was the middle of January. For those not familiar with the local climate, January in NI is "baltic." My instructor and I were halfway through a two-hour lesson, and I had to stop because I could no longer feel my fingers.

My instructor shouted, "Get your hands around my grips, that’ll warm them up."

At this point, I wasn’t entirely sure if this was a teaching moment or a proposition. Thankfully, he quickly cleared things up by adding, "My handlebar grips are heated." Ah. Right. That makes sense. Phew!

Five minutes later my hands were toasty, and I decided there and then that the first upgrade I was getting once I got my NI motorbike was heated grips.

Fast forward to May when I picked up the Piaggio Beverly 350. I immediately went shopping for some heated grips and managed to snag a bargain set of new Oxford Essential Hotgrips. They are designed specifically for maxi-scooters and small-engined motorbikes, drawing only 4 amps max. They were the perfect choice, helped along by the fact the retailer was clearing them out at only £20 a set. Bargain!

But nobody needs heated grips in Spring, so after testing they worked on a spare battery, I threw them in a drawer until I had the time and the know-how to install them properly. Over the preceding summer, I did my research and watched plenty of online "how-to" videos.

The Wiring Dilemma

The first thing I realised was that despite the instructions from Oxford, you really shouldn’t wire them straight to the battery. If you do that, it's a sure-fire guarantee that one day you will forget to turn them off and come back to a dead bike with a flat battery.

Most people advise splicing them into the wiring for the main headlight, but that felt like a bodge to me. If the grips threw a wobbly and blew a fuse, it would take out my headlight too. Losing your lights at 60mph on a dark country road is a pretty serious safety issue that I’d rather avoid!

So after some more digging, I worked out I should wire them to the battery via a relay that is wired to the ignition. This was getting complicated. What the hell is a "relay"? I had no clue, so I kept looking.

Enter the Oxford Junction Box

Then I discovered a clever little bit of kit called the Oxford Junction Box. It is essentially a remote fuse box that takes power directly from the battery and serves it out to up to four individually fused accessories.

The clever bit is that as well as the two heavy cables to the battery, it also has a third "trigger" wire. You connect this trigger to something that is only "live" when the bike is turned on. When the trigger detects power, it tells the box to wake up and supply power to the accessories connected to it. Clever. So I bought one and threw it in the drawer along with the grips. It would be months before I actually needed the heat, so I figured I could take my time to plan the install.

Location, Location, Location

Where to put the grips was obvious, but where is the best place to put the junction box? The obvious place is next to the battery under the seat. But I figured most of the accessories I’d be wanting to connect to it in the future would be at the front. Like the grips, maybe some aux lights, or a GPS. If I put the box near the battery, every time I wanted to add a gadget to the front I’d have to strip down all the side panels to run new cables.

I decided the best place to locate the junction box was at the front of the bike, and the glove box was the obvious candidate.

The glove box on the Beverly is uselessly small. You can’t even fit a modern smartphone in there, so it is entirely dead space. Plus, there was already a factory USB connector inside it that was only live when the bike was on. That was my trigger wire sorted. All I had to do was run the main power cables back to the battery.

The Install

The Junction Box is designed for motorbikes where the battery sits under the tank, not scooters where the battery is under your bum. This means the supplied cables are hilariously short. So the first job was to extend them. And since the cables were now almost a metre long running from the battery compartment under the seat, down into the footwell, up behind the nose cone, and into the glovebox, the live cable absolutely had to have its own fuse right near the battery terminal.

So, on a cold and gloomy evening between Christmas and New Year, I was in the garage with the soldering iron. The next day, armed with my newly lengthened cables and Junction Box, I stripped the entire plastic trim off one side and the front end. Several hours later, phase one was done. The bike was in bits, but the Junction Box was installed. I mounted it inside its own watertight plastic container (since the glovebox isn’t actually watertight) and tucked it into the cubby hole on the righthand side.

Battery connected, ignition to ON... The lights on the Junction Box flickered to life. Success! But it had now been well over five hours since I’d had a mince pie and Baileys, so I called it a day and headed inside to the warm.

Fitting the Grips

The next day I stripped the plastics off the bars, removed the headlight, removed the old rubber grips, installed the new heated ones, and carefully wired them into the newly installed Junction Box.

I was expecting the installation of the grips themselves to be the hard part, but that all went fine. The headache was finding somewhere in the tight space behind the handlebar plastic trim to hide all the excess cabling.

After a couple of attempts, it all came together beautifully. I mounted the grips control switch (On, High, Low) to the small plastic trim piece that sits just above the instrument cluster. It’s not the most obvious place to put it, but I didn’t want to drill holes in the expensive main dash. This way, if I (or the next owner) decide to remove the grips, all we have to do is replace one small bit of plastic trim, available from EasyParts for £12, and there will be no random holes left on the dash.

The Verdict

All that was left was the first test. Bike fired up, grips to High, and I set off. Even wearing my thick winter Tucano Urbano gloves I could feel the heat almost immediately. Lovely. Then it went from lovely to "wow, this is warm." Then my hands started to get clammy.

I knocked the heat setting down to Low... Perfect. It was a relatively mild day (about 10°C), so getting good heat on the low setting boded well for the proper cold days.

And those days came sooner than expected. The very next day I set off at 10am for a long trip to the city with the thermometer reading 2°C. I’m pleased to say that with some alternating between High and Low, my hands stayed toasty all day, even on a long fast motorway stretch. I reckon I can now save my winter gloves for the absolute worst days and use my "all season" gloves the rest of the time.

So, another successful project completed on the NI Beverly 350. I’ve got the all-important heat, and the next project, which is likely going to be some auxiliary lights because the stock headlights are absolute rubbish, should be a doddle thanks to that Junction Box.

Watch the Video

See the full install process here:

My adventures with the Irish Piaggio Beverly 350 that I picked up in April this year (2025) have been pretty well documented on this blog. It came with a whole host of "upgrades" that were unbeknownst to me at the time. The seller never mentioned them in the advert, odd as they added a lot of value. But regardless, the first I knew about it was when I actually turned up to see the thing.

For those who haven’t read the previous posts about this bike (and frankly, why haven’t you?), the machine came with a full Malossi performance kit package. We’re talking the exhaust, belt, variator, rollers, and air filter. The lot. The bike went like stink, I’ll give it that. But my god was it ever loud.

My love/hate relationship with the Malossi exhaust is covered in far too much detail elsewhere on this site. It’s loud. It does have a nice sound, I suppose, but it is just so loud. It’s been on and off the bike almost as much as me. I’d almost learnt to live with the volume, but the bike itself was screaming, too. Once you hit about 60mph the engine was howling at you.

I also have a much newer Beverly 400 in Spain (where I live part-time), and the 350 was significantly louder than that. But as the 350 has a smaller engine and is a fair bit older (2017 versus 2023), I just figured that’s the way it is. I bought some decent earplugs and sucked it up.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

After riding the 350 all over the summer, I headed back to Spain and back to my lovely new(er) 400. I knew the 400 was quieter, but the difference was night and day. It’s smoother, quieter, and just nicer to ride. Over the next couple of months riding around Spain, I came to the conclusion that I could no longer live with the 350 back in Ireland. I decided I’d have to sell it in the new year.

Initially, I planned to replace it with a new Beverly 400. But as this blog will attest, the 400 has not been without its problems. The engine and the mechanical bits are fine, but the electrics? Well, let’s just say it’s Italian. Nuff said!

There was also the small matter of having zero dealer support in Ireland. On the whole island, north and south, there isn’t a single Piaggio dealer. Buying a brand new bike with a warranty and having no local dealer network is absolute madness. So, I decided to replace the 350 with a Honda ADV350. I do like the Honda. The styling isn’t really to my taste as I prefer the traditional "Vespa" look, but there is no denying it’s a great bike, and unlike it's sibling the Forza, it fits me.

So that was that. Get back to Ireland for Christmas, pick up an ADV350 in the new year, then flog the Beverly 350. Plan sorted.

Then, during a conversation with a mate who is far more knowledgeable about these things, I mentioned my dilemma. I told him I loved the Beverly platform but had to sell it because of the noise. He knew about all the upgrades and quickly responded, "Well, what do you expect with all those boy racer go-faster parts bolted on?"

Long story short, it turns out the Malossi variator makes the bike sit higher in its rev range for a given speed. Why? So the engine is revving closer to its peak torque setting (or summit like that). The exhaust is obviously much louder than stock, and even the performance air filter lets more noise escape the engine because it is less dense than the factory one.

The solution was pretty simple (and obvious according to my knowledgeable friend). Just put the bike back to stock. He reckoned it would cost a few quid, but not nearly as much as replacing the whole bike.

Interesting, says I. But actually, it won’t cost me a penny, because the previous owner who added all the upgrades kept all the old parts and gave them to me in a box. Win!

After a lot of chats with Gemini AI (my current go-to font of all knowledge), a new plan was hatched. Get back to Ireland and return the whole bike completely to stock. It seemed I had all the tools needed for the job, except for the socket needed to remove one specific bolt. Namely, the massive (but silly thin) 46mm nut that holds the clutch and final drive spring in place (the Malossi variator uses it's own unique spring).

Gemini informed me that not just any 46mm socket would do. As the nut was really thin, I needed a socket with a minimal chamfered face. Most sockets have quite a large chamfer to make it easy to seat over a bolt head. But as this nut was so thin (why Piaggio... WHY?), a standard socket would slip right off. A bit of research eventually turned up a Laser 46mm socket on Amazon, specially made for a Triumph motorbike which evidently uses a similarly stupid thin nut in the gear assembly.

Part ordered and duly arrived, the day had come to dive in with both hands. The order of play was to remove the Malossi variator, rollers, and final drive spring (using the fancy 46mm socket), clean everything, and replace it with the original stock parts, including the original belt.

Job done. Well, not without a near-catastrophic error. I rebuilt the entire thing but missed out the long silver spacer that threads into the middle of the variator. It was only when I was checking my work area for any "leftovers" that I spotted it. I had to strip it all down again and start over. But hey, better that than start the bike with this part missing, as that would have resulted in near-instant destruction of the entire CVT system. Phew!

Once all that was done and back together again, I replaced the Malossi air filter with the stock one. Boom. Job done.

Now, I’m pretty mechanically minded. I worked as a bicycle mechanic for many years and I’m used to taking things apart. But I am new to scooters. Whenever I’ve done any work on my Beverlys, I’m always a bit nervous starting them for the first time. So with eyes closed and a grimaced face, I turned the key, pulled the brake lever, and hit the start button.

It all just worked. Only much less loudly.

Eager to really try it out, I took it for a quick spin. Yep, it is certainly quieter. So back home, full wet weather gear on (it is December in Ireland, of course it’s raining), and off to the local city I went. A 40-mile round trip with a long stretch of fast road where you can average 60-70mph no bother.

I’ve done this trip countless times on the 350. I’d never dream of doing it without earplugs, and even then my ears would be ringing at the end. Not today though. No earplugs, no ringing ears. My knowledgeable friend was 100% right. It wasn't the bike that was loud per se. It was all the boy racer parts the previous owner had "upgraded" that turned it from a mild-mannered cruiser into a wannabe racer with accompanying sound effects.

Sure, in its original "stock" setup it is no longer an eager 21-year-old boy racer, always wanting to be first off the line and up to full speed in a heartbeat. It’s now more of a 40-year-old father of two who values comfort over performance. But let’s not be too hard on the Piaggio engineers. It is still no slouch and remains one of the quicker 350cc maxi-scooters out there. It is just more refined without all the wallet-breaking performance parts bolted on.

Now, for sale: One used but well-loved Malossi performance upgrade pack for a 2017 Piaggio Beverly 350. Any takers?

For those of you who missed the drama back in August, here is the short version: My 2023 Piaggio Beverly 400 started cutting out mid-ride. The dashboard would die, the engine would kill, and I’d be left coasting in silence.

I traced the fault to the keyless ignition switch. The whole unit "floats" to allow you to push it in and open the glovebox, but mine had become so loose and rattly that road vibrations were breaking the electrical contact. My solution? I stripped the front of the bike and zip-tied the switch solid. It fixed the cutting out, but meant I couldn't lock the glovebox. (You can read the full breakdown of the issue and the "bodge" fix here).

Fast forward to now.

The Two-Month Wait

It took two months. Two. Months.

That is how long it took for Piaggio to ship a replacement ignition switch to Spain. If I hadn't come up with my zip-tie fix, the Beverly would have been sitting gathering dust for the entire late summer riding season.

But, finally, the call came. The part was in. I dropped the bike off, they fitted the new unit, and I picked it up.

The electrical cut-out issue? Gone. The bike starts and runs without dying. Success, right?

Well, sort of.

"It’s Normal, Señor"

As soon as I put my hand on the new switch, I felt it. The rattle.

It wasn't quite as bad as the old one, but it was still loose. It didn't feel solid. When I questioned the mechanic, he gave me the classic shrug and told me it was "normal."

I didn't buy it. I know what this bike felt like when it was new. It felt tight. Precise.

This is when the penny dropped. In my original post, and in my original thinking, I assumed the ignition switch and the floating assembly (the bit that moves to open the glovebox) were one single unit.

Clearly, they are not.

It seems the garage replaced the ignition switch (the electronic module that was cutting out), but they bolted it back into the original floating housing (the bit that rattles). They replaced the broken part, but they didn't replace the thing that broke it.

The Car Park Wiggle Test

To confirm my suspicions, I’ve essentially become a scooter stalker.

My first victim was a Beverly 400 I know parks regularly in a specific car park. I waited until the coast was clear and gave his ignition knob a wiggle. (Get your mind out of the gutter).

Result: Rattly. Not as bad as my one, but definitely loose.

A few days later, I needed some winter gear, because yes, contrary to popular belief, 8am in Malaga in January is bloody freezing, so I headed to Vespa Malaga. They are a massive dealer, which gave me the perfect sample group.

I found a brand new, zero-mileage Beverly 400 on the showroom floor. I tried the switch. Result: Solid as a rock. Zero play.

Then I found a used 2023 model, similar mileage to mine (around 9,000km). Result: Rattly. Exactly the same as mine.

The Conclusion

I’ve now physically tested four different Beverly 400s. The conclusion is pretty damning.

The plastic assembly that holds the ignition switch, the floating housing, wears out. Fast.

My bike has only done 9,000km. Yet the mechanism has developed enough play to feel cheap and nasty. In my specific case, I reckon the play became so excessive that the vibration physically shook the internal electrical contacts of the switch to death.

By replacing only the switch and not the worn housing, Piaggio has essentially put a fresh canary in the coal mine.

What makes it more frustrating is that I also tested a few older Piaggio MP3s. High mileage, battered old things. They visually use the same switch assembly, yet they were solid. No rattle. So Piaggio can make them properly, they just chose not to for the new Beverly.

So, What Now?

The conundrum is this: I have a new switch under warranty. It works electrically, but because it is sitting in the old, sloppy housing, it is already vibrating.

If the design is flawed, this new switch will eventually be shaken to pieces just like the last one, probably just after the warranty expires.

I am not waiting for that to happen.

I’m planning to strip the front end of the bike down again. I need to see what is going on in there. I suspect I will end up re-applying my "bodge."

I’d rather have a solid ignition switch and a glovebox I can’t lock, than a rattling switch that might leave me stranded at the side of the road again.

I’ll update you when I get the plastics off. Again.

If you’re from the UK, Ireland, or anywhere else that drives on the proper side of the road, the idea of piloting a vehicle in Spain can be a bit daunting.

In Spain, they drive on the right. The "wrong" right, if you ask me. But the fact is, almost everyone gets used to it pretty quickly in a car. This is largely because the controls switch over too. The gear stick and handbrake are on your right, you look right for the rear-view mirror, and so on. It forces your brain to recalibrate.

Like many people I spoke to before I made the move, I found that after about 30 minutes behind the wheel, my brain simply "switched." The only place I still get caught out is in car parks. I still, to this day, pull out of a parking space and have a momentary panic about which side of the lane I’m supposed to be on.

But generally, cars are easy. Motorbikes? Different game entirely.

Bikes are the same the world over. The clutch, throttle, brakes, and mirrors are in the exact same place regardless of which side of the road you’re on. Your brain doesn't have those physical triggers to make the switch. You have to have your wits about you. On busy roads it’s fine because you just follow the herd, but on quiet roads... well, let’s just say as a seasoned Spanish rider, I regularly see bewildered, sunburnt tourists on rental scooters coming at me on the wrong side of the road.

The good news is that once you get your head around the lanes, riding here is brilliant. Spanish roads are better than those in the UK or Ireland in almost every way, but they have their own unique foibles. Here is the "Mostly Bollox" guide to surviving them.

Roads Like Glass

OK, not all roads in Spain are like glass. But compared to the crater-filled obstacle courses we call roads in Northern Ireland, they might as well be race tracks.

I regularly ride the Beverly 350 in the UK, and as any biker knows, you spend half your time dodging homicidal drivers and the other half dodging potholes that could swallow your front wheel whole. Not to mention the utility trenches that leave six-inch grooves running across your path.

In Spain, the tarmac is a revelation. On the rare occasion they dig a hole, they put it back exactly as it was, or better. I've seen workers dig a trench, do the job, and be gone in hours. Not like the six weeks of temporary traffic lights you get in the UK. Even up in the mountain villages, the surface is generally excellent. Maybe it's the lack of rain, or maybe they just actually spend tax money on the roads. Either way, it’s one less thing to worry about.

There is no rush, Mañana!

It’s a cliché for a reason: the Spanish don't rush. This plays out in their driving. Traffic speeds here are considerably lower than in the UK.

I have no stats to back this up, strictly anecdotal evidence. On a UK motorway, if I sit at 70mph, I’m holding people up. I’ll have an Audi parked inside my top box trying to push me faster. Here, at 120km/h (about 75mph), you are almost always the fastest thing on the road. I tend to cruise the Beverly 400 at around 100km/h, and I rarely have to move to the middle lane to overtake.

Traffic is slower, and there is a lot less of it. Even "rush hour" on the Malaga bypass moves. It gets heavy, but it rarely stops.

Watch the Merge

One thing to be wary of is the motorway merge. The average stretch of Spanish highway is a bit of a shapeshifter.

Very often, a two or three-lane highway will expand into four, and then you'll see a sign telling you to stay in the left two to go straight, or the right two to peel off. Likewise, the "slow lane" will often just turn into an exit lane with very little warning.

The Spanish love to leave their road signs to the very last second. It's not unusual to see a sign, process it, and realise you’ve already missed your chance to change lanes.

My top tip? Watch the locals. They know where the merges are. If you see all the traffic drifting to the middle lane for no obvious reason, assume the right lane is about to disappear.

Speed Limit Roulette

Another thing to keep your eye on is the fluctuating speed limits. Spanish motorways are not the straight-line affairs you get in the UK. Due to the extreme contours of the land, the roads here are twisty, roller-coaster affairs often punctuated by long tunnels every 20 or 30kms.

Because of this, the speed limit fluctuates wildly. It is not unusual to pass through an 80, a 100, and a 120km/h zone all within a single 20km stretch. If you go into "autopilot" mode, you will get caught out. Speed cameras are common!

Top Tip: Most GPS units (including Google Maps or Waze on your phone) display the current speed limit. Get yourself a sturdy phone mount or GPS unit and use it as a visual aid. When the signs are flying past you, having that little number on the screen to confirm the limit is a licence-saver.

Safety in Numbers

One massive positive is that you are not alone. In the UK, a biker is an anomaly. You are an annoyance slowing down a Range Rover or a hooligan speeding past it.

In Spain, everyone rides. The businessman in the suit, the teenager in flip-flops, the grandmother with her shopping bags between her knees. Because everyone rides (or has ridden), car drivers actually see you. They expect you to filter. They move over. There is genuine safety in numbers.

However, that safety evaporates the moment you enter a roundabout.

The Geometry of Fear: Roundabouts

Spanish roundabouts are not traffic management systems. They are a geometry of fear.

If you tackle a Spanish roundabout like a Brit, indicating correctly, checking blind spots, and using the inside lane to turn left, you will eventually be taken out.

The locals view a roundabout not as a circle, but as a chicane to be straightened out. They enter wide, cut across the apex (the inside lane), and exit wide. If you happen to be in their path, that’s your problem.

I have a friend who works in Spanish insurance. She gave me the single most valuable piece of advice for surviving this madness: "Stay in the outside lane. Always."

It goes against every instinct I have. If I’m doing a 270-degree turn, I want to be on the inside. But in Spain, the law views the roundabout as a continuous curved road. If a car on the inside tries to exit and hits you in the outside lane, they made an improper lane change. They are at fault.

The Laws of the Land

A few final things that might save your wallet.

No Headphones, No Earplugs In Spain, it is strictly illegal to wear anything in or over your ears that isolates you from traffic noise. That means no AirPods and, surprisingly for many, no earplugs. The fine is usually €200 and 3 points on your licence. Note: Since the 2022 law update, you ARE allowed wireless intercoms installed in the helmet, provided they are for communication/navigation and don't block outside sound. But basic earplugs? Still a no-go.

Note: I do use earplugs. Yes, they are ilegal, but I want my hearing to last! If I get pulled over, I quickly remove my helmet and pull out the plugs. I use Loops, and have them on a lanyard, so it's a quick and easy job to pluck them out and tuck them side my jacket. If like me you use them, have a plan to get them hidden, fast!

Have Documents, Will Travel Roadside spot checks are common, especially in tourist areas during summer. They are mostly hunting for tourists on rental bikes without licences. I probably get stopped two or three times a summer. Once they see I own the bike, they usually wave me on. However, you must carry the originals (or certified copies) of:

• Your Driving Licence
• ID (Passport or TIE card)
• Permiso de Circulación (Registration document)
• Tarjeta de Inspección Técnica (The technical sheet/ITV card)

Parking: Not quite a free-for-all You will see motos parked everywhere in Spain. Designated bays, street corners, pavements. 90% of the time, you’ll be fine. But that 10% is a pain in the arse.

I recently got a ticket for parking right outside my own house on a wide, quiet pavement. I went to the police station to argue the toss. The officer told me that technically, parking on the pavement is illegal. He was right, even though my bike wasn't blocking anyone.

I sucked it up and paid the fine. This turned into a three-day ordeal involving the bank, the town hall, the post office, and the police station because Spanish bureaucracy is designed to break your spirit.

The Moral: Park in designated moto bays whenever you can. And if you do park on the street, put a cover on the bike. It turns out my ticket happened because the police were doing a "blitz" on cars from a local bar parked chaotically. My bike was uncovered, so they assumed it belonged to a punter and ticketed it. If it had been covered, they likely would have walked on by. Lesson learnt.

I've no idea how I first stumbled across the Tucano Urbano brand. Pretty sure it was on Vinted back in Northern Ireland where I live part-time, when I was looking for some new motorbike gloves. A pair came up at a good price, so I grabbed them.

When they arrived, I was blown away by the quality for the pennies I paid, so I went looking for more info on the brand. Turns out they're a small(ish) Italian company that mostly makes kit for scooter riders. Seeing as I ride two Italian scooters (a Piaggio Beverly 350 and a 400), I liked the Italian connection. After that, I started keeping an eye out for more Tucano Urbano bargains on Vinted.

The Hunt for a Helmet That Fits

I've been on scooters for a couple of years now and much prefer an open-face helmet for pottering about (I've got full-facers for motorways etc.). But, thanks to what I can only assume is a weirdly shaped head (a bit of an egg, I reckon), I've never found one that works well. I've tried loads, either buying them and being disappointed or trying them on in shops.

So, when I saw a Tucano Urbano helmet pop up on Vinted in XXL, I was interested.

Now, I'm usually an XL in helmets, but I'd already learned from their other gear that you have to size up. (Are all Italians tiny?). I figured the XXL might just work. It was listed with no model name, just the brand, and the price was £60.

I nipped over to the Tucano Urbano website and saw most of their open-face 'Jet' helmets sell for about €70-80 new. Sixty quid for a used one, even in good nick, seemed way too steep.

So I chanced my arm with an offer of £30. Accepted.

A week later it turns up, I tried it on and... it fitted. Perfectly. Like it was made for my odd-shaped head. I discovered it was a model called the "El'Fast". Result.

I went back to their site to look up the specs, only to find the El'Fast wasn't one of their cheaper €80 models. It was their all-singing, all-dancing open-facer, selling new for €180!

Right, so I'd got a proper bargain.

The Test Ride

But as any rider knows, a good fit is only half the battle. A helmet can feel great in the living room and be a noisy, buffeting nightmare on the road. So I fired up the Beverly 350 to see what it was really like.

I've got a bit of tinnitus, and open-face helmets are usually terrible for it. The El'Fast wasn't painfully tight, just 'right', but somehow it cut out a massive amount of wind noise. Even with the visor up, it was far quieter than any other jet helmet I've owned.

About that visor, it's huge! Way deeper than most. When it's down, it reaches below your chin and cuts the wind noise to nearly the level of a full-face lid. The seal between the visor and the helmet shell is really snug (without making it hard to move), which must be what helps.

So, the fit is spot on and the wind noise is low. This was now my go-to helmet.

Buying a Second One for Spain

This was all back in NI, where I ride the Beverly 350. I liked it so much, I figured I needed the same helmet for Spain where I have a Beverly 400.

Since I knew the El'Fast worked for me, I decided to buy new. A quick check on their site showed they had an offer on: €135 down from €180, with free shipping from Italy to Spain.

The only problem was, the Vinted one was the older ECE '05' safety spec. The new one was the latest '06' version. Great, better protection, but would the fit on the XXL be exactly the same?

I fired them an email to ask. Within a few hours, they replied, "It should be, but if not, you can always return it within 14 days for a full refund."

I replied, "Great, but the deal's on now and I'm not in Spain for another 40 days to try it on."

"No bother," they came back, "we'll just extend the return period for you."

I mean, how can you not love customer service like that? Top marks. I ordered it. 40 days later I got to Spain, and I can confirm, the new one also fits perfectly.

The Good and The Bad

So, here's a quick run-down of what I like, and the bits that are a bit bollox.

The Pros

1. The Fit. Yes, you have to size up (or I did, anyway), but the fit is fantastic. It's just the right amount of 'snug' with no pressure points anywhere. Perfect for my egg head.
2. The Visor. It’s massive, a good couple of inches deeper than others. At first, I wasn't a fan. When it's up, you can just see the bottom edge in your vision, like a peak on a cap. I found it a bit distracting. Then I rode in the rain. With the visor flicked up and my head tilted forward slightly, it acts just like a cap, stopping a lot of rain from hitting my face. When it's down, it fully covers you, cutting out all the wind. Mate it with a scarf and it has similar wind protection to a full-facer.
3. The Depth. The helmet shell itself seems deeper than most. A lot of jet helmets stop around your mouth, but the El'Fast comes down another inch or so, covering more of your jaw. I suspect this also helps with the low wind noise. Probably makes little difference in a crash, but it feels a bit more substantial.
4. The Finish. I know, colour is subjective. But the El'Fast seems to only come in matt colours. My Vinted one is matt black (matches the NI bike), and the new one for Spain is matt silver. It might not match my blue Beverly 400, but I'm betting the matt finish will handle the Spanish sun and fading a lot better than a gloss one.

That deep visor: Bigger than most and cuts out a lot of wind noise.

The Cons (The Niggles)

1. The Strap. The El'Fast uses a micrometric (plastic clicky) ratchet strap, not a D-ring. I hate D-rings, they're a proper faff, so that's good. But the clicky thing on this helmet is different from every other one I own. I don't know why, but it's just... awkward. I'm often standing there fumbling with it, trying to line the two ends to line up. There might be a knack to it, but I haven't found it.
2. The Strap Padding. This is properly annoying. The straps themselves aren't stitched to the comfort padding (the bits that sit between the strap and your chin). This means you've got two sets of flappy bits to contend with when you're trying to do the helmet up. It's a daft bit of design.
3. The Price. The final niggle is the price. Most jet helmets from anyone but the big premium brands are under €100. The El'Fast RRP is €180. Reading the specs, it's a big step up in materials and quality, but does the average scooter rider (TC's target market) really care about high-tech materials and low weights? I'm going to say no, not really. But I guess TC make plenty of other, cheaper helmets for those folk.

So, Is It Worth It?

Would I pay full price for another El'Fast? Absolutely. In a heartbeat.

In fact, when I'm back in NI I plan to replace the used Vinted one with a new one. (How much can you really trust a second-hand helmet, after all?). So I guess that's your answer.

But... would I have ever paid that much without finding that Vinted bargain first? Nah, unlikely, so that's a marteting challenge Tucano Urbano need to content with. And might explain why it was reduced to €135 in the first place!

So, overall, I highly recommend the Tucano Urbano El'Fast. For me, with my weirdly shaped head, it's the perfect helmet. Super comfy, great fit, top protection, and looks good (as good as a helmet can, anyway).

My only worry is the heat. It's so well-sealed, I suspect this thing is going to be a proper sweat-bucket come the Spanish summer.

But for that, Tucano Urbano makes the 'El'Fresh', which has bicycle-helmet-style vents in the top. Looks like a no-brainer. I'll probably be getting one of them next year.

A Final Word on Tucano Urbano Kit

Since discovering the brand, I've become a bit obsessed. I now have several pairs of their gloves, a Termoscud apron for my Beverly in NI (if you ride in cold weather, get one!), bar muffs, the helmets, and some of their clothing.

A word of warning on the clothing, particularly the jackets: They are Italian.

I'm six foot three, 90kg, and have wide shoulders. Their jackets just don't fit me. At all. If I size up to fit my arms and shoulders, you could fit two of me in the body. So if you're not built like a traditional skinny Italian bloke, try before you buy. I wish I had.

There’s an old saying that a lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting its boots on. In the world of vehicle tuning, that misinformation is usually travelling at warp speed across a dozen internet forums, posted by someone called ‘DaveRS_Turbo’ who once saw a picture of an engine.

Following on from my last post about clearing the engine fault light, I discovered my little diagnostic scanner could do a lot more. So, I set about putting a question to rest that's been bugging me for ages: does the Malossi exhaust I run on my Piaggio Beverly 350 cause it to run lean?

The Contradiction

Malossi themselves claim that all their kit for the BV350, including the RX exhaust I have, works fine without a remap. They say the bike can cope with the tendency for aftermarket "performance" exhausts to cause a lean mixture. This is a statement peddled by many a forum dweller, though when pushed for hard evidence they tend to go quiet.

The thing is, Malossi also sell a little device called the Force Master, which remaps the bike to work perfectly with their products. But if you don't need a remap, why are they selling this magic box? My skeptical eyebrow was well and truly raised.

I was tired of opinions and marketing bollox. I wanted facts and figures. And thanks to my recent adventures with the scanner gadget, I had the tools to get them.

The (Supposedly) Simple Plan

The plan was simple, scientific even. I would test the bike with both the stock and the Malossi exhausts back-to-back.

One thing worth mentioning: this isn't a stock bike; it's already running a Malossi air filter and variator kit. This test was purely to isolate what, if any, difference the exhaust alone makes to an already-upgraded setup.

I’d record the engine data, specifically the Short Term Fuel Trim (STFT). This is the bike's computer telling you in real-time if it’s having to add or subtract fuel. A positive number means it’s adding fuel to fix a lean mix. A negative number means it's taking fuel away to fix a rich one. Simple.

At least, the plan was simple. The execution, as is traditional here at Mostly Bollox, was a complete farce.

Attempt One: The Android Sabotage

With the stock exhaust fitted, I set out on a quiet Sunday morning. The roads were clear, the bike was warm. I fired up a car scanner app on my spare Android phone, hit record, and completed a perfect test run, including my little 40-60mph roll-on tests. I got home, exported the data, and opened the file. It was a beautiful, detailed log… of my GPS coordinates. And nothing else. Turns out, if you have “record location data” ticked, the app assumes you couldn’t possibly want to record anything else. Like, you know, engine data. Annoying.

Attempt Two: The Sleepy Apple Attack

Just as I was about to go again, the heavens opened. Proper Northern Irish rain, too dangerous for testing. I retreated indoors for a cup of tea and a sulk. Later, a break in the weather! I switched to the iPhone, forking out for the Pro version of the app since the free one doesn’t record data. I set it all up, put the phone safely under the seat, and set off. I completed another perfect run but thought to check the data before heading home. Just as well. The app had recorded a grand total of 11 seconds before the phone, tucked away in the dark, had simply gone to sleep, stopping the recording. Bollox!

Attempt Three: The Final Battle

Right. No more messing about. I set the iPhone’s auto-lock to “Never” and mounted it to the handlebars where I could keep a paranoid eye on it. I redid the stock exhaust run, capturing a perfect log file this time. Then it was back to the garage, spanners out, swap to the Malossi pipe, and do the exact same run again.

Finally, I had the data. Two big, beautiful spreadsheets full of numbers.

The Verdict

After a lot of staring at spreadsheets, I fired it all into my trusty AI assistant. The truth finally emerged. Here’s the key metric; the average Short Term Fuel Trim during a steady 60mph cruise:

• Stock Exhaust: +1.15%
• Malossi Exhaust: +5.35%

So, what's the verdict? Were Malossi and the forum dwellers right? Well, yes and no. Kinda.

The data is clear: the Malossi exhaust absolutely makes the bike run leaner. Anyone who says otherwise is, according to my data, wrong. However, the bike's ECU is smart enough to compensate perfectly by adding more fuel, in this case, an extra 4.25% over stock.

So, is it a problem? Honestly, no. Anything within about +/-10% is considered perfectly fine, and the bike's computer is clearly doing its job brilliantly. The only real-world downside is a slight hit to your fuel economy.

For now, I’m keeping the Malossi pipe on. I've grown to love the sound, and the data shows it’s perfectly safe. But that little Malossi Force Master box is now whispering my name. The urge to get that fuel trim back to a perfect zero is a powerful one for a tinkerer. I just need to save the pennies first.

It was a frustrating day, but I got there. I swapped opinions for data, and that, for me, is a massive win.

There are two kinds of warning lights on a vehicle. The first is the helpful kind, the one that tells you you’ve left the handbrake on before you set off smelling of burning brake pads. The second kind is sent by Lucifer himself to slowly drive you insane.

Guess which one the orange engine light on my Piaggio Beverly 350 is?

For months, this little beacon of amber misery has been my constant companion. It all started when the bike’s ABS and traction control (ASR) system decided to throw a wobbly. A little orange light came on, the bike was a bit grumpy, but by turning off the ASR, it was rideable. I knew it was a sensor, probably the rear one (as I'd recently had the rear wheel out to fix a puncture), and figured I’d sort it when I got new tyres fitted for the winter. Procrastination is a skill, folks.

Fast forward a bit. A friendly mobile mechanic, out to fix a completely different issue, plugged in his fancy diagnostic computer. "Yep, it's your front wheel speed sensor," he declared. Not the rear. So I was wrong. But, at least I knew the issue.

I eventually ordered the part from Easyparts and, this weekend, with the wheels off for new rubber, I finally fitted it. I reconnected the battery, turned the key, and lo and behold, the ABS light went out after its little self-check. Victory! I’d single-handedly wrestled the beast of Italian electronics into submission.

Except, of course, I hadn’t. Because the main engine light, that hateful orange wanker, was still there. Staring at me. Mocking me.

Right. Deep breath. I tried the usual tricks. Disconnecting the battery for ages. Doing the ignition-on-ignition-off hokey cokey. Going for a ride with the master key. Nothing. The light remained, a monument to my own inadequacy.

I’d been down this road before, having bought a "FTUL M3" diagnostic tool that proudly claimed to work with the BV350. It didn’t. (Though, in a stroke of luck, it works on my BV400 in Spain, so not a total waste). I was nervous about buying another tool that would just laugh at my bike.

This is where things got modern. I ended up having a long, slightly surreal, but incredibly helpful chat with a boffin-like AI assistant. After explaining my woes, it recommended a two-part solution that actually made sense: a simple adaptor cable and a Bluetooth thingie that talks to your phone.

So, for any other BV350 owner tearing their hair out, here is the magic, no-bollox kit that actually works:

1. The Cable: Search Amazon for a "3 pin to 16 pin Fiat Alfa OBD2 adapter". Crucially, it must have crocodile clips to power it from the battery, because the BV350’s diagnostic port is as dead as a dodo otherwise.
2. The Scanner: I went for a Vgate vLinker MC+ Bluetooth. It’s a bit pricier than the cheap blue ones, but my motto is "buy once, buy well," and this little box is brilliant.
3. The App: I usually use an iPhone, and the only app I was told would work cost a tenner. But I had an Android lying around, I downloaded an app called "Car Scanner ELM OBD2". It’s free and fantastically powerful.

With the bits assembled, I hooked it all up: clips to the battery, plug to the bike, scanner to the plug, I turned the ignition on, paired the scanner to my phone via Bluetooth, and fired up the app. It connected! I had to tell the app that the Beverly was actually a Fiat (it is designed for cars), but it worked fine after that. I felt like I’d just hacked into NASA.

I found the "Fault Codes" all broken down into various sections, hit "Read," and there it all was. A history of my bike’s sins.

• P0501: Speed Sensor – The original problem. Check.
• P1607: Lambda – Ah yes, from before I replaced the Lambda sensor.
• P1800: Clutch Interlock Safety Switch – Probably from that one time I didn't squeeze the brake lever hard enough when starting it.

The key thing here is that the bike’s brain remembers everything. Fixing the part doesn’t wipe the memory. You have to go in and tell it to let go of the past.

So, I found the "Clear" button and pressed it. Section by section, I wiped the slate clean.

And the light was... still on.

For a moment, I considered launching the entire setup into next door’s garden. But then I remembered the final step. The bike's computer has trust issues. It needed proof.

I disconnected the scanner, turned the bike off, and then turned the key back on.

Click.

The light went out. It just... went out.

I’ve never been so happy to see a lack of something in my life. I took it for a celebratory ride anyway, just to be sure it wasn't pulling a fast one on me. It wasn't. The light is gone.

So there you have it. The ghost in the machine wasn’t a ghost at all. It was just a memory that needed a firm talking to via Bluetooth. Total cost was about £60, which is a damn sight better than the £100-plus for a man in a van to come and press a button. And now, I have the power. I can talk to cars. I can talk to bikes. The world of diagnostics is my oyster. Mostly.

Links to the bits I bought off Amazon (I suspect these won't work for long so just search as detailed above)...

The 3pin adaptor.

The vGate Thingie.

There are some things in life you just accept. The sky is blue, water is wet, and certain everyday objects are just a bit of a faff to use if you're left-handed. Scissors, ring-binders, can openers… the list of right-handed tyranny is long and tedious. But I thought I'd seen it all. I thought I'd made peace with my place in a world designed by the other ninety percent.

I was wrong. I have discovered a new front in the war on lefties, and it's lurking right there in the laundry aisle.

The perpetrator? Procter & Gamble. The weapons? Benign-looking bottles of Fairy and Lenor fabric conditioner.

I was doing a wash the other day and picked up the bottle. And I saw it. A crime against ergonomics. The lid, the very cap designed for the delicate operation of dispensing the gloop, was wrong. The pouring spout, the business end of the whole affair, wasn't pointing straight up. If 12 o'clock is straight ahead, this thing was cocked over at a jaunty 1 o'clock.

Don't believe me? Feast your eyes on this blatant act of discrimination.

At first, I thought it was a manufacturing fault. Then I checked the other bottle. Same thing. And it hit me. This isn't a mistake. This is a feature. This is a calculated design choice to make the act of pouring infinitesimally easier for the right-handed masses. They can hold the bottle and pour with a simple, elegant tilt.

But for us, the southpaws, the forgotten minority? It's a nightmare. To pour with your left hand, you're now fighting the very design of the lid. It forces your wrist into a daft, unnatural angle. It guarantees a sloppy pour. It's a spillage waiting to happen, a deliberate and malicious act of laundry-based aggression.

This isn't just an oversight. This is a conscious decision, made in a brightly-lit boardroom somewhere, by a shadowy cabal of right-handed product designers who've probably never had to suffer the indignity of using a potato peeler backwards. They have decided that our convenience is expendable.

Well, I've had enough. The line must be drawn here. This injustice will not stand. We, the long-suffering left-handers of the world, are putting our collective foot down. It has to stop, and it has to stop now.

So hear our cry, Procter & Gamble.

What do we want? Left-handed fabric conditioner dispensers!

When do we want them? Well, by the time these bottles run out would be great, thanks.

We're not unreasonable people. We're just tired of living in a 1 o'clock world.

Bike security. It's one of those grim topics that every rider on two wheels, whether motor or pedal powered, has to contend with. And frankly, it’s a minefield. Thieves are getting smarter, and the sheer volume of bike theft is genuinely alarming. According to some stats, a bike is stolen every six minutes in the UK. That’s not just a problem; it’s an epidemic.

I always thought I was pretty security-minded with my Beverly 350. I’ve got three decent locks: a beefy Kryptonite New York D-lock for a wheel, an Oxford Monster disc lock for the front, and a Kryptonite Evolution disc lock for the back. And yes, I use lock reminders on all of them, because forgetting one is a painful and expensive experience. I figured that was a good setup for most situations.

Then I had to pop into Belfast city centre the other day on a run to the Apple Store with a sick Apple Watch. I don't get into Belfast much, so I had no clue about parking. I got there early to poke about and soon found a few official motorbike parking bays. "Tiny" doesn't do them justice; each one took about four bikes, which is a far cry from the acres of moto parking you get in cities like Malaga.

Thankfully, I found one near the Apple Store and it had a spot free. I tucked the Beverly in amongst some really nice, proper motorbikes. And that's when my eyes were opened. These bays had proper anchor points, big solid loop posts set into the ground. Brilliant, I thought.

I went through my usual routine, locking up with all three locks. Then I glanced at the other bikes. Every single one had my sort of setup, disc locks, D-locks, but crucially, every single one also had a massive, chunky chain bolting the bike to the anchor point. My Beverly suddenly felt very exposed, just sitting there on its own, not tethered to anything solid. I'd heard that a lot of bike thieves don't bother with lock cutters, they just throw the bike into the back of a van and are gone in 60 seconds. So now, I'm panicking.

I had no choice but to head to the Apple Store, constantly checking "Find My" to make sure my AirTagged Beverly was still exactly where I'd left it. Thankfully, an hour later, it was. But the seed had been planted. I might not park in high-risk areas often, but when I do, I need to chain that bike to something solid.

The Quest for a Better Chain

So, the research began. This is where Gemini, Google's AI, came into its own, helping me sift through the mountain of options. My goal was simple: find a high-security chain that would work with my existing D-locks for those moments when I needed to secure the Beverly to an immovable object.

We started by looking at the sheer beefiness of chains. We quickly dismissed anything around 10mm thick. While better than nothing, a decent pair of bolt cutters can make short work of those. We then looked at the ultimate end of the scale: the 14mm Kryptonite "Fahgettaboudit" chain. Rated Sold Secure Diamond, it's basically immune to bolt cutters. Problem was, its 1.5-metre length isn't a "noose" chain, giving it a very short effective reach. Plus, the weight is just ridiculous. I enjoy the odd gym workout, but I'm not lugging that thing around.

This sent me looking for a "sweet spot," and I landed on the 12mm Abus 12KS chain. It's rated Sold Secure Motorcycle Gold, meaning it's highly resistant to even the biggest bolt cutters and would need power tools to defeat.

Now, those of you from the proper motorbike world might scoff at a 'mere' 12mm chain, when most insist on 16mm as a minimum. But security is always a trade-off between portability, price, and outright brute strength. Sure, if I was looking for something to leave in the garage, the 22mm Hiplok Mega is the boy. But that's a different beast entirely. For something you have to lug around with you, you have to find a sensible middle ground.

An Argument with a Robot (and a Glass of Wine)

So, the research continued, and this is where things went a bit weird. The real breakthrough, I thought, came late last night when I discovered I could buy two 80cm Abus 12KS "noose" chains for roughly the same price as a single 1.2-metre version.

This sparked a detailed discussion with Gemini. Now, I may or may not have had a glass of wine at this point. The AI confidently assured me that by linking the two 80cm noose chains, I would create one super-long 1.6m chain that also worked as a noose. I was pretty sure this couldn't be done, but Gemini wore me down. It was so insistent that I started to doubt myself and ended up agreeing and ordering the two chains.

I woke up this morning and it was nagging at me. It just couldn't be done. So, I started up the chat again and questioned Gemini, but it absolutely doubled down, insisting it was possible. Now, I'm not one to be 100% sure about something unless I am, well, 100% sure. And about this, I was. What followed was over an hour of back-and-forth, trying to convince an artificial intelligence that it was wrong about the basic physics of a chain.

Finally, the digital penny dropped. Gemini conceded. "She" (or he?) was wrong. It couldn't be done.

So, I quickly cancelled the order for the two 80cm chains and ordered a single 1.2m Abus 12KS noose chain instead. While a 1.6m regular chain (which is what the two 80s would have become) is long, the 1.2m noose chain actually has a longer "working" length. Because you can cinch it tight around something and only have to bring the tip back to the lock, its effective reach is much greater.

The lesson from all this? Gemini isn't always right, but sometimes it thinks it is, even when you KNOW it's not!

What Happens Next

So, after all that palaver, I'm now waiting a week for the new 1.2-metre chain to arrive. At least I avoided the faff of having to return the two 80cm ones.

It seems the quest for the perfect, practical security setup has a few more twists in it. Once the new chain arrives and I've used it for a few weeks, I'll do a proper follow-up post on my real-world experience with the final, and hopefully correct, choice. Stay safe out there!

Small Update

The chain is now here and I've used it once, at the local swimming pool. The chain is far bigger than I expected. No bad thing!

You've probably noticed that for its entire life, Mostly Bollox has never had a comments section. That was a deliberate choice. Frankly, most comment systems are a complete pain in the arse. They're bloated, slow your website down, attract spam from every corner of the internet, and are often a security risk. I wanted no part of that nonsense.

But, as well as being my personal space for ramblings, this blog is also my workshop. It's where I test out new ideas for my day job in web design and SEO. A lot of my clients run blogs and they all face the same problem: they want to engage with their readers, but the standard comment systems are just too much hassle.

So, I decided to try and build a better solution myself. A super simple, lightweight system that was unique to this site and could potentially be adapted for my clients.

Building it with the Robot

I didn't build this entirely on my own. The whole thing was built back-and-forth with Gemini, Google's AI.

Now, I'm not a PHP coder and make no claims to be one, so for a job like this, I'd normally have to work with one. But the process with the AI was actually pretty effective. I'd describe what I wanted, Gemini would spit out the code. I'd upload it, find a bug, tell the AI what broke, and we'd work through the fix.

A project that would usually take a week of back-and-forth with a coder was done in about three hours. That's a massive saving in both time and, ultimately, money, and a proper example of using AI as a tool to get something from a rough idea to a working reality.

How It Works (Without Getting Too Nerdy)

The goal was to avoid all the usual bloated nonsense. The logic is dead simple:

No Database: Instead of a big, clunky database that slows everything down, the system just uses simple text files to store the comments. Each blog post gets its own little file to keep track of what's been said. It's fast, secure, and incredibly simple.

A Sneaky Spam Trap: I hate those "click on the traffic lights" CAPTCHA things as much as you do. So, we're using a "honeypot". It's a hidden form field that only spam bots can see. If the bot fills it in, the system knows it's spam and just bins it. A human never even sees it.

Proper Moderation: Nothing goes live until I've given it the nod. When you submit a a comment, I get an email. I can then approve or delete it from a simple, password-protected admin page. No spam gets through.

Welcome to Version 1.0

Let's be honest, nobody in their right mind uses a "Version 1.0" of anything, do they? You always wait for Version 3, after all the bugs have been found and the proper features have been added.

Well, you're looking at Version 1.0.

This system is brand new, and if you choose to leave a comment, you are the official beta testers. The guinea pigs. I've done my best to kick the tyres and make sure it's stable, but the real test is letting it loose in the wild.

So, for the first time ever on Mostly Bollox, the comments are on. Give it a go. Leave a comment below, tell me what you think, or just try to break it.

Cheers.

I spent nearly twenty years of my life in the bicycle trade, running my own shop before getting out in 2017. If you asked me to describe the industry in one sentence, it would be this: it doesn’t just shoot itself in the foot on a regular basis, it holds a fully-automatic rifle to its own head and seems to have a very trigger-happy disposition.

From the outside, you see shiny bikes and healthy-looking people. From the inside, it's often a masterclass in how not to run a business. The mess the industry finds itself in post-lockdown wasn't an accident; it was the spectacular, inevitable finale to decades of madness.

The Old Madness: A Flawed Blueprint

Even before the pandemic, the bike trade was wobbling on a very unstable unicycle. One of the biggest issues has always been the ridiculously outdated route to market. For many big brands, a bike leaves a factory in the Far East, goes to a brand's European warehouse, then to a UK national distributor, and finally to a bike shop. Every single one of those steps adds its own profit margin. By the time that bike reaches you, the customer, its price has been inflated by a whole chain of middlemen.

Then there's the ludicrous "model year" cycle. In the UK, new bike models are traditionally launched around September. This means that just as the peak summer selling season is underway, the industry starts slashing the prices of the "old" models to clear them out. As a shop owner, this was a nightmare. You had to run your stock incredibly lean during the busiest months, terrified of being stuck with a pile of bikes you'd paid full whack for, only for the brands to cut the RRP from under you. It’s a system that actively discourages shops from being well-stocked when demand is highest. Utterly daft.

You might ask why these decisions get made. Well, for a long time, the bike trade has suffered a "brain drain." For most roles below the very top, the pay is pretty poor. The real talent often, and wisely, moves to better-paying sectors, leaving a vacuum filled by well-meaning enthusiasts rather than sharp business minds.

The Great Lockdown Folly

For years before 2020, the market was flat. Discounting was rife, and most shops were groaning under the weight of too much stock they couldn't shift. Then, lockdown hit. Suddenly, everyone wanted a bike.

The world ran out. Shops sold everything they had, distributors sold everything they could get, and manufacturers couldn't make them fast enough. Component giant Shimano, who supply parts for the vast majority of bikes, had lead times stretching into years. For the first time in a long time, bikes were selling at full price. The boom was real, and the profits were huge.

And this is where the industry loaded the gun. A bizarre collective delusion took hold. Instead of seeing the boom for what it was, a temporary, once-in-a-generation blip caused by a global pandemic, they decided this was the new normal.

The result was catastrophic over-ordering on a global scale. Everyone, from the biggest brands to the smallest shops, ordered bikes like the party would never end. Production went into overdrive.

But of course, the party did end. The world opened back up, people went back to their cars and holidays, and all those nearly-new bikes bought in a fit of lockdown boredom began flooding the second-hand market on eBay and Facebook.

The Hangover

The industry woke up to the perfect storm. Warehouses were bulging with eye-wateringly expensive stock that nobody wanted. The public either already had a bike or could pick up a barely-used bargain for half the price of a new one.

The crash was brutal, and it simply exposed the cracks that had been there for decades. The wishful thinking and poor planning finally came home to roost. We've seen massive names in the industry go into administration. Distributors are folding, brands are in trouble, and local bike shops are sitting on mountains of stock they can't afford to sell at a discount, but can't shift at full price.

The lockdown bike boom didn't break the bicycle industry. It just held a massive magnifying glass up to a business model that was already fundamentally broken. It's not looking like getting better any time soon, and you can't help but think they've only got themselves to blame.

Right, let's stir the pot a bit. I want to talk about a truth that many in the biking world don't want to admit: for getting from A to B in the real world, the traditional motorbike is, for the most part, a deeply flawed and impractical tool.

Now, before the leather-clad legions start firing up their keyboards, let me be clear. I get it. For some, a motorbike is a passion, a lifestyle, a weekend escape machine. It’s about the noise, the image, the raw connection to the road. That’s all well and good.

But for a huge number of people, especially outside the UK, a bike isn't a weekend toy; it's daily transport. It's about nipping to the shops, getting to work, and doing it all cheaply and efficiently. And if practicality is the name of the game, the motorbike gets absolutely trounced by its far more sensible and clever cousin: the maxi-scooter.

If a motorbike is practical, a maxi-scooter is practical on steroids. Here’s why.

Let's Talk About 'Stuff'

This is the big one. You need to carry something on a motorbike. A laptop, the weekly shop, a change of shoes. What do you do? You end up looking like a Duke of Edinburgh award hopeful, strapping on a massive rucksack or wrestling with a spider's web of bungee cords to attach a bag to your pillion seat. It’s a faff.

On my scooter, I lift the seat. Underneath is a cavern big enough to swallow a full-face helmet and a waterproof jacket, with room to spare for a bottle of wine and the bits for tonight's dinner. And if that's not enough? A maxi-scooter can handle a massive top box without looking like a beetle trying to carry a shoebox on its back. It just looks right. A sleek sports bike with a 50-litre box bolted on? It's just plain wrong.

Our Friend, the British Weather

Ah, the joy of arriving at your destination looking like you've been pressure-washed. On most motorbikes, you are completely exposed. Your legs are out in the wind and rain, and unless you have a screen the size of a barn door, so is your top half.

A maxi-scooter, with its wide leg shields and generous screen, offers genuine weather protection. You can ride through a shower and find your trousers are still mostly dry. It channels the wind away from your body, making for a warmer, less fatiguing ride. You arrive looking like a functioning human, not a drowned rat.

The Clutch is Obsolete

"But I love the feeling of changing gears! It makes me feel connected to the machine!" Yes, I'm sure it's thrilling on a beautiful, winding A-road on a sunny Sunday.

Now try it on a wet Tuesday morning in stop-start city traffic. Clutch in, first gear, clutch out, roll three feet, clutch in, neutral, clutch out. Repeat until you lose the will to live. The twist-and-go CVT transmission on a scooter is a revelation for town riding. It’s smooth, simple, and lets you concentrate on not getting run over by a van. It's just smarter.

But Aren't They a Bit... Slow?

This is the classic, go-to insult from the 'real biker' crowd, the assumption that scooters have all the get-up-and-go of a tired lawnmower. Think again. Want a 750cc maxi that can smoke many equally powered motorbikes off the line? No bother.

And let's get real, outside of a track day, how often do you get to use those 1200cc of raw power on your adventure bike? We’re all in the same traffic, shuffling along in the same queues. The truth is, the 300-500cc engines in most maxi-scooters are ample for anything the real world can throw at you, including fast motorways. They'll sit at 70mph all day and have plenty in reserve for a safe overtake.

Your Back Will Thank You

Then there's comfort. Spend three hours on a motorbike, even an upright adventure bike, and it can take you twenty minutes to stand up straight when you get off. Knees are screaming, your back is aching, and your wrists feel like they're about to fall off.

Maxi-scooters are leagues ahead in the comfort department. You sit in a relaxed, almost chair-like position, with a plush seat and a laid-back riding posture. Most offer multiple feet positions, letting you tuck them under you or stretch them right out. Three hours on a maxi-scooter is a genuinely pleasant experience, not an endurance test.

Keeping Clean

Finally, motorbikes are messy things. They have oily chains that need constant attention and delight in flinging black, sticky lube all over your back wheel, your number plate, and the leg of your trousers. Most maxi-scooters have the engine and transmission all neatly tucked away. The final drive is often a clean, maintenance-free belt. You can ride one in your work clothes without worrying about turning up with a big greasy mark on your leg.

The Verdict

Look, I'm not saying motorbikes don't have their place. But for the daily grind, for the reality of using a two-wheeled vehicle as an actual tool, the maxi-scooter is simply the superior machine. It’s the smarter, more practical, and more comfortable choice for the rider who values function over posing.

And to the bloke on the 1000cc superbike who thinks it's not a "real" bike? I'll give you a cheery wave as I ride past in the rain, warm, dry, and with my shopping safely stowed away.

UPDATED I've now done a week with the Malossi and have updated this blog with the finding (spoiler: I've switch back to stock). Scroll to the bottom to read the update

Today, I'm finally getting around to sorting out the exhaust on my Piaggio Beverly 350. I'm swapping the standard pipe back to the Malossi performance exhaust that the bike originally came with.

But this isn't just about making a racket. This is about finding out if all the performance bits on the bike actually work together as a full kit.

The Backstory

When I bought this Beverly, it came with a surprise. The last owner had fitted the lot: a Malossi variator, pulley, belt, air filter, and this Malossi exhaust. Basically, the full catalogue.

Frankly, it was just too loud for my liking. The previous owner thankfully kept the original pipe, so one of the first jobs I did was swap it back to the standard exhaust.

So, Why Change It Back Now?

After a couple of thousand kilometres on the stock exhaust, I got to thinking. An exhaust on its own usually just makes more noise, which doesn't really interest me.

But the theory goes that if you've got all the other performance parts installed, and the ECU has been remapped to match, the exhaust is the final piece of the puzzle. It's supposed to let the engine breathe properly and unlock a bit more performance.

So, now that I've got a good feel for the bike in its standard setup, I'm putting the Malossi back on to see if there's any real, noticeable difference.

The Sound Test

While I was at it, I thought I'd do a proper sound comparison. Most of the videos I've seen have bikes riding past a camera, which makes it hard to hear the true difference.

So, I've stuck the bike on the stand, turned off the ASR and ABS so the back wheel can spin, and recorded the sound of each exhaust in the same spot. I've done a test for each pipe and then spliced them together for a direct, back-to-back comparison.

So, What's the Verdict?

My first impression after a very wet test ride was that the Malossi felt a bit smoother, with the power coming in higher up the revs. But it's early days, and I need a dry road to be sure. I'll update or post a new blog at some point in the future.

If you want to comment on the different sound, feel free to do so over at YouTube (click the YT logo in the video to get there).

Update: I Found the DB Killer!

Well, you learn something new every day. It turns out the Malossi exhaust has a removable baffle, often called a "DB killer," plugged into the end of it. Its job is to keep the noise down to a legal and more sociable level.

After making the original video, I realised it was only held in with a single circlip. Naturally, I had to see what the bike sounded like without it.

Spoiler alert: it's absolutely nuts. Far too loud for the road, and I reckon it would get you pulled over in no time. I put the baffle straight back in after filming, but I've made a short follow-up video so you can hear how bonkers it is.

Here's the new video showing the sound with the DB killer removed.

So, the original comparison video still stands, as that's how the exhaust is meant to be run on the road. This was just a bit of fun to see what was possible.

Update: An Unexpected Result

So, after a good week of riding with the Malossi exhaust fitted, I've got to be honest. I didn't experience any noticeable improvement in fuel efficiency or day-to-day performance. Other than the sound, which I'll admit I did grow to like, the bike basically worked the same. With that in mind, I switched back to the stock pipe for a proper comparison, and that's where I found a surprise.

Apart from the obvious difference in sound, the bike with the standard exhaust actually feels a bit punchier and stronger when pulling away from a standstill. It seems counter-intuitive, I know. You'd expect the fancy performance pipe to be better everywhere.

But after some thought, it makes perfect sense. The bike's standard ECU is tuned meticulously to work with the stock exhaust. It's programmed to expect a certain amount of back pressure, and it uses that to produce the best torque at low revs, which is exactly what you use for daily, real-world riding. The free-flowing Malossi pipe, without a remap, was actually losing a bit of that low-end grunt.

So, this has led me to a new plan. The Malossi exhaust isn't the whole story; it needs the matching ECU to get the best out of it. I am now officially on the lookout for a Malossi Force Master 2, which is their fuel injection controller.

Once I get my hands on one, I'll bolt the Malossi pipe back on, get it all hooked up, and I'll do a brand new post on what the full, properly-tuned system feels like. Stay tuned for part three of this saga.

Whether you need to change a running or indicator bulb, access the wiring loom, or, in my case, investigate a dangerous ABS fault that was putting the bike into limp mode, at some point you'll probably need to remove the front shield (or 'nose cone') of your Piaggio Beverly.

When I was trying to diagnose my ABS issue, I couldn't find a single clear video showing the whole process. The workshop manuals are vague and other guides allude to removing half the bike's trim without being specific.

So, I made this short video to show you exactly how to do it. It's a simple job when you see it done properly.

The Step-by-Step Guide

For those who prefer a written checklist, here are the locations of the seven screws you need to remove:

1. Two screws behind the glove box: Open the glove box and you'll find one screw in each top corner.
2. Two screws on the sides: There is one screw on each side of the leg shield, just below the handlebars. On the right-hand side, it's hidden behind the small coolant reservoir cover.
3. Two screws on the front: Right at the very front of the nose cone, you'll find two small screws.
4. One screw behind the logo: The final, larger screw (a T35 Torx) is located behind the Piaggio logo badge. Carefully pry the badge off to access it.

A Word of Warning: Cover your front mudguard with a towel before you start pulling! The nose cone is held in by a lot of tight plastic poppers. You'll need to give it a firm but careful yank to release it. When it comes free, it can easily drop and scratch the paintwork.

Once the poppers are loose, you just need to disconnect the wiring for the indicators and LED running lights, and the whole assembly will come away. It's a ten-minute job, max.

I was doing this to diagnose a faulty ABS sensor that was causing the dangerous limp mode. Once the replacement part arrives and I've confirmed it fixes the problem, I'll be writing a full, in-depth post on diagnosing and fixing that specific issue. Watch this space!

As is well-documented on this blog, a few months ago I bought a Piaggio Beverly 350 for use when I'm in Northern Ireland. It was a bit of a project, and one of the first upgrades on my list was the windscreen.

The original screen was fine, but being a bit taller than average, I found that while it took the wind off my chest, it directed a perfect jet of turbulent air straight at my helmet. The result was a huge amount of wind noise and buffeting.

My first attempt at a cheap fix was to try one of those little clip-on windscreen extenders you see all over Amazon. While it did cut down some of the wind, it wasn't a huge improvement. Worse, the distorted plastic edge of the extender sat directly in my line of sight, which was incredibly distracting and far from ideal. It was a failed experiment.

Solution 1: The Full-Height Touring Screen

With the extender failing to solve the problem, I went shopping for a proper replacement. This is Northern Ireland, where winter lasts about nine months of the year, so the obvious choice was a full-height screen that also covers the handgrips. There are a few options out there, but I'm a fan of Givi stuff, so it was an easy choice. I ordered one from Amazon for about £115.

Now, I know these big "sail" screens aren't to everyone's liking, but I loved it. The wind noise and buffeting were completely gone. It was like riding in a bubble of silence. Perfect.

Almost.

The Unexpected Side-Effect: The Megaphone

On my next few longer rides, I noticed I was getting a headache. As soon as I hit 60mph, the noise from the engine seemed incredibly loud. Nothing else on the bike had changed. A quick Google revealed the answer.

Without getting too technical, a large touring screen creates a bubble of still air behind it. At speed, the air rushing over the top and around the sides creates a low-pressure zone, or a 'vortex,' right where your head is. This void desperately wants to be filled, so it sucks in turbulent air from wherever it can, including from below. This effectively funnels the engine's mechanical noise straight up into your helmet, like a giant acoustic megaphone.

So, while the screen didn't make the engine itself louder, it focused all of its sound directly at my ears. As someone with delicate hearing (too many loud clubs in my youth!), this was a real problem. Good quality earplugs didn't help much. I wasn't about to buy another expensive screen, so I figured I had two options: suck it up, or stay below 60mph.

Solution 2: The Vinted Bargain

Then, while browsing the online car boot sale that is Vinted, I spotted a brand new Givi A23 screen. It was bigger than the stock screen, but much smaller than the full-height one. The seller was asking £20 for it. I figured I might be able to adapt it to fit the existing Givi mounting kit, so I took a punt and bought it.

And now, I'm pleased to say, that with a little bit of customisation, it fits. And it's actually perfect!

It provides just the right amount of protection to stop the wind hitting my helmet, but it's not so large that it creates the "megaphone effect." I can ride at speed without being deafened.

The customisation was surprisingly simple. The mounting holes lined up perfectly with the existing Givi kit, so no drilling was needed. All I had to do was take a sander to the bottom edge of the screen to reshape it slightly so it would sit neatly over the headlight. I do still need to tidy up the customisation job, but it's a ten-minute job that might get done soon. Might!

A Screen for All Seasons

So, is the big screen now redundant? Not at all. The new, smaller screen is perfect for most of the year, but it doesn't have the handgrip protection of the full-height one. For the depths of a freezing NI winter, I'll switch back to the big Givi screen. It's a five-minute job, and in the winter I'll be going slower anyway, so the engine noise won't be an issue.

It's the Goldilocks solution: a screen for all seasons.

Update: The Counter-Intuitive Fix for a Loud Touring Screen

After finding my "Goldilocks" solution with the smaller Givi screen, I couldn't stop thinking about the full-height one (the Givi 5606A). The deafening engine noise was its only flaw. Based on the "vortex" theory, I had a thought: what if I deliberately let more air in?

The Givi A5606A mounting kit for the Beverly consists of two "goal posts" that the screen clamps onto, giving you about three inches of vertical adjustment. The obvious, intuitive way to mount it is as low as possible, fitting it snugly around the headlight and fairing with just a few millimetres of space. As I discovered, this is the wrong approach. It seals the cockpit perfectly, which exacerbates the megaphone effect by forcing all the replacement air to be sucked up from the noisy engine bay below.

So I started experimenting. I loosened the clamps and slid the whole screen up the goal posts, creating a larger gap at the bottom.

And... it works! After a bit of trial and error, I found the sweet spot: a gap of about 1.5 inches between the bottom of the screen and the bike's bodywork.

The result is completely mad. At low speeds, you feel no difference. But as you get above 60mph, you start to feel a smooth, non-annoying stream of air flowing up from the gap. This airflow fills the vortex, and the result is that the faster you go, the quieter the engine noise gets. After an 80-mile ride, there was no ringing in my ears. Win!

So, Why Does a Bigger Gap Make it Quieter?

It seems totally counter-intuitive, but the physics are quite simple.

• Without a Gap: The big screen creates a large, turbulent, low-pressure void behind it. The only way for this void to be filled is for chaotic air to be violently sucked up from below, funnelling all the engine noise directly into your helmet.

• With a 1.5" Gap: You allow a smooth, controlled layer of air (a "laminar flow") to travel up the inside of the windscreen. This controlled airflow "feeds" and stabilises the low-pressure bubble, preventing the violent sucking action from the engine bay. The engine noise is no longer being amplified and directed at your head.

So, if you have a full-height screen and are suffering from that horrible engine drone at speed, the solution might be the opposite of what you'd think. Before you give up and buy a smaller screen, try raising yours up. Create a gap. It might just be the best (and free) modification you ever make.

Selling a holiday home in Spain can seem straightforward, but beneath the surface lies a minefield of taxes, retentions, and local "traditions" that can catch inexperienced sellers out. Before you even think about putting your property on the market, you need to understand the real costs involved and the common traps to avoid.

First, Brace Yourself for the Agent's Commission

The first shock for many UK or Irish owners when selling in Spain is the estate agent's commission. If you're used to the 1-2% fee that's common back home, you'll need to sit down for this. In Spain, commission rates are much higher, typically ranging from 3% to 7% of the sale price, with 5% being very common on the Costas. Furthermore, many agents have a minimum fee which is often in the region of €3,000 to €5,000. This is a significant chunk of your equity that you need to account for right from the start.

The Big One: Capital Gains Tax (CGT)

If you sell your property for more than you paid for it, you've made a capital gain, and the Spanish tax authority (Agencia Tributaria) wants its cut.

• The Tax Rate: For all non-residents (both EU and non-EU, including the UK), the Capital Gains Tax rate is a flat 19%.
• How it's Calculated: This 19% is applied to your net profit. The calculation is roughly: (Final Sale Price) - (Original Purchase Price + Purchase Costs + Major Improvement Costs)

It's crucial to keep meticulous records of all your buying expenses and any significant renovation costs, as these can be deducted to reduce your final tax bill.

The 3% Retention Rule: A Compulsory Down Payment

This is the part that catches many sellers by surprise. When a non-resident sells a property in Spain, the buyer is legally obligated to withhold 3% of the total sale price and pay it directly to the tax office on the seller's behalf.

• Is it Really Enforced? You may ask if people actually do this, and the answer is an emphatic yes. This is not an optional "local custom"; it's a non-negotiable legal requirement. Any reputable solicitor will ensure this happens. The law is designed to stop non-resident sellers from taking the money and disappearing without settling their tax bill.
• How it Works: This 3% acts as a payment on account for your 19% Capital Gains Tax.
  • If your final CGT bill is more than the 3% withheld, you must pay the difference.
  • If your CGT bill is less, you are entitled to a refund.
  • If you made a loss on the sale, you can claim a full refund of the 3% retention.

The "A" and "B" Money Trap: A Buyer's Beware

You will almost certainly hear whispers of "B Money" (dinero B) during your time in Spain. This is a widespread form of tax evasion. As a seller, you might be tempted; as a buyer, you should run a mile.

• How it Works: The seller asks the buyer to pay a lower, official price (the "A" money) which is declared on the deeds. The rest of the agreed price is then paid in undeclared cash (the "B" money) to fraudulently reduce their Capital Gains Tax bill.
• The Massive Risk for the Buyer: A buyer who agrees to this is making two huge mistakes:
  1. Future Tax Liability: When they eventually sell the property, their official purchase price is artificially low. This means their future capital gain will be artificially high, and they will end up paying a much larger tax bill.
  2. Legal Jeopardy: If the Spanish tax authorities suspect a property has been undervalued, they can launch an investigation, hitting the buyer with fines, back-taxes, and interest penalties.

Don't Forget the Plusvalía

Finally, there's one more local tax to be aware of: the Plusvalía Municipal. This is a tax levied by the local town hall on the increase in the value of the land the property sits on. It's the seller's responsibility to pay this, and the amount varies wildly depending on the municipality and how long you've owned the property.

A Quick Word for Buyers

If you're on the other side of the deal and looking to buy a holiday home, here are the crucial takeaways from a buyer's perspective:

• Hire Your Own Independent Solicitor. This is the most important rule. Never, ever use the same solicitor as the seller or one recommended solely by the estate agent. You need your own legal expert whose only job is to protect your interests. The agent might put pressure on you to use theirs, DON'T!
• Insist on the 3% Retention. If you're buying from a non-resident, it is your legal duty to withhold 3% of the sale price for the tax office. Your solicitor will handle this, but be aware of it. This protects you and the property from future tax claims related to the seller's capital gains.
• Walk Away from "B Money." As we've covered, if a seller suggests an under-the-table cash payment, it's a massive red flag. The future tax problems and legal risks will be yours, not theirs. Just don't do it.
• Understand the Buying Process (and the POA Trap). The process isn't as simple as paying a 10% deposit on the day you agree on a price. From my experience, it works like this:
  1. Reservation Deposit: After a price is agreed, the solicitors do their initial checks. Only then is a reservation deposit (e.g., €3,000 or a full 10%) paid, for me this was two weeks after the deal. This is the point of no return; if you, the buyer, pull out, you lose this deposit. Crucially, pay this to YOUR solicitor, not the estate agent, to ensure a secure paper trail.
  2. Completion: After more paperwork, you'll arrange a completion date. This is when you visit a Notary with the seller to sign the final deeds (escritura) and transfer the remaining balance.
  3. The Power of Attorney (POA) Trap: Completion must be done in person. If you can't be there, you can give your solicitor POA to sign on your behalf. VITAL TIP: To grant POA, you and your solicitor must visit the notary together in person beforehand. You cannot grant POA remotely from your home country. Plan for this in advance!

Selling a property in Spain is a complex process. My advice is simple: be aware of the real costs, reject any talk of "B money," and always use a reputable, independent solicitor to guide you through it.

Let me tell you a personal story that perfectly sums up the chaotic, often nonsensical world of holiday lets in Andalusia.

When I bought my place in Spain, I went through the considerable faff of getting an official tourist licence. A year or so later, we decided to stop renting it out and enjoy the house for ourselves. My first thought was to keep the licence active, figuring it was a tangible asset that would add real value to the property if we ever decided to sell. Smart, right?

Then came the letter.

It was from Aqualia, the local water company. They had been informed that the house had a tourist licence and were, therefore, promptly reclassifying the property as a commercial business. My water rate was about to triple, and to add insult to injury, I had to back-pay the higher rate for the entire period the licence had been active. Ouch.

Around the same time, the Junta de Andalucía announced a new rule: tourist licences were now tied to the owner, not the property, and were not transferable on sale.

So, let's recap: I was facing a massive, back-dated water bill for a licence that now added precisely zero resale value to my house. I did the only logical thing: I cancelled the bloody licence.

And now? Now, of course, they've reversed the ruling.

The New U-Turn: What's Changed?

As of August 2025, the rules have been changed back. According to a report in the SUR in English, the Junta de Andalucía has confirmed that a holiday rental licence is associated with the property and is included when the property is sold.

This is a huge deal. With many town halls now restricting or pausing the issuing of new licences, an existing, transferable licence has suddenly become a very valuable asset again. It could potentially add thousands to the value of a property.

Whether I would have kept my licence active and paid the commercial water rates, knowing it would be transferable, is a question I'll never get to answer. It's just another lesson learned in navigating the wonderful, infuriating world of Spanish bureaucracy.

A landmark ruling by Spain's Supreme Court has upended the tax rules for non-EU citizens who rent out their Spanish holiday homes. For years, owners from the UK, USA, and other "third countries" (non-EU countries) have been hit with a high, non-deductible tax rate. That has now been declared discriminatory.

This is a huge deal, and it all hinges on one incredibly important detail that many people get wrong.

The Crucial Point: It's Your Tax Residency, Not Your Passport

Before we get into the changes, let's clear up the biggest point of confusion. The tax you pay is determined by where you are a tax resident, not by the passport you hold. I learned this the hard way.

I hold both UK and Irish passports. When I first started renting out my house in Spain, my initial accountant assumed that because of my Irish (EU) passport, I would be on the favourable EU tax rate. For a year, that's how my returns were filed. It was only when I switched to a new accountant that the bombshell dropped: because I am a tax resident of Northern Ireland (UK), my Irish passport was irrelevant. I was a "third country" resident in the eyes of the Spanish tax man and owed them money.

Thankfully it was sorted out, but it was a stressful and valuable lesson: the country where you pay your main tax is what matters, not the passports you hold.

The Old (Unfair) System Explained

This "tax residency" rule was the foundation of a system that many, including me, felt was deeply unfair. Here's how it worked:

• EU/EEA Tax Residents: Paid 19% income tax on their net rental profit. They were allowed to deduct all eligible expenses like cleaning fees, maintenance, utility bills, and community fees.
• Non-EU/EEA Tax Residents (like those from the UK): Paid a much higher 24% income tax on their gross rental income. They were not allowed to deduct any expenses at all.

This made it incredibly difficult for UK owners to run a holiday rental cost-effectively, and it was one of several reasons I stopped renting my house out when not using it myself.

What's Changed? The Supreme Court Ruling

In late 2024, Spain's Supreme Court ruled that this system was discriminatory and contrary to a key principle of EU law: the free movement of capital.

As reported by SUR in English and confirmed by numerous Spanish legal and tax experts like Ábaco Advisers, the court has stated that non-EU residents must also be allowed to deduct expenses from their rental income.

This is a game-changer. While the tax rate remains 24%, applying it to your net profit instead of your gross income will massively reduce the final tax bill.

The Big Question: Can You Claim Back Overpaid Taxes?

This ruling has thrown the door wide open for non-EU residents to potentially claim a refund for overpaid taxes from previous years. Personally, I won't be bothering, as I only rented out my home for a short period of time(to help fund some renovations being done). But for those who have been paying 24% on their gross income for years, this could mean a significant rebate.

Disclaimer: I am not a tax advisor. This is a complex process and you should absolutely consult with a professional Spanish accountant and/or a lawyer for advice specific to your situation.

The process typically involves submitting a corrective tax return for previous years, citing the Supreme Court's decision. Generally, you can claim for the last four years.

Useful Resources

Here are a few links from legal experts that explain the situation in more detail:

• CostaLuz Lawyers: Good news for non-EU resident landlords in Spain
• Pellicer & Heredia Lawyers: The Supreme Court allows non-EU citizens to deduct expenses on rentals

This is a developing situation, but it's a rare and welcome piece of good news for non-EU property owners in Spain.

If you want to really improve the ride of your Piaggio Beverly, forget the expensive exhausts and fancy variators. The best bang-for-your-buck upgrade is, without a doubt, the rear suspension.

The standard shocks on the Beverly are okay, but there's definite room for improvement. The units on my 2017 Beverly 350 were completely shot, with no fluid left and covered in corrosion. After a bit of research, I settled on a set of Bitubo Dual Spring shocks from a UK supplier, TW Suspension Tech. Best of all, they custom-tune the springs to your weight before shipping. A fantastic service.

The 20-Minute Hack (Forget the Online Guides)

Now, for the fitting. The online videos I found showed a horrifying process that involved removing almost all of the bike's plastic trim—a solid two-hour job. Bollox to that.

Here’s the simple process that will get the job done in about 20 minutes:

1. Remove the Top Box & Rack: Start by taking off your top box (if you have one) and then unbolt the rack that connects it to the bike. This is straightforward and exposes the rear of the main side panels.

2. Loosen Middle Fasteners: With the rear of the side panels now loose, remove the side trim's middle fasteners. That's it. Nothing more to undo!

3. Flex the Trim: This is the magic step. The plastic side trim is surprisingly flexible. Carefully pull the panel outwards, away from the frame, and use a small block of wood to hold it in the flexed position. This gives you plenty of space to get a spanner onto the top shock mount.

4. Swap the Shocks: Unbolt the top and bottom mounts of the old shock, remove it, slot the new one in, and bolt it up.

5. Repeat & Reassemble: Do the other side, then simply fasten the trim back in place and re-attach your top box rack. Job done.

I've since checked this on my Beverly 400, and the same approach is entirely possible.

A final word of warning: be gentle! Those side trims are tough, but they are plastic, not elastic. Flex them carefully and just enough to get access. If you hear any loud cracking noises, you've gone too far!

From 2020, Piaggio started rolling out a keyless ignition system on many of its scooters, including the Beverly (300 and 400), the MP3, and the Medley. I believe modern Vespas use a very similar system too.

The concept is simple: as long as the key fob is nearby, you just push and turn the main switch on the dashboard. One click clockwise unlocks the steering lock; a second click powers up the bike, ready to start. It's clever, but as I discovered, it has a weakness.

What happens when this clever switch starts to fail? I found out the hard way. A few months into owning my 2023 Beverly 400 S, a mysterious and worrying problem started to develop. It began with the engine cutting out for a split second while riding, then instantly coming back on. At first, I thought it was a fuel or engine issue.

A few days later, the problem got worse. When the engine cut out, the entire digital display would now die with it before flickering back to life. Okay, I thought, it's an electrical gremlin. Then, the inevitable happened: it cut out and didn't restart. I had to cycle the ignition switch off and on again to get it going.

It was in that moment I realised the switch itself felt incredibly loose and "rattly." This was my "aha!" moment. Maybe the problem wasn't some deep, complex electrical issue, but the physical switch itself.

The Diagnostic Journey

I soon discovered that if I started the bike and then gently turned the switch as far clockwise as it would go, the bike would effectively be turned off and the engine would die. This, of course, shouldn't happen, but it did. I'd found the culprit. My initial short-term fix was a classy piece of engineering: a bit of duct tape to stop the switch rattling past the 'on' position.

I started the warranty claim, but the garage was swamped. It was also August in Spain, so the Piaggio factory was on a go-slow. A week went by with no news, and the problem got progressively worse. The switch now had one tiny "sweet spot" where it worked, and even the slightest bump could cause the engine to cut out.

The Bodge: A Proper Fix

With no sign of the warranty part, I bit the bullet and decided to strip the bike down to see if I could fix it myself. Getting to the back of the ignition switch was a complete nightmare. I had to strip every single bit of plastic trim off, from the footrests right up to the front fairing.

First, the footrests and the panels above them have to come off.

With the footrests removed from both sides, you can then remove the side and front panels.

With the front panel removed, this is what you see!

These are all the panels you have to remove. From memory, it's 13 in total!

Once inside, I could clearly see the issue. The keyless ignition switch "floats" in its housing so you can push it in to operate the glove box lock. The mechanism that allows it to float had become incredibly loose, with no obvious way to tighten it.

My theory was this: the floating mechanism was failing, allowing the switch to rattle around from road vibrations. This rattling was causing the switch's internal contacts to momentarily break, killing the engine.

A Design Flaw?

It then occurred to me that this was, if not a design flaw, then certainly a very questionable design choice. A vital part of the bike, the ignition switch, was being compromised to enable a lock on a flimsy glove box. Who keeps anything of value in there anyway?

I decided I could live without the glove box lock.

I isolated the locking mechanism and, using a few strategically placed zip ties, I carefully and tightly fastened the main switch assembly to a solid part of the steering column. Voila. Fixed.

The bodge. Three zip ties and we're good to go!

The switch no longer rattled. It felt solid. You could still manually turn it too far and kill the engine, but it would no longer do it on its own. To all intents and purposes, the problem was solved.

That bodge is still holding up perfectly over 1,000kms later, while I continue to wait for the warranty part (three weeks and counting).

The Final Verdict

So, will I get the official warranty fix done? Yes, eventually. But when I do, I'm going to re-apply my own bodge. I'll let the new switch be fitted, but I'll be securing it with zip ties again to isolate the flimsy floating mechanism.

Sure, I'll never be able to lock the glovebox again, but that's no biggie. I'd much rather have a reliable ignition than a lockable compartment for my sunglasses.

One More Thing...

While I had the bike in a million pieces, the eagle-eyed among you might have spotted a redundant electrical connector, carefully stowed away under the front panel.

A spare electrical connector tucked away under the front nose panel.

I was intrigued by this and could find no mention of it online. After asking around, I discovered it's a spare, pre-wired connector for adding heated accessories, like heated grips. It seems you purchase an additional wiring loom which plugs into this spare connector, allowing you to easily add heated devices. I'd assume it's wired to the ignition so it's only live when the bike is on.

Update for Beverly 350 Owners

Following my discovery of the spare connector on the Beverly 400, I have since had the chance to strip down my 2017 Beverly 350 in Northern Ireland and can confirm that this connector is not present on that older model. It seems this useful feature was introduced with the newer Euro 5 compliant bikes.

So, how do you add heated accessories like grips to a Beverly 350? The old-fashioned way. After a bit of research, the two most common methods are:

• Tapping into a Switched Live: Most owners install aftermarket grips (like from Oxford or Daytona) and power them by tapping into a wire that is only active when the ignition is on. A frequently used source is the wire for the small parking light inside the main headlight assembly.

• Using a Relay: The more robust and electrically safer method is to wire the grips directly to the battery through a fuse and a relay. The relay then uses a tap from a switched live wire to act as a trigger, ensuring the grips get full power without overloading an existing circuit and can't be left on by accident.

this is how i plan to do it, using the rather brilliant Oxford Junction Box (Google it!)

If you've read my About Me page, you'll know that by day, I build websites for a living. I've been doing it for nearly 25 years, working on everything from small projects for owner-managed businesses to large-scale builds for pharma companies. In that time, the most common question I get is: "Why are websites so damn expensive?"

The honest, no-bullshit answer is that the single biggest thing that inflates the cost of a website isn't the technology or the design. It's the client.

Case Study: The 18-Month "Quick" Rebuild

Let me give you a real-world example. I have a large national pharmaceutical company as a client. They have the typical corporate setup: board, directors, managers, heads of department... you get the picture.

18 months ago, I started a "simple" website rebuild for them. Knowing what a disaster they are to work with, my initial quote was four times my usual rate. Why? Because every single decision is made by a committee of about ten people, and every decision changes at least once.

We are now 18 months deep into the project. The site has already been designed and built twice. Now, they want to make fundamental changes again because the board has had a shake-up and the new team has "different ideas." My bill so far has increased by 70%. They're on a strict milestone payment program, so hey, knock yourselves out, guys. Keep changing your minds, and I'll keep getting paid.

This story isn't an exception; for a company with layers of management, it's the rule. I call it "Design by Committee," and it's a complete shitshow. The project kicks off with a marketing manager, but then the sales director has "opinions," the CEO needs to sign off on the colours, and the CEO's nephew (who did a graphic design course once) thinks the logo should be bigger.

Trying to build a website by committee is like trying to cook a Michelin-star meal with five head chefs who all have different recipes. The development time quadruples, and every single one of those extra hours goes on the bill.

The "Free Work" Audition

The other classic cost-inflator is the pre-project dance: the demand for in-depth technical briefs, wireframes, storyboards, and multiple design mock-ups before a contract is signed.

Let me translate: you're asking me to do weeks of highly skilled work for free, just for the chance of getting the job. It's like asking an architect to draw up the complete blueprints for your new office before you've even agreed to hire them.

Developers have to price this risk into our quotes for everyone. The good clients, the ones who are ready to go, end up paying more to cover all the time we waste on the tyre-kickers.

My Escape Hatch

This is going to sound arrogant, but after years of this nonsense, I built a filter. I don't work with medium-sized companies anymore. I don't work with small companies run by micromanagers.

My business is now just me, AI (yep, I use it and I'm not ashamed to say so), and external talent when needed. I don't have an office; everything is done remotely from whatever country I happen to be in. And because I pick and choose my clients very carefully, I have a stress-free life and plenty of time to ride bikes and talk mostly bollox.

This isn't a sales pitch; I'm busy enough. It's just the reality.

The Simple (and Cheaper) Alternative

So, for all you business owners wondering why your website quote is so high, here's some free advice: stop trying to be a project manager, a designer, and a developer. You're not. Your job is to find a single, competent person you can trust.

Check their portfolio. Talk to their past clients. Get a feel for them. If you trust them, hire them. Then, get the hell out of their way and let them do the job you're paying them for.

It'll be finished quicker, it'll be better, and Christ, it'll be a hell of a lot cheaper. And that's not bollox.

Following on from my personal story, "The High-Wheeler's Gambit: My Quest for the Perfect Maxi-Scooter," I wanted to list out the hard data behind the decision. That post was about the real-world feel, the ergonomics for a tall rider, and the overall experience. This post is the objective follow-up.

Here, I'll break down the key specifications of the main contenders I tested: the Piaggio Beverly 400 S, the Honda Forza 350, the Honda ADV350, and the now-discontinued but still relevant Yamaha XMAX 400.

The Core Metrics: Power vs. Weight

For any vehicle, the battle between horsepower and kilograms is what defines performance. A powerful engine is great, but if it's hauling a heavy machine, the advantage is lost. That’s why the power-to-weight ratio is the ultimate measure of performance potential.

Analysis: The numbers here tell a clear story that backs up my test ride experience. The Piaggio Beverly 400 S is the undisputed champion of this group. It not only produces the most horsepower by a significant margin but is also relatively light, giving it a class-leading power-to-weight ratio. This is precisely why it felt like "a rocket" compared to the others. The two Hondas, while being the lightest and most nimble, share the lowest power output, making them smooth and efficient but not thrilling.

The Handling Equation: The Wheel Size Factor

As I explained in my first post, my mountain biking background made me obsessed with wheel size. It's the secret ingredient to a scooter's handling character, defining its stability at speed and its ability to handle imperfect roads.

Analysis: This table perfectly illustrates why the Beverly felt so secure on the Spanish motorway. That 16-inch front wheel makes a world of difference. It proves that stability isn't just about weight, but about design philosophy.

Practicality, Dimensions, and The Rider

Finally, a scooter has to work as a practical, everyday vehicle. Here’s how they stack up in the key areas, but with an important real-world caveat.

Analysis: On paper, the Hondas look fantastic. They have the lowest seat height (Forza) and class-leading storage. However, as a 6-foot-3 rider, this is where specs can be deceiving. The Forza 350, despite its low seat, had incredibly low handlebars that made the cockpit feel tiny and cramped for my height and build. The ADV350, with the same seat height as the Beverly, felt far more spacious due to its higher, wider handlebars. This is the ultimate proof that you simply cannot buy a bike based on numbers alone.

Conclusion: Data Confirms the Feeling

The data doesn't lie. The Piaggio Beverly 400 S is the performance leader, and its high-wheeler design gives it the stable, confident ride I was searching for. While the Hondas are brilliantly engineered, lighter, and arguably more practical in terms of storage, their performance and ergonomics didn't suit my specific needs.

Ultimately, this data is the perfect starting point for your own search. Use it to create a shortlist, but let the test ride make the final decision.

It all started with mountain bikes. Back when 26-inch wheels were the only option, I was a 6-foot-3 racer competing against guys a foot shorter, all on the same-sized wheels. The physics seemed off, but it was just the way things were. Then, in the early 2000s, the 29er arrived, and a lightbulb went on. Suddenly, on a bike that fit my size, I was more stable at speed, more confident on jumps, and I realised a truth: bigger wheels need less suspension to feel just as smooth.

Years later, that lesson was front and centre as I began my search for a maxi-scooter. I knew that wheel size wasn't just a spec, it was the key to handling, stability, and ride quality.

My search quickly led me to the Italian brands, specifically Piaggio, renowned for their large-wheeled scooters, or "high-wheelers." To prove the theory, I tested a Piaggio Beverly 300 (16/14-inch wheels) back-to-back with a beautiful Vespa 300 GTS (12-inch wheels). They shared the same heart, the same engine and mechanicals, but the difference was staggering. The Vespa was pure joy in town, a style icon at slow speeds. But as the pace picked up, that joy turned to nervousness. The Beverly, on the other hand, was utterly planted, stable, and confidence-inspiring.

The die was cast. I was officially in the market for a high-wheeler. Living in Ireland, where maxi-scooters are a rare sight, I took my search to Spain, their natural habitat, to find my perfect ride.

The Contenders: A Tale of Three Scooters

First Up: The World-Beater (That Wasn't for Me)

My first test was the undisputed king of sales, the Honda Forza 350. I have to be honest; I wasn't a fan of the futuristic, front-heavy styling, which seemed to be trying too hard to mimic a motorbike. Still, you can't argue with popularity, so I swung a leg over.

My first thought? "My goodness, this thing is small!" At 6-foot-3, it felt tiny. The issue wasn't the scooter's overall size but the rider cockpit. The handlebars were so low they were in danger of hitting my knees in a tight turn. And the secondary feet-forward riding position, a key selling point for many, was useless for me, cramping my legs even further. It's a brilliant machine for millions, but for me, it was an immediate "no."

Next: The Adventurous Sibling

I moved on to the Forza's rugged sibling, the Honda ADV350. It shared the same engine as the Forza (350cc) and I liked the styling more; it still had that motorbike look, but it was purposeful and backed up by a more motorcycle-like riding position. The first thing I noticed was the handlebars. Not only were they higher, but they were proper, exposed motorbike bars. Coming from mountain biking, this was a huge plus. My mind immediately filled with the possibilities for customisation: wider, higher, a different sweep. This was promising.

The specs were equally impressive. The ADV350 features high-quality, long-travel USD (Up-Side-Down) forks made by Showa, offering 125mm of travel, the twin rear shocks were Showa too, language I understood and appreciated. The ride was undeniably smooth, probably the plushest of the lot, and it was packed with features. I took it for a proper spin, genuinely thinking this might be the one.

On the open road, it was a blast. But it lacked punch. This was a sticking point. Back when I was testing the Beverly 300 (300cc), I'd also managed to get a brief try on its bigger sibling, the Beverly 400. With its more powerful engine (400cc), it felt like a rocket for a scooter, and even on that short spin, the difference was obvious. The ADV350, despite only having 50cc less displacement, felt sluggish by comparison. Worse, around town, it felt big and clumsy. Where the Beverly felt like a nimble city scooter, the ADV felt long, wide, and heavy. I returned it to the dealer, surprised to be walking away empty-handed.

The Decision: Finding "Just Right"

The process had clarified everything. I needed to get back on the Piaggio Beverly, but this time for a proper test ride on the 400. The brief taste I'd had of its power had stuck with me, and I needed a proper test to be sure.

A few days later, my wife and I took a Beverly 400 S for a test ride. A stupidly long test ride. So long, in fact, that the dealer called to make sure we were okay. Oh, we were more than okay; we were sold.

In town, it was a revelation. The Beverly felt as light and nimble as the small Piaggio Liberty I’d owned previously. Then we hit the motorway to Malaga. With both of us on board, it effortlessly climbed to 120 km/h, the engine humming away at barely half its rev range, with plenty of power left for overtakes. It was stable, comfortable, and powerful. It also had a look I liked; it's a scooter, but a bigger one! It was perfect. We rode back to the dealer and sealed the deal.

Living with an Italian: The Verdict?

Before buying, every biker I knew warned me: "Don't buy Italian, buy a Honda." Did I make a mistake ignoring them?

Well, it hasn't been plain sailing. Shortly after its first service, the scooter died on the motorway, a scary "new pants please" experience. The dealer fixed it quickly, but I never got a clear answer on the cause. Now, six months later, the keyless ignition switch has failed (I'm currently awaiting a warranty replacement). And the little shopping bag hook has mysteriously broken.

So, the jury is still out on the old adage about Italian build quality. Perhaps time will make me regret my choice. But for now, even with these frustrations, the answer is no. Every time I ride the Beverly, it confirms that it fits my size, my needs, and my riding style better than any other maxi-scooter out there. It’s the high-wheeler I was looking for, and for me, it’s still the perfect gambit.

There's a certain satisfaction in finishing a project. After getting my 2017 Piaggio Beverly 350 back in May, I'd been slowly getting it into shape, with the last big job being a new pair of Bitubo rear shocks. The bike felt sorted.

For a few weeks, I enjoyed riding it, especially on runs down to the beach in the unusually warm evenings we were getting in Northern Ireland. Then, one evening on the way home, it happened. The engine died, and the dreaded orange engine light lit up the dashboard. I had a hunch it was related to the ABS/ASR system, and thankfully, disabling the ASR got me home. Phew!

It wasn't a fix, though. I called a local mobile mechanic who plugged in his fancy diagnostics computer and confirmed my suspicion: the front wheel ABS sensor had failed.

Problem identified, but his visit highlighted a new one. The call-out and diagnosis cost upwards of £100. Surely, I thought, I could buy my own diagnostic tool for not much more than that?

A bit of research led me to a tool called the FXTul M3, recommended by "Robot" from the fantastic US-based Scooter West. Unfortunately, they don't ship to Europe. No matter. A quick Google led me to the official FXTul online store, selling the same kit for a bargain €60 with free shipping from China. Order placed.

I excitedly unboxed it, found the correct adapter for the Beverly 350, and connected it all up... Nothing. The reader would not communicate with the bike. My bargain-hunting confidence took a nosedive. An email to Scooter West confirmed the bad news: newer versions of the M3 have updated software that is no longer compatible with the older Beverly 350. Balls!

All was not lost, though. They said it would "almost definitely" work on my newer Beverly 400, which I use when I'm in Spain. So, I threw the tool into my suitcase.

Fast forward a month, and I'm back in Spain with my Beverly 400. The diagnostic port is completely different (it's a newer, Euro 5 machine), but thankfully, the M3 kit came with a connector that fit. I held my breath, hooked it all up, turned the key, and... bingo! The little screen flickered to life, correctly identifying the bike's ECU.

A quick browse through the menus showed options for viewing live data, running component tests, and, most importantly, reading and clearing fault codes. While my 400 has no faults to test, the tool works perfectly with it.

So, the conclusion of this long saga is: if you have a modern, Euro 5 compliant Piaggio or Vespa and want a diagnostic tool that won't break the bank, the FXTul M3 works!

Yes, I know. It's starting to get silly. A year ago I'd never ridden a motorbike, and now I've just bought my third one. This time, it's a 2017 Piaggio Beverly 350, which will be my workhorse for getting around Northern Ireland. As they say, the correct number of bikes to own is always N+1.

The Motivation

The decision was made after spending a month in Spain with a brand-new Beverly 400 (a post on that glorious machine is coming soon!). I put over 2,000 km on it and was completely sold on the "maxi-scooter" concept. They're practical, comfortable, and powerful enough for any road. When I got back to NI, I knew I had to get one here too.

My first instinct was to buy a new one, but that idea was quickly thwarted: there are no Piaggio dealers in the whole of Northern Ireland. Insane! This forced me to pause and think. Would I actually get the use out of it in the grim NI winter? I wasn't sure. So, I decided the sensible thing to do was to find a cheap, second-hand one to test the theory.

The Purchase

I went shopping, and in all of Northern Ireland, there was exactly one for sale. Long story short, this is it. It was cheap, but not at all rough. In fact, it came with a surprise: a full "racing" tuning kit from the Italian company Malossi had been fitted by a previous owner. "Racing" and "maxi-scooter" might be an oxymoron, but someone clearly loved this machine.

So far, I've kept all the upgrades except the exhaust. It might have been sporty, but bloody hell, it was loud. Far too loud! Thankfully, the seller had kept all the original parts, so the first thing I did was switch it back to the stock exhaust.

That's the 'racing' Malossi exhaust. These are insanely expensive, costing around £600!

Essential Add-ons & First Fixes

Other than taming the noise, I've added a new Givi B45+ top box (the old one was knackered) and a lovely Givi full-height screen. A tall screen is vital here, as it keeps the freezing wind off you in winter.

The final job on the list was to replace the shot rear suspension units. After a bit of research, I opted for some lovely Bitubo shocks. They've completely transformed the ride, making the back end feel buttery smooth over all but the biggest bumps. A very worthwhile upgrade.

Of course, there was one immediate job I hadn't planned on: a rear puncture. "No problem," I thought, "I'll just drop the wheel out." Oh, how naive! On a scooter, you have to strip the entire back end—exhaust, brake caliper, sensors, bodywork, and even part of the sub-frame!

That was fun.

That's about it for now. Time will tell if I get enough use out of it over the winter. If I do, I might just be tempted by a new 400 next year!

I've created a gallery for this bike [which is here]https://www.mostlybollox.com/gallery/piaggio-beverly-350).

The Sun is a Liar: A Game of Two Temperatures

The first thing you learn about a Spanish winter is that the sun is a complete and utter liar.

It will beam down from a perfect blue sky, making you think it's a glorious, warm day. You'll find a nice spot at a café, sit in a t-shirt soaking up the rays, and feel smug. In that bubble of direct sunlight, it can genuinely feel like it's 23°C.

Then you get up to leave. You take five steps into the shade cast by a building, and BAM. The temperature instantly plunges to what feels like 12°C. It’s a genuinely shocking drop. It's not just the lack of sun; any slight breeze, which you didn't even notice before, suddenly has an icy bite. To make matters worse, the thick walls of the buildings, having been in shadow, are radiating cold—acting just like the "ice walls" inside the house.

The only way to win this constant game of temperature-hopscotch is to dress like an onion. Layering isn't just a suggestion; it's a survival strategy. My go-to setup is a simple t-shirt, a zip-up fleece, and, most importantly, a lightweight windproof jacket. Forget big, heavy winter coats; they're mostly useless here. Think flexible, think layers.

But the battle with the cold doesn't stop when you go indoors. In fact, it often gets worse.

The "Cold Box" Paradox: A Real-World Example

You might think a well-built, modernised house would be immune to the cold. Let me use my own place as a perfect case study of why that's not always true in Spain.

Our home is a modest, 100-square-metre end-of-row townhouse, about 4km inland at an elevation of 100m. It has incredibly thick stone walls, ranging from 50 to 100cm. I also invested a small fortune in the best windows and doors I could find: Climalit Planitherm 4S glass, which are superb for both thermal and sound insulation. We've also got heating in every room, and good heating too, not an electric plug in radiator.

So, it should be a cosy refuge in winter, right? Wrong. It's still freezing.

The problem is that those thick, uninsulated walls, which are a godsend in summer, act like giant, dense blocks of ice throughout the winter. You can run the reverse-cycle air conditioning to warm up the air in a room, but the moment you turn it off, you can feel the cold seeping back out of the stone. It's a constant, expensive battle against the sheer thermal mass of the building itself.

Of course, the glorious payback for this winter chill comes in August. When it's a blistering 40°C outside, those same icy walls and high-spec windows keep the inside of the house wonderfully cool. Spanish houses aren't badly designed; they're just designed for a different war. ☀️

Renting for the Winter? Choose Your "Cold Box" Wisely

This brings me to some crucial advice for those looking to escape the UK and Irish winters by renting a place here for a few months. Choosing the right type of rental is the difference between a cosy escape and a shivering endurance test.

The temptation is the holiday villa with its own pool. Forget it. The pool will be arctic, and many villas are built with a single skin of hollow brick, making them impossible to keep warm. Likewise, a quaint townhouse can suffer from the same "ice wall" problem as my own place.

The unlikely hero for a winter rental is the humble apartment. You get a massive amount of "free" insulation from the other occupied apartments above, below, and on either side of you. Plus, modern apartment blocks are far more likely to have some form of efficient central heating. The obvious downside is noisy neighbours, but let's be realistic: this is Spain, everywhere is noisy. My advice? Get some earplugs.

The Final Shocker: Your Winter Electricity Bill

This all leads to the final, painful reality. Trying to heat a poorly insulated Spanish home with reverse-cycle air conditioning and electric radiators is like trying to heat your garden with a hairdryer. The heat escapes almost as fast as you can produce it.

Don't be surprised to see winter electricity bills for a modest apartment hitting €100, €200, or even more per month if you try to keep the place constantly warm. It is a significant and often unexpected cost.

This is why you can't just rely on brute-force heating. The only way to survive comfortably and affordably is to combine everything: wear your fleece indoors, use throws on the sofa, cover your floors with rugs, run a dehumidifier, and only heat the single room you're actually in.

So, come for the winter sun by all means. Just don't forget your slippers and a healthy respect for your electricity meter.

This is Misty, my Piaggio Liberty 125 scooter, which I bought new in July 2024. She was my first venture into the world of motorbikes, and the machine that got me well and truly hooked. After a year of brilliant service, she's now been sold to make way for a bigger bike, so I thought I'd write a proper farewell.

I've spent most of my life on two wheels, but always the human-powered variety. The idea of getting a motorbike was never really in my head until the practicalities of life in Spain made it unavoidable. A bicycle is fine, but it's limiting. A car is expensive. A 125cc scooter, which you can ride on a regular car licence in Spain, seemed like the perfect solution.

And it was. Misty was brilliant.

What The Liberty 125 Does Brilliantly

For anyone considering a 125cc scooter for life on the Spanish coast, I can't recommend it enough. It excelled at:

• Local Runs: Trips to the beach, runs to Lidl, and nipping down the hill to the coast were effortless. It turned every small errand into a fun little adventure.
• Exploring Coastal Roads: The bike was perfect for exploring the stunning roads of the Axarquía region. It's light, agile, and an absolute joy to ride on twisty, scenic routes.
• Carrying a Pillion: This was the biggest surprise. My wife was sceptical, but she absolutely loved riding pillion. After a few miles, she was a natural, leaning into the corners and enjoying the ride.

The Inevitable Limitations

However, while Misty was perfect for one person on local trips, she struggled when loaded up. With two of us and our beach gear, the little 125cc engine had its work cut out.

The biggest issue was on faster roads. A trip to Malaga, about 40km away, involved the motorway. Here, Misty's lack of power became a real problem. She would often max out at 60kph on any kind of incline, which is disconcerting when cars are approaching from behind at over 100kph.

The Perfect Stepping Stone

The limitations made one thing clear: I needed more power. And to get more power, I needed to get a full motorbike licence back in the UK.

Misty was the catalyst for that whole journey. She was the perfect introduction to the world of motorbiking. She proved the concept, got me comfortable on powered two wheels, and ultimately gave me the motivation to get my full licence.

And so, Misty has now been sold to a new owner, ready for her next adventure. Her replacement is a Piaggio Beverly 400, a bike with the power to solve all of Misty's shortcomings while keeping the agility of a scooter. That, however, is a story for another day.

You can see a full gallery of my time with Misty by clicking here.

Back in June, I wrote about buying my first 125cc scooter in Spain, where all you need to ride one is a valid car licence. I rode that scooter all summer and loved it. It was perfect for nipping to the coast, shopping trips to Lidl, or cruising the stunning coastal roads.

Sadly, the love affair hit a snag on longer trips. The little 125cc engine, while brilliant around town, struggled on motorways or steep hills, often maxing out at 60kph while cars flew past at 100kph. It was clear: we're gonna need a bigger bike! (Hum the Jaws theme here).

So, on my return to Northern Ireland, I started the process of getting my full motorbike licence. Simple, you'd think. Think again.

The UK's Motorbike Licence Labyrinth

I don't know the history of how we ended up with such a messed-up pathway to riding a motorbike in the UK, but it's a bureaucratic nightmare. Unlike in Spain, you can't just hop on a 125cc with your car licence. First, you have to navigate this multi-stage system.

Stage 1: The CBT (Compulsory Basic Training)

This is the mandatory starting point for everyone. It's a day-long course covering the basics of riding. If you pass, you get a certificate allowing you to ride a bike up to 125cc with L-plates.

• Restrictions: No passengers, no motorways.
• Cost: Government websites suggest £130-£170. The real-world cost I found was closer to £250, with a 3-4 month waiting list. I was told this is due to soaring insurance costs and a shortage of instructors.

Stage 2: The Staged Licences (A1, A2, A)

This is where it gets truly bonkers. There isn't one bike test; there are three, each tied to age and engine power.

• A1 Licence (Age 17+): Lets you ride a 125cc bike without L-plates.
• A2 Licence (Age 19+): Lets you ride a bike up to around 400-500cc.
• A Licence (Age 24+): The full, unrestricted licence for any bike.

If you are under 24, you have to work your way through the stages. Is there any wonder fewer people are bothering to take up motorbiking?

My Journey: The "Direct Access" Route

Because I'm over 24, I was able to take the "Direct Access Scheme" (DAS), which lets you bypass the A1/A2 stages and go straight for the full A Licence. You still have to do the CBT first, and then pass your theory test and two practical tests (Mod 1 and Mod 2).

My instructor advised this was the most logical route. The goal was to ride a 400cc scooter in Spain (requiring an A2 licence), but since I had to do the CBT anyway, it made sense to just get the full, unrestricted A licence and be done with it.

This presented one major challenge. To get a full A licence, you must take your test on a 600cc+ geared motorbike. As a lifelong cyclist and scooter rider, my muscle memory is hard-wired: left lever is a brake. On a geared bike, the left lever is the clutch, the gears are on your left foot, and the rear brake is on your right foot.

It's been a steep learning curve trying to overcome decades of instinct! But after a few lessons, I'm just about getting to grips with it.

Why Bother?

This is the sad thing. Motorbikes are a fantastic form of transport. They're efficient, cause less congestion, and produce fewer emissions than cars. They are a win-win for everyone. Getting a licence should be as simple and safe as possible, not stupidly complex and expensive.

Update April 2025: Success!

Well, I'm happy to report that after a winter of weekly lessons (when the NI weather and my trips to Spain permitted!), I passed! I got my full, unrestricted A licence at the end of March 2025.

I have to give a massive shout-out to my instructor, Paul Hunter Motorcycle Training in Downpatrick, whose patience and expert guidance were invaluable. With his help, I managed to pass the theory, Mod 1, and Mod 2 tests all on the first attempt.

So, for every 'older' gentleman out there thinking of getting into motorbiking but worried about the hassle or their age: don't be. If I can get to grips with a clutch and gears and pass all the tests at 58, anyone can!

My Cannondale e-bike came with the Bosch Purion as standard, and to be honest, it's a bit basic. It does the job, but it's fiddly to use and the screen tells you next to nothing. After a bit of research, I decided to upgrade to the much more capable Kiox system. Here's how I did it.

Before I dive into the actual upgrade, it's worth explaining the setup.

My e-bike is a Cannondale Canvas Neo running a Bosch Performance Line motor (I think it's a Gen 2 or 3).

Soon after getting the bike, I installed a Volspeed V4 tuning box. This extends the motor's assistance from the standard 15.5mph limit to whatever I want. I typically run it at 20mph, which feels much more natural for someone who's been riding bikes their whole life. The US version of this bike ships with a 20mph limit, so I know the hardware can handle it safely.

The main reason I opted for the standard Kiox display (and not the newer Kiox 300 or 500) is compatibility. My current Volspeed tuning box supports the standard Kiox perfectly, and I didn't fancy paying to upgrade both the display and the tuning box.

The Upgrade

Here's a quick look at the old and new displays. As you can see, the Purion is a bit pants!

The old Purion: a very basic two-tone display with integrated buttons.

The new Kiox: a full-colour display with a separate, wired remote that sits where the Purion used to be.

The first job is to get inside the motor housing, which means removing the non-driveside crank arm.

You'll need an 8mm hex key for the crank bolt and a good quality crank puller to get the arm off. A word of warning: don't even think about trying this without a proper crank puller. You'll just damage the crank, and it will never stay tight again!

The crank bolt is tight. Turn the 8mm hex key counter-clockwise with a bit of force.

A crank puller is essential. Bodge this and you'll destroy the splined interface, meaning the crank will forever come loose.

With the cover off, you can get to the wiring loom and, in my case, the Volspeed tuning box.

With the cover removed, all the motor's cables are exposed.

The little black box tucked up inside the frame is the Volspeed V4 tuning box.

I knew this was going to be a fairly involved job, so before committing to the full teardown, I did a quick "sanity check" to make sure the new display actually worked with the bike.

Quick test: unplug the old display, plug in the new one, and power on. Success!

Once I'd confirmed it was working, I disconnected everything, removed the main battery, and set about routing the new cables. On this bike, all the cables run under two black plastic strips inside the downtube where the battery sits. To get them out, the battery connector mounts had to be removed.

All the wiring is routed under these two black plastic guides in the battery bay.

The upper battery mount, which had to come out to access the guides.

A few small bolts hold the battery mounts in place.

The lower battery mount removed from the frame.

With the mounts and plastic strips gone, the old display cable was easy to pull out. I just had to pop out the rubber cable guide where it exits the frame to get the plug through.

The display cable exits the frame here. The rubber guide had to be removed to get the plug through.

With the old unit completely removed, it was time to install the new Kiox. This is where the first (and only) real problem popped up.

The Kiox mount is designed to replace the stem cap on top of the fork's steerer tube. An M6 bolt passes through the mount and screws into a star-fangled nut inside the steerer. Problem: my bike didn't have one! It used a compression bung with a much larger bolt. Balls!

The original compression bung and top cap. No star-fangled nut for the Kiox mount!

This is where working on bikes for over thirty years comes in handy... I have a huge box of spares. A suitable star-fangled nut was soon located and installed.

A new star-fangled nut knocked into the steerer tube. Problem solved.

From there, it was just a case of installing the new display and remote, carefully threading the cable through the frame, plugging everything in, and reassembling the bike.

In total, the job took about an hour. It's a straightforward upgrade for anyone with basic mechanical skills and the right tools (a few hex keys, a crank puller, and ideally a work stand).

The finished result. A much cleaner cockpit and a far more capable display.

The new Kiox display is a massive improvement. It has multiple data screens, connects to your phone via the Bosch eBike Connect app, and can even provide turn-by-turn navigation using your phone's GPS. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

You can see a full gallery of the process in [this shared album](https://www

The Costa del Sol is synonymous with long stretches of golden sand. But if you're like me and are used to the vast, wild sand dunes of the UK and Ireland, you'll have noticed they're a rare sight in southern Spain.

That's why the Playas de las Dunas de la Carraca is such a special place. Nestled on the coast between El Morche and Torrox Costa, it's a beautiful protected landscape that offers a completely different beach experience.

These dunes, formed over time by wind-blown sand, create a mesmerizing, untamed backdrop to the shoreline. It's a little slice of wild nature right on the edge of the bustling Costa del Sol. I took some drone footage on a recent visit which really shows off the unique landscape.

The dunes themselves are a delicate and protected ecosystem, providing a vital habitat for various plants and small creatures that have adapted to thrive there. To help preserve this, visitors are encouraged to stick to the designated walkways and admire them from a respectful distance.

Beyond its ecological significance, it's also just a great beach. The sand is soft, the Mediterranean waters are calm and perfect for a dip, and the beach is far less developed than its neighbours. This gives it a more secluded and natural atmosphere, which can be a welcome escape during the busy summer months.

So, if you're looking for a beach day with a touch of the extraordinary, I'd highly recommend adding the Dunas de la Carraca to your itinerary. Just remember to respect the protected areas and enjoy the unique beauty this special place has to offer.

So why have I bought my first "moto" in my mid-50s?

It's not a mid-life crisis. That came and went with little fanfare over a decade ago. No, this purchase was for purely practical reasons. I spend a lot of time in the Axarquía region of Southern Spain, east of Malaga. When I'm there on my own, I use a bicycle to get around. When my wife visits, we hire a car. With her "proper job," she only makes it over for a week at a time, but even so, we were spending an average of €1.5k a year on hire cars, which is nuts.

A bicycle is fine for my extended month-long trips. We live in the mountains, about 5km from the coast, so the trek home is steep but manageable. But come the summer months, with temperatures hitting 40°C, cycling any real distance is neither practical nor safe.

We needed a better solution.

The Problem: Weighing the Options

Over the last year, I've looked at all the options for a permanent vehicle in Spain.

• Buying a Car: Cars are expensive in Spain. For €5k, you're looking at a 10-15 year old high-miler with a dubious history. Below that, you're buying a money pit. Add in running costs, insurance, and parking, and a car was quickly ruled out.

• Electric Bikes: This was my first instinct, as I have one in Ireland and love it. But given my history in the bike trade, I'm a bit of a snob and wouldn't be happy with anything less than a €3k model. We'd need two of them, and my wife isn't a keen cyclist anyway.

The Solution: A Piaggio Liberty 125

I'd never ridden a motorbike before, but my mind kept turning to them. They're everywhere in Spain, cheap to run, and the weather is perfect for it. After some research, one model kept coming up: the Piaggio Liberty 125.

It's not that popular in the UK and Ireland but it's a massive seller across mainland Europe. I asked around, and no one had a bad word to say about them. As luck would have it, a neighbour had just bought one and let me have a go. After a quick test ride and a chat with him (a proper biker back in the UK), I was sold.

The Purchase: Used vs. New

I started checking the second-hand market. Coincidentally, someone in my village was selling one, but the owner was strangely reluctant to communicate, so I knocked that on the head.

That's when I looked at new prices. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't how affordable they were. A new Piaggio Liberty 125 has a base price of €2,500. Add €300 for registration and a few hundred more for helmets and a top box, and for under €3k you're on the road with a full warranty.

Bingo. Order placed, deposit paid.

I've been riding bicycles my whole life, so being on two wheels doesn't worry me, especially one with only 11 horsepower! What will be interesting is the first long trip with my wife on the back. That'll be an experience... hopefully a good one.

Expect more blog posts about "Misty" the moto once I collect her. Or, expect to see her listed for sale soon after!

If you've ever wandered the road down from Torrox Pueblo to Torrox Costa, you've most likely noticed it: a ruined old factory with a massive chimney rising into the sky. If, like me, you've wondered what it was, a bit of digging reveals it's the old San Rafael Sugar Factory. But this isn't just any old ruin; it's a testament to the town's rich industrial past, with a story that begins nearly 500 years ago.

The Rise, Fall, and Rebirth

The factory's roots can be traced back to the 16th century, with documents mentioning its construction by the Morisco Melilla family as early as 1530. By the mid-1500s it was fully functional, a key part of the local economy. However, the Morisco rebellion in 1569 led to its complete destruction.

For over 150 years, it lay in ruins. Then, in 1725, the factory rose from the ashes, rebuilt and this time powered by the latest water wheel technology.

An Industrial Revolution

Over the following centuries, the factory's ownership changed hands several times. In the 18th century, prominent figures like Miguel Gijón y León and the businessman Tomás de Quilty y Valois took over, modernising the works and switching from wood to coal as the primary energy source.

The 19th century saw its most significant transformation under the ownership of the influential Larios family. Martín Larios y Herreros funded a complete industrial overhaul, incorporating a powerful steam engine, though the old water wheel was retained for the grinding mills for some time.

The Golden Age and Decline

The San Rafael Sugar Factory thrived for centuries, producing huge quantities of sugar from locally grown sugarcane. At its peak under the Larios family, the factory was producing an impressive 220,000 kilograms of sugar annually.

This era of prosperity finally came to an end in 1945, when the factory closed its doors for the last time. The exact reasons for its decline are unclear, but were likely a combination of evolving market conditions, increased competition, and the end of the sugarcane boom in the region.

Today, the San Rafael Sugar Factory stands in ruins, a beautiful and poignant reminder of Torrox's industrial heritage. The local town hall has expressed interest in restoring the site to highlight its historical significance, but as yet, no firm plans have been made. While its future remains uncertain, it continues to be a significant and much-loved landmark in the town's history.

Many guests (and even some owners!) don't realise that if you own a holiday home in Spain, you must pay income tax on your rental earnings. The amount you pay, however, depends entirely on where you live.

This is a point that often causes confusion: your tax liability is determined by where you are a tax resident, not by the passport you hold.

For example, you might have an Irish passport but live full-time in the UK. In this case, you are a UK tax resident. As the UK is outside the EU, the Spanish tax authorities consider you a resident of a "Third Country." This distinction is critical.

EU Residents vs. Third Country Residents

The amount of rental income tax you pay, and what you can deduct, is different for EU vs. non-EU tax residents.

• EU Tax Residents:

  • Pay 19% tax on rental income.
  • Can deduct eligible expenses (e.g., cleaning fees, maintenance, utility bills, etc.) from their income before calculating the tax.

• Third Country Tax Residents (e.g., UK, USA):

  • Pay 24% tax on rental income.
  • Cannot deduct any expenses. The tax is calculated on the gross income.

Yes, you read that right. If you are a UK tax resident, a flat 24% of your entire rental income goes to the Spanish government, with no deductions allowed.

Top Tip for Guests: All things being equal, renting from an owner who lives in the EU might be cheaper, as their tax burden is significantly lower.

It's also worth noting that the days of not declaring this income are numbered. As of 2024, booking platforms like Airbnb and Booking.com are legally required to report all rental income for Spanish properties directly to the Spanish tax authorities.

The Big Change for 2024: Annual vs. Quarterly Submissions

So, what's the good news?

Previously, owners had to declare their income and pay taxes every quarter. This was often costly, as it meant paying an accountant or tax advisor (a gestor) four times a year, typically at around €100 per submission.

From the start of 2024, this has changed to an annual submission.

This means you only need to file one tax return for the entire year's rental income. For the 2024 tax year (Jan 1st to Dec 31st), you must submit and pay the tax due by January 20th, 2025.

This is a welcome change that significantly reduces the administrative costs of running a holiday rental in Spain—a saving which will hopefully be passed on to guests.

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Even though I'm still a relative newbie to owning a rental home in Spain (I bought mine in 2022), I'm often asked for advice on choosing the right house and getting it ready for guests. So, here are my top tips, based on my own experience.

Tip 1: Look Beyond the Obvious Location

It's a cliché, but it's 100% true: location is everything. However, the "right" location isn't always the most famous one.

With a modest budget, the first instinct is to scour Idealista for apartments in the usual Costa tourist traps like Marbella, Benidorm, or Fuengirola. You soon discover that your budget doesn't get you much, at best a small one-bed studio. But price isn't the only reason to look elsewhere.

If you plan to cover your costs with holiday lets, these areas are fiercely competitive. In quieter periods, you'll find yourself in a race to the bottom on price with hundreds of other hosts. There's also the unfortunate reality that the more popular a resort is, the higher the chances of renting to troublesome guests or the dreaded stag party.

My first tip is to look beyond the big resorts. You'll get far more for your money, face less competition, and often attract a more relaxed type of guest.

Tip 2: Buy for the Long Term

Once you've found a location, it's time to find the house. If you're seriously considering buying in Spain, you'll be aware of the high transaction costs. Purchase taxes range from 7% to 11%, and on top of that, you have legal fees.

Selling isn't cheap either, with capital gains tax, agent fees, and more legal costs. Because of this, buying and selling property in Spain is horribly expensive. You need to get it right the first time. It's common for people to buy their "dream home," only to realise its flaws later and discover that selling up and moving would mean losing a huge chunk of their capital.

So, my top tip here is to buy the very best house you can afford the first time. If you have to stretch your budget, do it, because changing your mind a year or two later is often not financially viable.

Tip 3: Scrutinise the Build Quality (and Legality)

The quality of Spanish-built houses varies wildly. A property can look amazing, but the gloss can hide structural issues, poor workmanship, and a minefield of legal quirks.

• Townhouses: If you're buying in a village, ensure at least one full wall of the house gets sun for a few hours a day, otherwise damp can be a serious issue in winter. Also, check the floor plan carefully. It's common in older villages for rooms to protrude into a neighbour's footprint, or for part of your top floor to belong to the house next door.

• Villas: Check the wall thickness. Some are built with a single skin of brick, making them cold and expensive to heat in winter. Yes, it gets cold in Spain in winter, especially at night.

And always, ALWAYS, hire an excellent solicitor who is completely independent of the selling agent. Have them do a very deep dive into the ownership deeds and legality of any house you fall in love with.

Tip 4: Know Your House Intimately

Before buying our place, my wife and I stayed in rental homes all over Spain. When a minor issue arose, like a temperamental boiler or a tripped fuse, we'd often contact the owner, who would reply, "Oh, I don't know, I haven't spent much time there myself."

This is a killer for guest confidence. You need to know where the water stopcock is, which bedroom is quietest during a fiesta, and the secret trick to getting the boiler to fire up. You only learn these things by living in the house. I was fortunate enough to stay in our place for a few months after buying it. If you can't do that, spend several of your own holidays there before you even think about renting it out.

Tip 5: Equip It Like a Home, Not a Rental

It's easy to spot a property that's set up purely for renting versus one that's also used by the owners. The rental-only places are often sparsely equipped with the absolute basics, sometimes not even a decent coffee maker or enough pans to cook a proper meal.

In contrast, the places that feel like a home are always well-equipped. Your guests notice this immediately.

So, my final tip is: don't be cheap. Even if you never plan to stay there yourself, equip the house with everything your guests might need. Make your holiday rental feel like their perfect holiday home.

The question of travelling to Spain with a pet comes up a lot in online forums, and one of the most common questions is: can I take my small dog or cat in the cabin with me on a flight?

Getting a straight answer can be a nightmare. Airline websites are often vague, rules change, and to make it worse, the airline you book with isn't always the one you fly with. A great example is Iberia. They allow pets in the cabin, but many of their flights from Dublin are operated by Aer Lingus, who have a strict no-pets policy. It's a minefield.

This exact situation led me to do some deep-dive research for a trip with my own dog, Ollie the Chorkie*. This is what I found.

Note: All information here was confirmed directly with the companies via email or phone in February 2024. Rules can change, so always double-check before you book.

Step 1: Choosing the Right Airline & Flight

After a lot of digging, one airline stood out as the most reliable option for this route: Iberia. They have a clear pet-friendly policy and a huge network of flights across Spain.

I was focused on the Dublin to Malaga route. While there's no direct flight, Iberia offers several flights a day from Dublin to Madrid. From there, it's a stunning 3-hour high-speed train ride to Malaga.

Here are Iberia's rules for carrying a small pet (dog, cat, fish, or tortoise!) in the cabin:

• Carrier: Must be an approved, waterproof-bottomed carrier no larger than 45x35x25 cm.
• Weight: The combined weight of your pet and the carrier must not exceed 8 kg.
• Breed Restrictions: "Snub-nosed" breeds (like pugs or bulldogs) and certain "dangerous" breeds are not permitted.
• Paperwork: Your pet must have a valid pet passport with all the required vaccinations.
• Onboard Rules: Your pet must remain in its carrier for the entire flight, and you cannot sit in an emergency exit row.

How to Book

You can't add a pet to your booking online. The process is:

1. Book your own seat online first.
2. Call the Iberia customer service team immediately afterwards to add your pet to your booking.

The cost to add a pet is typically around €60 each way.

The most important rule is to book a flight that is operated by Iberia. When searching for flights, it will clearly state "Operated by Iberia Express" or "Operated by Aer Lingus." If it's not Iberia, their pet policy may not apply. To be safe, always choose an Iberia-operated flight.

Step 2: The Onward Journey by Train

Spain's national train service is called Renfe, and it's fantastic—fast, reliable, clean, and affordable.

There are around 12 high-speed trains a day from Madrid to Malaga, with the journey taking about 2 hours and 45 minutes. A ticket costs roughly €40 per person.

Renfe allows small pets on board with similar conditions to Iberia (under 10kg, in a carrier). Adding a pet typically costs an extra €10. It's always advised to pre-book, and you should be able to add your pet during the online booking process, much like booking an extra piece of luggage.

The buses in Spain are also generally excellent. My local operator, Alsa, has a great app where you can book a seat for yourself and add a pet at the same time. I'd assume Renfe's system is just as straightforward.

Conclusion

So, there you have it. While you might not be able to fly directly to your final destination, the Iberia network makes it very likely you can get to a major Spanish hub. From there, the excellent train network can get you the rest of the way.

You can check out flights on the Iberia website and trains on the Renfe website.

Good luck, and enjoy taking your furry friend to Spain on your next trip!

*Chorkie: A Yorkshire Terrier Chihuahua cross.

When you're working on a bike, having the official exploded parts diagram can be a lifesaver. It's often difficult to find these online, so I'm posting this here for my own reference and to help anyone else who might be searching for it.

This diagram covers the Cannondale Canvas Neo, Tesoro Neo, and X-Trail Neo models. It includes all the small frame fixtures and fittings, along with their official part numbers, which is incredibly useful when ordering spares.

I'll admit it. Years back, when e-bikes first started appearing, I was one of those cyclists who said, "that's cheating." In my defence, I was riding 100-mile sportives and mountain biking a lot at the time. It doesn't excuse a daft opinion, but there you go!

Fast forward a decade, and things have changed. I'm now in my mid-50s, working from home, and while I'm still fit, my health has had a few setbacks. I also no longer own a car. I can borrow my wife's, but as a reluctant driver living in the sticks with no public transport, a quick trip for a pint of milk can become a two-hour affair on foot.

The obvious solution was an e-bike, but the insane cost always put me off, especially as I'd never even ridden one.

However, one day I spotted a Cannondale Canvas Neo in XL on clearance at a client's shop. It seemed perfect: a big, strong frame with a long wheelbase for stability and clearance for fat tyres and mudguards. A few calls later, I'd scored a great deal. The dealer was delighted to get rid of it because nobody liked the colour (I loved it!).

After getting lost by the carrier for two weeks, the biggest, heaviest box I'd ever seen arrived unannounced at the door. My e-bike had landed.

First Ride & Modifications

A few hours later it was built, and the first test ride was done. The immediate reaction?

"My God, this thing is fun!"

For someone who has ridden performance bikes their whole life, e-bikes really put the fun back into just riding. On that first day, I took it for a 20-mile spin around a regular route. Instead of getting kitted out in lycra, I just went in my jeans and a hoodie. It was a blast! I got back faster than usual, only slightly sweaty, and with a huge smile on my face.

For those who haven't ridden one, e-bikes don't have a throttle. You have to pedal, and the motor "assists" you based on the mode you've selected. In "Turbo" mode, it can feel like a gentle, constant push up the steepest of hills.

The great thing about a heavy e-bike is that adding more weight doesn't matter much. I've kitted it out with mudguards, a rear rack, and bags for day-to-day use, turning it into my sole means of transport.

Modifications and Upgrades

Since getting the bike, I've made a few key changes to make it even more capable. The most significant of these was the upgrade to the Bosch Kiox display from the basic Purion unit, which gave me access to a ton more data and features.

So, Is It Cheating?

There's still a big school of thought that says e-bikes are cheating. From a purist's perspective, if you're on a club run and getting a helping hand from a motor, then yes, you're cheating yourself and others. But it's less of an advantage than you might think.

I've done rides of the same duration over similar terrain on both my road bike and my e-bike. On average, my heart rate on the road bike is only about 10bpm higher. The difference in actual effort is surprisingly small.

But let's put that nonsense aside and look at e-bikes not through the eyes of a blinkered cyclist, but those of a regular person.

For 99% of people, the "cheating" issue is irrelevant. Most new e-bike owners haven't ridden a bike in decades. The promise of assistance to get up the hills is what gets them back in the saddle.

The fact you don't arrive at your destination hot, sweaty, and looking like a Tour de France reject means people are finally using them as genuine car replacements. And that's a good thing for everyone, especially car drivers, because one more e-bike on the road means one less car in the traffic jam ahead of them.

It's not cheating; it's just a smarter, healthier, and infinitely more fun way to get around.

You can see more pictures in the Bikes Gallery.