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The hostility towards Vinicius is real – and it has names, dates, and court sentences.

He has been insulted in stadiums across Spain. He has testified in trials after a black mannequin wearing his shirt was hung from a bridge.

He has seen fans being sanctioned with suspended sentences for racist abuse in Valencia and Mallorca, largely thanks to LaLiga’s efforts to ensure those actions do not remain unpunished within a judicial culture that long treated football’s “industrial” language and “banter” with indulgence.

And yet, each time he reacts – pointing to the stands, asking referees to act, refusing to pretend it didn’t happen – the same voices reappear: “Yes, they insult him, but he should behave better.”

It’s as if his protest and his provocation didn’t come from the same place. His gestures, his anger, his resistance all emerge from living in a context that demands he smile while being insulted.

To be a black footballer is to play under constant scrutiny in Spain. Every movement becomes evidence in a cultural trial. Every expression is judged through a gaze that demands docility.

Spanish football insists it isn’t racist, and maybe that’s part of the problem. The bias isn’t shouted; it’s whispered through commentary, coded in tone.

That’s Vinicius’ existence: being himself while constantly measured by someone else’s comfort.

This fight happens every weekend, in stadiums and studios alike. His dance is joy, but also defiance. His anger is not petulance – it’s protection.

Spain’s moral code still confuses composure with virtue. It rewards the player who remains calm, who never challenges the crowd, who fits the image of the polite star. But that code was built in a football world that no longer exists.

Today’s players are not silent idols. They are global citizens, performers, brands, and sometimes activists. Visibility is a tool. Vinicius understands that his presence and his defiance carry meaning.

Yet, instead of recognising that courage, much of the public reads it as provocation. He isn’t misunderstood because he behaves badly; he’s misunderstood because his existence unsettles old certainties about who gets to define respect.

He also represents something else – the transformation of the footballer into a public narrative. The modern player doesn’t just play; he builds identity through social media, sponsorships, personal branding.

Lamine Yamal’s birthday celebration – luxury, lights, spectacle – is a sign of that new world. His display can be read as authenticity, an embrace of modern fame.

Vinicius, however, is treated differently. He is loud, but his noise has purpose.

He stands at the crossroads of football, race, and modern celebrity – a figure both sociological and sporting.

He’s not just a winger; he’s a symbol of a new generation of athletes who refuse to shrink themselves to fit into someone else’s comfort.

Vinicius Junior doesn’t need to change for Spain to understand him. Spain needs to change to understand itself.

‘Wake naturally. Ride bikes. Wild camp.” I’m in Perthshire on a three-day bikepacking trip – cycling with all my gear – and this is my itinerary for the day. For an endlessly calendar-checking parent of three, the simplicity of this schedule is almost dizzying. I feel like a child with my summer holiday stretching out ahead of me.

Comrie Croft Journeys is a new initiative from eco-camping and mountain-biking destination Comrie Croft, started by experienced mountain bike instructor Emily Greaves. The off-grid cycling adventures aim to immerse visitors in Scotland’s wild landscapes while providing everything they need, from food to equipment. Guests can choose to be self-guided or led – and I’m heading out with Emily to explore on a mountain bike for the first time in my adult life.

The croft is set across quiet woodland and bucolic meadows and I arrive early to explore the onsite organic market garden Tomnah’a and enjoy a hearty mixed grain bowl with roast root vegetables and local Wee Comrie cheese at Gorse cafe. I’ve driven here, but for the ultimate emission-avoiding trip, it’s possible to get the train to Gleneagles from Edinburgh or London, then be picked up in the Croft’s electric car.

Before we hit the trails, Emily puts me through my paces with a mountain-biking lesson on the gravel pump track. We’re cycling for three days and everything we need – clothes, food, camping stove, tent, sleeping bags and mat – has to be strapped to our bikes. Beside me a French family is getting set up for a self-guided adventure. Emily has planned their route, pre-loaded on a GPX device with detailed trip notes, and prepped their bikes and equipment. I thought I’d packed light, but most of my clothes are soon in a discard pile. “You need clothes to cycle in, warm layers to sleep in, and waterproofs – that’s it,” Emily says.

Fully laden we head off, uphill through ancient woodland and the pretty village of Comrie, then on to rough farm tracks heading into the hills. Tonight’s destination is a youth hostel, a last-minute change due to thundery weather. Bikepacking doesn’t always have to mean camping – many long-distance cyclists combine camping with stays at hostels and even hotels. It’s about enjoyment, not endurance, or “smiles not miles”, as Emily puts it.

Today’s ride is 20 miles (32km), taking in 520 metres of ascent. It’s an intentionally gentle start, but for me still pretty challenging, as I get to grips with my cycling position, descending on loose gravel, and learning to trust the bike. We pass through fields of sheep, splash through little streams, slowly gaining height over the lower slopes of Carn Labhruinn and Meall Odhar. By the time we descend towards Callander, the clouds darken, obscuring the mountain tops, and heavy rain soaks in the seams of my jacket: I’m delighted not to be putting up a tent. At Callander Hostel, run by a local social enterprise, we stay in a cosy pod in the garden (from £81), dry our soggy clothes, and sleep deeply.

Day two is our longest in the saddle, with 44 miles to cover. Emily, sensibly, doesn’t tell me the ascent until later (it’s 1,020 metres). We set out in high spirits, fuelled by egg and haggis rolls from Mhor Bread in Callander.

We’re riding through Loch Lomond and the Trossachs national park, an area I’ve often driven through but never stopped to fully appreciate – I’ve been missing out. With mountains aplenty, peaceful lochs and glens, and a well-connected network of paths and trails, there’s so much to explore. Emily’s well-designed route takes us along some quiet single-track roads, but is mostly off-road, on gravel tracks through heathery glens, forestry plantations and native woodland, and on winding lochside paths through the bracken.

We pedal along the quiet side of Loch Venachar before joining the Three Lochs Forest Drive, a rough track that links Loch Drunkie, Lochan Reòidhte, and Loch Achray. It’s hilly, but I’m getting to love the calf-burning push of a long uphill, and the thrill of the downhill too. At Aberfoyle, we stop at Liz MacGregors coffee shop for lemon drizzle cake. “You have to keep your energy up,” Emily says. She has completed many long-distance cycles, including the epic Highland Trail 550, often named one of Scotland’s toughest off-road cycling races. If she says it’s time to eat cake, I’m only too happy to agree.

After a rugged stretch along forestry tracks past pretty Loch Chon, we reach the head of Loch Katrine, where we have the option to catch the Steamship Sir Walter Scott, which takes daytrippers the length of the loch (from £19 one way, £27 return). It’s tempting, but given steamships have been running on Loch Katrine for over 180 years, it seems safe to leave it for another day. Today is all about the bikes, and I don’t want to miss a moment. Later we pitch tents by the shores of Loch Achray, with just a slight dance with the midges until the breeze returns. We collect water, heat up instant meals on our camp stoves, and drink in the views of Ben A’an and Ben Venue.

In the morning, the loch shimmers silver in the pale sunlight and Emily and I wade in for a beautifully refreshing swim, then warm up with bowls of porridge. The last day of cycling has come round all too soon, and it’s 37 miles back to Comrie, with a lunch stop at Mhor 84 in Balquhidder. The last stretch takes in Glen Finglas estate singletrack, a popular local cycling route along an undulating ridge. I’m loving feeling the power in my legs.

Back at Comrie Croft we’ve reserved seats at Nowhere Sauna (from £16), one of the 12 micro-businesses that operate at the croft. Tucked into a quiet corner of woodland, it’s the perfect place to stretch and relax, interspersed with refreshing dunks in the icy tin bath. From here, it’s a short walk uphill for a decidedly more luxurious evening, at the croft’s newly opened cabin. Joining the site’s camping pitches, Nordic katas (conical, tipi-like tents) and its eco-lodge hostel, the handbuilt wooden cabin is a beautiful hideaway for two adults (plus a child or two on a convertible sofa, if you must). With a wood-burning stove, full kitchen, mezzanine bedroom and big private deck, it’s likely to be popular with onsite weddings and honeymooners. Tonight it’s all mine, and even better, local deli Hansen’s Kitchen has dropped me off supper, including local beers and a lasagne made with vegetables from the market garden. I sit out on the deck until the first stars appear, resting my tired legs and soaking in the scenery, reflecting on an incredible few days.

The cycling trip and accommodation were provided by Comrie Croft and Comrie Croft Journeys. Bikepacking trips are bespoke; a three-day, two-night trip, including route planning and all gear costs from £295pp, excluding bike rental . Rooms at the eco-lodge from £5opp pn; the cabin sleeps two from £250 a night (two-night minimum)

BANK Holiday revellers donned fancy dress at the booze-fuelled Otley Run as they kicked off celebrations for the three-day weekend.

Hundreds of rowdy drinkers took to the streets in their best and brightest for the famous pub crawl with pals.

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The booze trail is seen as a rite of passage for many and happens multiple times a year attracting thousands.

James Bond, Ginger Spice and the Fantastic Four were all out in force as they trekked all 17 venues on the trail.

The iconic Otley Run starts at Woodies pub in Far Headingly and finishes at The Dry Dock at the edge of Leeds city centre.

The aim of the game is to have a drink in each of the 17 pubs along the way.

One group of girls were all spotted wearing bridal gowns and wedding dresses

While another group donned cowboy hats and colourful dresses for the West Yorkshire drinkathon.

Another girl was even snapped all smiles in a toothpaste tube outfit.

The lads were also dressed up for the Bank Holiday bonanza as James Bond and The Joker with others wrapped in St George flags wielding swords as English knights.

Others were kitted out in lederhosen with one even spotted with a traffic cone on his head – but that might just be the booze talking.

Pirates, princesses and policewomen alike were also spotted in the excited crowds as they enjoyed the three-day weekend.

Participants begin at Woodies before swilling snifters at 15 other watering holes during the challenge, which takes place several times a year.

Drinkers sip a final brew at the aptly named Dry Dock – a narrow boat-turned-pub.

The list of boozers you’re supposed to stop at has changed over the last few years but still stands at 17 strong.

Punters are tasked with a drink at every stop in their best fancy dress with themes ranging from the simple to the outlandish.

It’s particularly popular among students and locals in Leeds and is often a vibrant and chaotic journey through some of the city’s most beloved watering holes.

Revellers often opt for superheroes, animals, or film characters but, honestly, anything goes.

It can often make for hilarious encounters as multiple themes and characters all mingle in one pub.

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