I’m a 27-year-old guy, and honestly, I never thought I was missing a motorcycle—until February 2024, when I bought my first one: the Royal Enfield Meteor 350. Since then, I’ve been to quite a few places on it, but this was my first solo trip.
So, what motivated me? Not to sound cliché, but I had this urge to understand who I really am. After reading multiple blogs and watching a bunch of videos, the most common advice was: “Go on a solo trip.” So, I packed my stuff and booked a hotel just a day before leaving.
I’ll try to keep this informative too, so here’s what I packed:
Package Details:
- First aid kit
- Basic bike tool kit (spanner, chain lube)
- Luggage strap
- Clothes for 3 days
- Some snacks
- Power banks
The D-day arrived. I left Mumbai at 4 AM. Rode for about 3 hours with three short breaks—mainly because I was struggling with the straps. By the third stop, I finally figured out the proper way to secure them.
My next stop was at a petrol pump, and from there, I started taking breaks every 1.5 to 2 hours. Early morning was filled with fog and low visibility—but I loved being that close to nature. Later in the morning, as the fog cleared, I wished I had a more powerful engine. The highest speed I could manage was 110 km/h, and the open road was asking for more.
I reached Ratnagiri around 12 PM—an 8-hour ride in total.
Stay:
I booked my hotel through Agoda. The place was Shanti Grand, and I got it for ₹800 per night for 2 nights.
Day 1:
I checked in to the hotel around 12:30-1, had a wonderful sleep in a AC room for 3 hours.
At around 4, I woke gently, feeling unburdened. I took the bike and made my way to Mandavi Beach. The sun was beginning its descent, casting long golden shadows across the shoreline. I sat quietly with a few simple snacks, and in that tranquil solitude, I encountered something surprisingly profound.
There is a common question people ask—mountains or beaches? In the past, I might have said both, an attempt at balance, diplomacy perhaps. But in that moment, with the rhythmic sound of the waves and the quiet presence of the sea, something inside me settled. It was not both. It was the beach. And the following day, when I visited Bhatye Beach, that truth grew roots in me.
When the sun had finally slipped below the horizon, I found myself at Thiba Point. It hadn’t been part of some grand itinerary—just the result of idle searching, a curiosity sparked by proximity. Among the many names that surfaced, this one felt quietly inviting.
The place held a dignified monument of Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj, standing firm and noble against the falling light. Surrounding it was a thoughtfully maintained garden, complete with fountains that sang softly into the breeze—an obvious destination for families, laughter, and shared moments.
And yet, despite being alone, or perhaps because of it, I found something of my own there. I stood at a height, facing the statue as the wind rushed past me—not fierce, but purposeful. I wasn’t there for entertainment, but for stillness. And in that moment, as the wind teased loose thoughts from my head, I understood that solitude does not always seek silence—it seeks a setting. And this, in its quiet majesty, was just right.
I called it a day and made my way to a local restaurant—one that had gained quiet fame among those who knew Ratnagiri well. Being a non-vegetarian, and more importantly, being in a coastal town where the air itself seems to carry the scent of the sea, there was no question of skipping the fish thali. It was homely, gentle on the stomach—comforting in the way food is when it’s made without pretense. Somewhere between the first bite and the quiet satisfaction that followed, I discovered something small but true: I had always told myself I preferred chicken, easy and predictable. But that night, with the delicate fish on my plate, I realized I had simply misunderstood myself. I do love fish—just not the kind that demands a map to navigate its bones.
Day 2:
I woke early around 6:30 am, and set off toward Jaigad—some 30 kilometers from Ratnagiri—drawn not just by the destination, but by the quiet promise of starting the day with intention. The Vinayak Temple stood there, serene and unbothered by time. I hadn’t planned for it, but I arrived just as the morning arti began.
Only three or four others were present. The stillness felt sacred, the kind that doesn’t need grand crowds to feel meaningful. I sat there in silence, not seeking anything grand—just trying to notice what I often miss. And in that ordinary moment, I felt unexpectedly blessed.
The God himself
While en route, I stumbled upon a beach so vacant it felt as though the world had momentarily withdrawn, leaving it solely to me. There were no voices, no footsteps in the sand but mine. For a brief and quiet span of time, I owned it—not in the possessive sense, but in the way one owns a feeling that belongs wholly to the present. I sat there, undisturbed, until the sun grew bold enough to suggest it was time to move on.
The next stop was Ganpatipule—one of the most revered temples in the region and a name that features prominently on every list of Ratnagiri’s must-visit sites. But beyond its touristic allure, there was a quiet rhythm to the place, a sense of devotion.
I spent the afternoon at my hotel, indulging in the quiet luxury that solo travel affords—the freedom to choose rest without guilt, to pause without negotiation. Around 4 pm, I set off for Ratnadurg Fort. There, standing amidst ancient stone walls, I was greeted by a sweeping ocean view that seemed to slow down time. The fort whispered stories of valour and solitude, and I lingered just long enough to feel part of that stillness. I then rode towards the lighthouse, just 2 km ahead—only to find it closed for maintenance, a quiet reminder that not all journeys end in fulfilment. But the day had one last chapter—Bhatye Beach, where the sun, once again, dipped with grace, closing my day with the same calm with which it had begun.
Day 3:
I visited the Aare Ware beach early morning, enjoyed the stillness and left for Mumbai.
Cost
- Petrol: 2k
- Stay: 2k
- Food: 2k
- Challan (Unfortunately) -> 1k
As I watched the waves dissolve into twilight on these Beachecs, I felt a quiet sense of completion—not just of a journey, but of a conversation with myself. This solo trip wasn’t about ticking places off a list, but about learning how to be alone without being lonely, how to sit in silence and still feel full. Somewhere between winding coastal roads and unexpected moments of stillness, I found not answers, but clarity—the kind that doesn’t demand action, only awareness.
Travel, I realized, doesn’t always change who you are. Sometimes, it just reminds you of the parts you’ve forgotten to notice. And that reminder, carried home in the dust on your boots and the salt in your hair, is enough.