I pump my fist as I cross the River Sark. The M6 becomes the A74(M). England becomes Scotland. The car behind me honks in support of my celebration. Scotland is one of those Mecca places for an American – as with Ireland, almost all of us claim to have originated here – and this is the first time I’ve made it this far north in almost eight years of living in the UK.

Rolling down the ferry ramp into Spain I couldn’t tell whether I was still drunk or just profoundly hungover. It was 6.30pm, I’d lost the receipt I’d scribbled my directions on, had no map, euros, mobile coverage, petrol or Spanish. So began my trip, scrabbling around Santander in fading light, trying to find a hostel that was always only 100ft from the port I’d arrived at. It was four hours later when a friendly elderly couple took charge and guided me to the door on foot.

Bear Grylls is leaning against a dry-stone wall munching an apple, England’s green, rolling fields stretching to the horizon before him. The beautiful setting might not hold the adrenalin charge of Death Valley, the jungle or the Australian Outback, but that matters little to one of Britain’s best known adventurers.