Walking Dinas Head, Pembrokeshire

A short but stunning walk around the coastline of Dinas Head following the Wales Coast Path, with great views out to sea and of nesting seabirds, before returning via a flat, tarmac path through sheltered woodland.

Activity type: Walk (but it would also make a fun trail run)

Distance: 3 miles approximately

Elevation: 169 metres (554 feet) of climbing (see Strava elevation for full profile)

Accessibility: No styles, some sections are reasonably steep and have steps (see walk notes at the end for more info.)

Route type: Circular

Start/finish point: Car park at Cwm-yr-Eglwys, Pembrokeshire.

Click View on Strava to check out the route and download the GPX file of the walk here.

The steep road narrowed as we drove down into Cwm-yr-Eglwys, meaning Valley Church. The lane felt even more claustrophobic driving in late June as the hedgerow greenery leaned inwards until it touched the van on both sides. It reminded me a little of watching those Tour de France cyclists riding through an ever-narrowing tunnel of bodies on their exhausting Alpine ascents.

It was early on a Monday morning, still term time, so the car park was almost empty except for one or two cars. As soon as we stepped outside, two things immediately came to our attention, a cold wind whipping off the sea and what looked like some sort of monument. Or was it a church or chapel of some kind?

We donned a few extra layers – a shock to the system after such a warm day the day before – and dressed Lennie in his colourful new raincoat. Wandering past the inland boatyard with its small dinghies and the odd sailboat, the wind brought the familiar sounds of rippling cloth and the gentle clanging of buoy bells.

Behind the boats, a gate led us through into a graveyard and what was obviously then the remains of a small church, now just a single wall topped with a tiny belltower and weather vane. An information board informed us that this had once been St Brynach’s, a 12th-century church, but two storms in the mid-19th century had washed away firstly much of the graveyard and then, in the great Charter Storm of 1859, most of the church as well. Just a few feet beyond the church, a small stone wall separated it from a fabulous little beach, benches offering a tranquil spot to sit and stare out to sea from the tiny, rocky cove.

The scene was beautiful but also tinged with sadness, and the cold wind whipping in was a reminder that on worse days this narrow inlet would, and clearly had, acted as a funnel through which the wild weather reached the shore.

Reading up about the village, it seems many villagers abandoned the place after the great storm. In more recent times, the desire for holiday homes in picturesque spots such as this meant that only one or two of the houses were now owned by people who lived there. For all its sadness and challenges, it remained a place of unquestionable beauty.

Ferns as high as your head.

Follow the acorns.

Secret beaches perfect for pirates and smugglers.

All that climbing was tiring!

Views up top.

The path winds on.

I see the sea!

And more sea!

On the summit of Pen y Fan.

After exploring the church ruins, it was time to get going. The route was a fairly easy one, taking the Wales Coast Path up and all the way around the headland. All we need to do was look for the familiar acorn signs that you’ll find on all national trails and walk.

The climb started instantly as we left the village, weaving our way up through a sheltered gully with ferns higher than our heads lining the path on either side. Out of the wind and climbing continuously, we were soon too warm and the extra layers were quickly shed. Through gaps in the greenery we were treated to great views out beyond the cove to tiny, inaccessible beaches, the cliffs of the coastline snaking in and out into the distance, and beyond to the rugged hilltops of the Preseli Hills.

The climb was definitely worth it though. A few minutes later, we were up on open heathland, the ferns up here a more normal height, fronds tickling your kneecaps as you brushed by. From here we had a panoramic view out to sea and along the coastline. The path clung to the side of the hills and cliffs, although it looked as if it may have been moved inland once or twice over the years as the wind and salt water had satiated its appetite for land, nibbling its way steadily into Wales.

A little way along, Needle Rock towered upwards just a few metres out to sea. The stack was inhabited by thousands of nesting gulls and black and white sea birds, possibly razorbills or guillemots. A lack of binoculars and ornithology skills means I can’t confirm which. It could well have been both. The noise was deafening, the seabirds cackling like a coven of witches as we trod the path carefully towards the rock.

The birds nesting and chatting up on Needle Rock.

Past Needle Rock, the path continued to climb until we reached the summit and the furthest point of the headland at Pen y Fan. At 142 metres it’s not quite as high as its famous mountain cousin of the same name in the Brecon Beacons (now known by their traditional Welsh name, Bannau Brycheiniog), but it still offers fantastic views eastwards back towards Needle Rock, which now, from above, looks more like a tiny pimple, and west across Fishguard Bay to its eponymous ferry port. (Pen y Fan, by the way, means something along the lines of ‘top of this place’, hence why you’ll find quite a few of them around Wales.)

The descent to Pwllgaelod began gently but became steeper as the path wore down into the earth until we were walking on the jagged bedrock. An array of flowers added colour to the journey, thrift; vetch; scabious; clover; heather; and plenty more I didn’t know.

Pwllgwaelod is another cracking little cove with a great beach, pub/cafe and toilets if you fancy some refreshments after your efforts. From here, it’s a short and easy walk back along a flat, tarmac path that tucks behind Dinas Island through an ancient wet woodland. I wondered if this marshy area was once much wetter and effectively cut off the headland, making it an island of sorts, hence its often-used alternative name.

We were soon back in Cwm-yr-Eglwys, completing the circle feeling satisfied but peckish, so we jumped in the van and headed up the coast into Cardigan to find some lunch. By the time we returned, the car park was full, proving that, even outside of holiday time, the early bird catches the parking space.

Walk notes

• The road down to Cwm-yr-Eglwys is steep and very narrow. Parking was £5 via an honesty box but there were public toilets and what looked like a little kiosk that might sell drinks and ice creams. It was closed when we were there though. Having researched a little more since our walk, it appears that the car park at Pwllgwaelod on the other side of the headland is currently free of charge. With the toilets and pub/cafe, you might find it much better to start the loop from that side and finish with some well-earned refreshments.

• The path is steep and with several steps out of Cwm-yr-Eglwys. Up on the headland, it gets narrow in sections with some big drops off the cliff edge, so care is required. Sections on the other side of the headland to/from Pwllgwaelod are also steep and uneven in parts.

Further reading

• Read more about the history of the church and its destruction by the storms of the 1850s.

• Camping on Dinas Island.

Searching for the mouth of the Frome: An adventure in 60 minutes

The choir were in full voice as we left the house in the soft morning light. Sparrows, robins, blackbirds, blue tits, and many more that I don’t (yet) have the skilful ear to pick out. One day, hopefully.

To our right, the sky lit up pink over the southern tips of the Cotswold Hills as we drove into Bristol – like a giant bowl of Angel Delight. It was 5:30 am and the sun was already peeking out over the horizon. A clear sign that British summertime has arrived, in daylight terms at least.

Increasing temperatures are sure to follow but, as I wished Lou goodbye for an hour whilst she took her final PT session before going on maternity leave, the air was crisp and chill.

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I had already set aside those 60 minutes for a short adventure, a quest to seek out the mouth of the River Frome. Hardly an adventure to rival Livingstone or Speke’s quest for the source of the Nile, but one I’ve been keen to put to bed for some time.

I’ve walked and run the length of the Frome on a number of occasions. I’ve picnicked at the very spot where it emerges from the earth – revealing itself as a tiny stream next to an old oak tree on the western escarpment of the Cotswolds in the large Dyson country estate – the trickle of water clear enough to fill your bottle from.

I’ve followed it as it meanders Bristol-bound, at times a millpond, a swamp, or a raging whitewater as it crashes this way and that over jumbles of boulders in narrow, steep-sided gorges. I’ve hugged its contours as it rolls into suburbia and through the beauty of our old backyard, before being tamed by mankind in its later stretches. Long abandoned quarries and mills reveal its industrial past but now, foliage grows wild and free, deer quench their thirst in the early morning, herons wade slow-motion in the shallows, and a blur of orange and blue tells you that a kingfisher has just darted its way upstream.

As it enters Bristol, humankind’s attempts to tame it are evident. After the beauty of Oldbury Court Estate, Snuff Mills, and Eastville Park, the river oxbows around the edge of Tesco and Ikea before being imprisoned below the concrete pillars of the M32.

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It reappears again briefly on what was presumably once a little country lane, now a pedestrian and cycle route into the city centre just a stone’s throw from the motorway. It’s here that I pick it up, the coots calling out as they gracefully weave their way in between old trolleys and tyres. Following the route of the river with my eye, I see the office towers of the city bathed in golden light as the sun makes it mark on the world for the first time that day. Or on our bit of the world at least.

A short way along the river enters a tunnel underneath the city but the path stays above ground. After crossing the road, I pick up River Street, so I know the waters are still flowing somewhere beneath my feet, imprisoned by a wall of bricks and concrete.

At the end of River Street, I cross the usually busy main road, still quiet before the rush hour hum, and enter a deserted Cabot Circus shopping centre. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a zombie apocalypse movie, the only sound and movement from the occaional pigeon or seagull. There’s a strange beauty to this cityscape that’s amplified by the lack of activity. The sharp edges of the towering buildings. The vast quantities of plate glass, still inky black as the sun hasn’t yet penetrated this manmade gorge. The dark glass stands in stark contrast to the bright neon lights of the shop signs that do their job by drawing your eye, although I couldn’t shop if I wanted to as the world is yet to join me in this cathedral of commercialism.

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I exit the shopping centre, the only sign of life a lone street cleaning cart, whirring away and momentarily breaking the silence. The modern buildings are occasionally interspersed with delightful titbits of history, the architectural joy that is the Klosterhaus cafe, housed in an 18th century Quaker meeting room, and the grand colonial-style almshouse that now houses Jack Wills clothing rather than those in need of shelter.

Before long, I’m in the green surroundings of Castle Park and the noise of the street cleaner has faded into the distance. I’ve been here before when I’ve started my Frome River walks and runs, but I’ve never seen its final moments of existence before it ceases to be and its molecules of water are magically transformed in an instant into the River Avon.

I wander through the ruins of St Peter’s Church, bombed during the Second World War and now surrounded by a beautifully maintained flower garden with water features and benches that serve as a great spot for quiet contemplation or just a morning coffee. Past the last remaining foundation stones that once formed part of the great castle that once stood here and give the park its name, and the more impressive vaulted chambers tucked away in a corner behind a small green knoll.

I know I’m close and I make my way down to the waterside, standing on a pontoon underneath the impressive modern architecture of the serpent-like Castle Bridge, a recent addition to lead pedestrians off into a refurbished industrial quarter now brimming with apartments, micro-breweries, and restaurants.

A few more people are appearing now, smartly dressed early starters slowly filing into the surrounding offices. I look for evidence of the river that once acted as one side of the castle moat but all I can see are a few little inlets that seem to go nowhere.

Running out of time and thinking that the final few feet of this river that I know so well will once more elude me, I start to head back. Leaving the park on the far side, my eye is drawn to what looks like the side of a bridge. I’ve walked the street many times before and never noticed it. It’s not an obvious bridge, in that it doesn’t have two sides and you can’t see under it. Like River Street, it’s now covered in tarmac and tall buildings, including an apartment block promoting its five-storey indoor climbing wall in big letters. It was probably once a bridge, but now you could miss it if you walked past it a hundred times (like I had).

I peer over the edge of the chest-high brick wall and there a few feet below me is a narrow channel of water leading out for thirty feet or so into the Avon. The water is still and full of branches and dog balls. It’s not a grand discovery, but my adventure feels complete. The water I can see has made it all the way here from deep inside the rocks of the Cotswold Hills or from one of the many small streams that feed in along the way. I have now shared its journey and feel a strange sense of completeness.

I wander back to the PT studio, content in the fact that I’ve been on an adventure in less than 60 minutes and before I’m normally even out of bed. The sun is far above the horizon now and Bristol has come to life with people and traffic. I wonder how many people will walk over or past this once beautiful river today and have no inkling that it continues to fulfil its destiny, flowing slowly through the darkness beneath their feet.

P.S. I’ve since discovered that the new apartment block I mentioned – Castle Park View – has made a feature of the river that flows beneath it, incorporating it into a lit path through its central courtyard. It appears that there remains a section of the river for me to explore!

To see all of the images I took on my morning walking adventure, click here.

Going roamin' with Romans: Preparations and our equipment list for walking Hadrian's Wall

With just a few days to go until we’re off on our coast to coast walking adventure, following the 84-mile long Hadrian’s Wall, I thought I’d share a little bit about our planning for the trip.

The former defensive stronghold and customs post runs from its eastern limit at Wallsend (no prizes for guessing where that name originated) in Newcastle upon Tyne, to Bowness-on-Solway in the west.

Decisions

Before anything else, we had to decide how we were going to travel and sleep. Were we going to head west to east, or east to west? Would we camp or use hotels and B&Bs? And, how long did we want to take?

Looking through various web pages and guidebooks, starting at Newcastle and heading west seemed the favoured route. Why? Because the Newcastle section is fairly built up and it seems, understandably, some people find finishing in a city a bit of an anti-climax. It feels more adventurous to leave civilisation and head off into the wilds. We also know from experience that it can be quite hard to adjust back to a life surrounded by other humans after being out on the trails for a while. So we knew where we would begin and end. Now to work out how to travel between those two points.

Camping would probably always be our preference. It’s more adventurous, you’re much better connected with nature and the environment around you, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper too! That said, we knew we were going to be setting off fairly late season and camping means carrying a lot more weight in your bags. We also knew that whilst this was supposed to be an adventure, it was also our main holiday of the year and we had to strike the right balance between challenge and relaxation.

In the end, we went for a mix of traditional B&Bs and AirBnB. Less grandiose than some of the lovely hotels we’d seen along the way, but considerably closer to our preferred budget, whilst providing the comfort that would enable us to make it a holiday and not simply a test of physical endurance. Please forgive us if you feel that our decision isn’t in keeping with the spirit of true adventurers. We believe that adventure can and should be for everyone and that it’s up to each person to decide how far they want to push themselves.

Our final decision. How much yomping to do each day? We’ve done a fair number of hikes between 10 and 13 miles this year with Lou’s mum whilst ticking off legs of the Cotswold or Mendip Ways, so we figured pushing up to an average of 14 miles wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. 84 miles, the total distance of the wall, divided beautifully evenly into six days of 14 miles (although some will be around 10 or 11, whilst others will be more like 15).

What to take with us?

With no camping on route, we could obviously ditch the tent, sleeping bags, inflatable roll mats and pillows (much to the gratitude of our shoulders). Having never done more than a couple of days of hiking back-to-back before though, we thought we’d check out a few blogs and websites to see what was suggested. Here’s a link to a blog post I came across with a fairly thorough kit list:

What To Take On A Day Hike In The UK? (+ What NOT To Take) - Becky the Traveller

And, after much consideration, here’s our final list of essentials for the trip:

• Hiking boots - good quality, waterproof ones that combine comfort with decent ankle support.

• Rucksacks - we had to head out and get some new gear for this. I had a rucksack that is perfect for day hikes, but just too small for multiple days on the trail, whilst Lou had a giant rucksack that we just didn’t need (unless she was intending on carrying me)! In the end, I opted for this 35-45-litre one from Go Outdoors.

• Walking poles - for a little extra power.

• A pair of shorts and a pair of trousers. I have the ones that zip off at the knee for added flexibility and to lighten the load.

• 2 x technical t-shirts to reduce sweating.

• A long-sleeved top (one of my many ‘you didn’t get into the London Marathon this year’ ones.

• Waterproof jackets and trousers - being wet and cold is miserable and, as we’re headed to the north of England, we are taking no chances!

• Smartwatches - partly to track the distances, but also because they give us portable compasses if needed too.

• Smartphones with the OS maps app - I pay £24 a year to get access to OS maps for the whole of Britain on my app. I can add the app to multiple devices and, best of all, pre-plan routes and download them to use offline in case there’s no signal. An absolute bargain!!! Plus, the phones are our cameras for the trip so that we can share our beautiful adventure with you.

• First aid kit - just one of the little portable ones with bandages, plasters and scissors.

• Emergency bivvy bag and a whistle - because it’s always best to be prepared.

• Suntan lotion, after sun, and chaff cream - comfort is everything.

• Baseball cap and woolly hat - welcome to Britain!

• Thin gloves and waterproof gloves - cold, wet hands aren’t fun.

• Pants and socks, including waterproof socks - and neither are cold, wet feet!

• Snacks - flapjacks, Trek bars, fruit, crisps, or whatever takes our fancy for the day ahead.

• One outfit for evening wear with a light pair of shoes - because tonight’s pub won’t know I wore it yesterday too! ;-)

• Roman Centurion outfit - too much???

I considered taking head torches and a portable charging kit but, when I checked out the route, I could see that we’re never too far from a road and the lengths of the days mean we should be done long before darkness. I’ll probably pop them in anyway because I’d rather carry a few more pounds worth of kit and be prepared for any eventuality.

If you think we’re missing anything vital, feel free to pop a comment below. It’s always good to have a little reminder. :-) Wish us luck!!!

Cycling the infamous Kirkstone Pass

Here are the pictures from our climb up the wonderful Kirkstone Pass during our adventure. Ten kilometres up to an altitude of 1,489 feet (454 metres), with a pleasant average gradient of around 4 per cent, but tougher sections at 12-13 per cent.

This is the longest route up the climb, but there’s always ‘The Struggle’ for those of you who fancy a tougher challenge. Gradients up to 25 per cent will definitely leave you feeling like you’ve earned a drink when you reach the Kirkstone Pass Inn at the top!

Lake Windermere

Lunch by the lake before we take on the famous climb.

Last glimpse

Our last views of Windermere. Next stop Ullswater.

A steep start.

The B-road from Troutbeck Bridge immediately kicks up through the trees .

Into the light.

But the climb is instantly worth it for the views.

Village life

We pass through some beautiful old villages, full of white painted stone cottages and quaint little pubs.

Back on the main road

And the gradient kicks again.

Mountains ahead

England’s green and pleasant (if rather hilly) land.

Full steam ahead

Lou powering up the road after a quick photo stop.

I can see my house from here

Well, not quite, but the views stretch for miles.

An easier bit

The gradient relents, but still we climb.

Poser!

Me proving I cycled up too and didn’t just sit in a car taking photos.

Up we go again

The road kicks once more.

And again

Ok, maybe twice more.

And we're there

Lou pauses for a photo in front of the famous Kirkstone Pass Inn.

Fancy a pint?

A very kind cyclist offers to buy us both a drink, thinking we’re taking on the same challenge as him. We’re not allowed inside the pub of course (due to COVID), but at least the sun is shining.

Wow!

The view over the other side. Downhill all the way to Ullswater now.

And we're down.

The lush green valley on the way into Ullswater, where we’ll be enjoying a rest day.

Not a bad view for dinner

Sat outside the pub, surrounded by mountains as the sun sets and we enjoy burger and chips, washed down with beer and wine (only one each of course!).

Lou's thoughts on our adventure, and her best pictures from 2,000 miles on the road

Between August and October, we took on the challenge of cycling around Britain’s National Parks and Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty. Due to the worsening of the virus, we had to cut it short at halfway with 2,000 miles and plenty of amazing memories in the bag. Here are Lou’s thoughts on our challenge (so far).

How much cycling had you done before you took on this challenge?

Not an awful lot to be honest. My mum and I did the C2C (Coast to Coast) together last year, which was about 170 miles over four days, and that’s the most cycling I’ve ever done on consecutive days. Aside from that, my daily commute to and from work, and the odd day out cycling from home (up to 50 miles or so) is about all I’ve done.

How confident were you on a bike before setting out on your adventure?

 

I’m fortunate to have a very beautiful bike that I feel pretty confident on, although I was very aware that our upcoming adventure would be very different to the cycling I was used to and challenge me in a number of ways.

In what ways were you challenged?

I think what made me most nervous was getting used to riding with panniers and an extra 20kg on the bike. Having never ridden with panniers or done much training, it was definitely a concern, especially as I’d only recent gotten used to riding with clip-in pedals and not falling off!

I’d also been diagnosed with a minor heart issue earlier this year. I have a small leak in one of my heart valves, and although the cardiologist wasn’t concerned about me taking on the challenge because I was fit and healthy, they’ve never fully gotten to the bottom of what’s going on. It was always in the back of my mind as I knew it seemed to affect my breathing most when I was out on the bike, especially on the hills. I knew it would frustrate me as I don’t struggle with the power needed to get up the steep climbs and never had problems with my breathing before I started to have symptoms last year. I guess I knew I was going to have to not let myself get annoyed by it.

What was it like?

Looking back on it; pretty epic! At the start, it was very much just taking things day-by-day, not looking at the big picture. And then one day, you look back and you’ve cycled 2000 miles. I think when you decide to take on a big challenge, it's hard to see what it looks like. When Paul asked me ‘shall we cycle 4000 miles around the UK?’ I think my response was ‘yea sure, why not’. Then 3 weeks later, we left. Sometimes that's the best way, just follow your heart and don't think too much.

What were the biggest day-to-day challenges during the ride?

Eating - it sounds daft, but we had to eat so often that it became a bit of a chore. We also found it hard to get much variety, being limited as to what we could carry on the bikes, and because the hotels and pubs were often serving limited menus due to COVID.

And the weather - we were unfortunate enough to set off on the first day of rain for a long time, and we barely had a day without a downpour for the first month. On some days, we’d be constantly putting on layers, only to have to stop to take them off again a few minutes later - it made it pretty slow-going. Then there was the wind - we experienced three or four big storms on the journey, and whilst we were often able to take another rest day and make it up, we had some incredibly strong headwinds and sidewinds. They were exhausting, and at times, pretty frightening on a bike.

What were your most memorable moments?

I have quite a few:

-        Sitting at the top of Malham Cove watching the sunrise. Paul and I were the only people there. It was magical and I'll never forget the feeling of being sat on the clifftop, staring out over the valley as the sun came up. I could have sat there, just the two of us, all day.

-        Seeing the Northern lights, a bucket list dream, on the eve of my birthday. I will feel eternally fortunate to have seen the beautiful ‘Mirrie Dancers’ from our amazing glamping wigwam hut

-        Cycling to Cape Wrath at the very northern end of Britain. A cycling experience like no other!

-        Pedalling over the Brecon Beacons in the rain, and Paul and I being the only two souls up there (apart from some curious sheep). It was breathtakingly beautiful, especially as the sun came out as reached the summit

- Getting to spend some time with my dad at the first rest stop. I hadn’t seen him all the way through lockdown and missed him so much

-        The many moments of kindness from strangers and some of the wonderful people we met along the way.

And your lowest point on the journey?

This was possibly on day 2, haha. We still had a lot to learn about how far to cycle and how long it would take us. We arrived at our destination at 10pm in the pitch black and pouring rain. While I struggled to put the tent up, Paul held his phone up so I could see what I was doing. I'm thankful to say that we didn't carry on how we started!

What would you do differently next time?

Pack less. The added weight on the bike definitely made things more challenging. It's safe to say we have very strong legs for it, but less weight would have made life a little easier. I’ll be much more ruthless with what goes into the bags next time around.

What advice would you give to anyone who wanted to take on a challenge such as this?

Absolutely go for it! Be bold, be curious and have the courage to start. Be honest about why, listen to your body, be prepared to be flexible, and most of all enjoy the journey. Choose your own route and go at your own speed. Other than that, start local and pick a part of the country that appeals to you. Break the challenge down into smaller chunks: towns; villages; miles per day, or the overall goal can feel overwhelming. I'm confident that you wont regret setting off.

Do you think it was any different being a woman taking on the challenge?

It never actually crossed my mind. I guess I never think I can’t do something that a man can do. If Paul says he’s going to do something, I want to do it too (and better)!

Now that you’ve done such a big ride, do you feel any different as a cyclist?

I'm not sure I feel any different as a cyclist. I do, however, have a reinforced appreciation for the humble bicycle. It still amazes me how much more you get out of a journey by bike than by car; so much more detail, more wildlife, more freedom, more food (haha), more views. There is just something rather perfect about being on the road with two wheels. I think Ernest Hemingway sums it up nicely:

 “ It is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best. Since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through, as you can gain by riding a bicycle”

Pictures of Lou in action, or chillin’ in between all the hard work!

How many seconds is someone else's life worth to you? The problem with cycling on British roads.

It was mid-morning as we rode north on the Isle of Skye. The weather was changeable - a stiff side-wind meant we were already on full alert and we were expecting heavy rain. We’d made it onto the island the evening before, and now our goal for the day was to make it Shulista at its most northerly point, where we’d be spending a few days celebrating Lou’s birthday.

Skye is pretty limited when it comes to route options - we were taking the main road (in reality, the only road) north towards the island’s capital, Portree. Trust me, if there had been an alternative route, we’d have taken it - we always did. Around five miles along it began to get busier, but most drivers were patient and considerate, with plenty of passing opportunities on the long, straight single carriageway A-road.

Lou was riding behind me as a campervan approached from the rear, and there was a car coming towards us on the opposite side of the road too. There wasn’t room to overtake us, but I figured he’d just wait a few seconds then overtake, as it was easy to see there was nothing behind the car ahead. He didn’t though - he just kept on coming, not slowing in the slightest. He started to overtake Lou with only about 6 inches to spare; I could see the shock on the face of the driver coming the other way, mouth wide open as she moved into the small hard shoulder to make it through. Luckily, she squeezed past, but I could feel how close he was - the shadow of the giant hunk of metal quickly enveloping us both. Instinctively, I tried to push him out wider, waving my hand and moving out carefully to force him to move over, especially as the road in the other direction was now clear. He maintained his path, nearly brushing the bags on my bike as he went by, and even better than that, gesticulating wildly at me as he did so and then disappearing off into the distance.

I was furious - how could someone have so little respect for another life? How could those few seconds be so important, so vital that he was willing to risk the lives of two other human beings in order not to have even push the brake pedal? Another van drove past - this time a white van with a couple of workmen in. As they went by (giving plenty of space), they slowed, window down, to inform me that they’d be reporting the incident and the driver to the police. In that moment, all of our experiences on the ride were boiled down to the two vehicles that had just passed us - one who had patience and consideration; the other who was literally willing to risk killing us to gain a few precious seconds.

Whilst that was closest we came to danger, almost every day people would pass us way too closely, overtake us on blind bends, race past us only to pull off onto a slip road moments later, drive within inches of our back wheel looking to overtake, never even consider braking as they approached us at speed, or my absolute favourite - slow down but then proceed to drive past ridiculously close, thinking it was fine because they’d pressed the brake. It is a very big problem indeed.

What’s going on?

Now of course, there’s plenty that could be done in terms of road design to fix this - high quality cycle paths running parallel to the road, regularly cleaned and resurfaced; plus changes to the Highway Code and legal framework. But there’s a much bigger, far more important underlying change that needs to take place - and that is in the attitude of drivers - of human beings towards other human beings. Many people need to start valuing the lives of others - to not do so whilst in charge of a huge hunk of fast-moving metal makes them, in my eyes, guilty of intent should anything go wrong.

Why are so many drivers so casual about the risks they take with others lives? I think there are a number of reasons. Firstly, the pace of the modern world and the stresses of daily life are often translated into how people act behind the wheel. Everything is done in a rush, there’s always so much going on, and cyclists on the road might just be stopping you getting where you need to be. I guess the question is, how many seconds is another person’s life worth? What do you think - 10, 20, 30, a whole minute, or would you give it at least 90 seconds before you thought it was worth risking killing someone?

You can of course get annoyed with my tone at this point. You can say that cyclists shouldn’t be allowed on the roads, but the law is very clear that they are, and that will not change. In fact, let’s face it, the bicycle is the future - it makes people healthier, it saves them money and most importantly, it saves our planet. The car, diesel, petrol, or even electric can’t do that.

You can also get angry about ‘cyclists’ and the way they ride, but that is just illogical. If you’re one of those people that groups all cyclists together as wildly out of control lunatics on two wheels, then to me you’re guilty of the same pattern of behaviour that we see in any of the ‘isms’ - you’re judging millions of people based on the behaviours of an individual. You’re a ‘cyclistist’. Even if you have encountered poor cycling on the road from one, two or more cyclists, if you think that makes it ok to drive dangerously around any or all of them, then you are very much the problem.

Alongside the impatience and the demonising of those on two wheels, I think a large part comes from the fact that our vehicles are so large but so quiet, comfortable and easy to drive these days, that we just have no idea at all how terrifying it is to fly past a cyclist closely at speed.

What can be done?

As I said earlier, there’s a huge amount that can (and is) being done in terms of the designing and building of better cycle paths - we encountered some great ones on our journey and very much enjoyed using them. They need to be well surfaced, cleaned regularly to remove stones, glass and other debris, separated from pedestrians, and built in such a way that when a road joins from the side, the cyclist has priority, exactly as happens on the roads.

There’s also a lot that can be done in terms of legislation. The new proposals for changes to the Highway Code include introducing a hierarchy of road users, whereby those who can cause the greatest harm will be deemed to have the greatest responsibility. Research says that many drivers are opposed to this, and that is sad. Lorry drivers should be considerate of smaller vehicles as poor driving on their part can easily take the lives of those in an everyday car. Likewise drivers must bear more responsibility than a cyclist, and cyclists more than pedestrians. A raft of other proposals about changes in priorities will also help.

I’d personally like to see navigating cyclists safely as a mandatory manoeuvre in driving tests, compulsory attendance of the safety courses people go on for speeding offences for everyone at fixed intervals, or even a CPD requirement in order to maintain your license. Driving is one of the most dangerous things you can do, yet once you’ve passed your test, unless caught for an offence or developing an illness, you can continue to do it for the rest of your life without ever having to prove your competence again.

But, more than any of this, you can just decide to care about the value of another person’s life. Decide to do that, and instantly the road is a safer place for everyone. You can decide that ten seconds, twenty seconds, thirty seconds, a minute, five minutes (and trust me, I’ve counted - you’ll never wait anywhere near this long behind a cyclist), or however long it might take, aren’t more valuable to you than another person’s life.

A thank you

Whilst I was very keen in this blog to emphasise the level of the problems on our roads, I would like to say thank you to the many people who slowed down as they approached us, gave us plenty of room as they passed, and waited patiently for a safe opportunity to overtake (we always reciprocated and pulled over if we were slowing people down and there were few opportunities to pass). A particularly strong thank you to the drivers of Argyll & Bute - I’m not sure what it was about that region in particular, but without fail, every single car, van or caravan, slowed, waited patiently until it was safe, and gave us plenty of space as they went by. It really was a wonderful experience of what life should be like on the roads.

Learning to live with less: What life on a bike taught us

How much cutlery do you have in your kitchen drawer?

Before you settle down to read this, go have a quick look. Is it just one or two items of cutlery per person? Or is it choc full of silverware? And if so, how much of it do you really need?

What about t-shirts - how many do you have? Pairs of shoes? Hats? And what about the millions of other items we have in our houses that never get used, that we don’t really need?

When we started packing for life on the road during our adventure, a few things quickly became apparent - firstly that we had a lot of stuff (and compared to many people, we buy very few clothes) and secondly, that not much of it was going to fit in our bags. We needed to make sure we took only what we needed; there was even lengthy debate about how many pairs of pants were required. Apparently, two pairs was inadequate.

After much culling, we were left with a couple of cycling outfits each, and a very limited range of clothing for time spent off the bike. Plus of course, all the camping and cooking kit, bike spares and mechanic equipment we were going to need for a self-sufficient life on the road. Even with ruthless management, when we set off, Lou was carrying over 20 kilograms on her bike, and I had just over 30.

Will I fit in the bags?

“There’s nothing like carrying what you need all day to motivate you to live more simply.”

Lugging all of that weight over the Cotswolds, Malverns, Brecons and Pembrokeshire hills definitely helped to us appreciate the importance of living simply - the bikes were heavy and it was extremely tiring on our legs. Even with our minimalist approach, when we reached our first rest stop at Lou’s dad’s house at the end of day four, we were still able to shed another half a stone of items before setting off again. When you really sit and think about what you need to live, you’ll be very surprised how little that actually is.

A wasteful society

Bear these statistics in mind:

• According to the Department for Environment, Food & Rural Affairs, Britons only recycled 45% of the waste we produced in 2019

• 9.5 million tonnes of food is wasted in Britain each year - 70% of which is perfectly edible, with a value of approximately £19 billion (WRAP - The Waste & Resources Action Programme)

• 350,000 tonnes (around £140 million worth of used but still wearable clothing), goes to landfill in the UK every year (Clothes Aid).

Put simply, we buy, use and waste far more stuff than we really need.

That shirt, again

You may or may not have noticed that in the photographs of our adventure, we were always wearing the same clothes. Lou had one pair of jeans and a few different tops for the evenings, whilst I had one pair of trousers, one t-shirt and my favourite check shirt. She mocked me endlessly for my wearing of that shirt, and if I’m honest, it probably could have done with one or two more washes that it had en route, but it was warm and comfortable, and more than anything it stopped me from having to make a choice about what to wear. That may not sound like a big thing to you, but when you’re tired, the less decisions you have to make, the better.

What shall I wear today?

Less is more

Whilst I might joke about it, there are massive benefits to be derived from living with less clothes, less food and just less stuff in general. It’ll save you money, giving you more to buy the things you really do value, or to spend it on the experiences that matter most to you. It’ll give you more space, something we always desire; it means less things to clean, tidy, sort, and pack if you’re moving house (we can vouch for the benefits of living with less on this front, having recently spent way too much time sorting and packing ‘things’ when selling the house). Having less and living more simply can help to shift your mindset away from materialism - you’ll feel less stressed if you’re not trying to constantly ‘keep up with the Jones’s’ and you may find that money worries ease too.

And these benefits don’t even begin to consider the great things you’ll do for our planet by living with less. Less consumption means less waste, and less waste means greater sustainability, something that’s only going to become more important as the world’s population continues to rise. You may think that what you do is of little consequence, but the balance ethos says otherwise. We truly believe that tiny individual changes can lead to massive results. Ever heard the folklore statistic about what would happen if everyone in China jumped up and down at the same time? It was said that it would cause an earthquake or some other natural disaster - it’s not true of course (it has genuinely been researched and scientists even created formulas to assess the outcome), but the principle is one that we should still take to our hearts. Small actions performed by millions of people simultaneously can bring about gigantic changes.

How can you live with less?

Do you regularly throw certain foods away? Do you have a big pile of clothes that could go into a charity bag, or be taken to the local clothing bank? Do you really need to buy that new item, or could you repair, re-use, adapt, buy second-hand, or even live without?

Living with less certainly bought us closer to balance on our ride. Life felt less stressful, less confusing and simpler. It can do the same for you.

Going wild

Ever since I took hold of Optimus (my wonderful Transporter Kombi van) a few months ago, I’ve wanted to use him to get away for a weekend of adventure, wilderness and training. So what better time of year to do it than January; I was bound to get some glorious weather, right?

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside

I’d been checking the weather all week and it wasn’t looking great, but it wasn’t awful either (for January). Late Friday afternoon I loaded up Optimus with the bike, sleeping bags (two for extra warmth), roll mat, a lot of thermal and waterproof clothing and just a few essentials I’d be needing - torch, map and a book.

My plan for the Friday night was to head for Appledore on the north Devon coast. I’d read that you could pay £5 to park your camper-van overnight right on the banks of the convergence of the Taw and Torridge rivers before they make their way out into the Bristol Channel. It looked like a stunning spot and I’d figured that on a cold, dark night in January the carpark would be deserted. I was surprised when I arrived to find plenty of grand campers, some stylish Transporters and some more weary looking converted vans already in place for the evening. There was still a spot though right next to the water and I grabbed it.

I’d already checked out Google Maps and knew there was a fish and chip shop just a few hundred metres away. I was imagining opening the boot, sitting in the back and listening to the sounds of the waves as that glorious odour of salt and vinegar-covered chips filled my nostrils. The first blow to this was when I discovered that the parking meter only took cash, of which I had none. No matter I thought, I’ll find a cashpoint, get my fish and chips then use the change to pay. Google Maps kindly revealed that the nearest cash point was in Bideford, a good drive back the way I’d just come.

Off I went, returning and, led by my nose, heading straight for the purveyors of battered cod and golden brown fried potatoes. I arrived just in time to witness the door being locked from the inside and, looking longingly through the window like Charlie salivating over the promise of a golden ticket, was greeted with an apologetic but helpless look in return. I’d spotted a decent-looking pub opposite the water and so headed there instead. You never know what sort of pub you’ll be walking into in the more remote parts of our great isle and I was pleasantly surprised to find that it looked cosy, not a single patron’s head swivelled in my direction as I walked through the door and I received a friendly welcome at the bar. There was only one thing on the menu I could choose; fish and chips with mushy peas. OK so it came on a plate and not in paper and I had only the slightest glimpse through the window of the water, but it tasted good nonetheless.

I returned to the van content, some of my fellow happy campers busy organising things in and around their vans. And organised they seemed, far more so than me as I hung sheets over my windows with electrical tape to act as curtains. They had foil-lined blinds that fitted each pane of glass in their vehicle perfectly, making them looking like some sort of Mars Rover vehicle. Makeshift soft furnishings in place, I lay my roll mats and sleeping bag on the floor of the van, using the other as a pillow as I felt surprisingly cosy, and fell asleep next to the bike.

Am I in a horror movie?

I woke to the sound of clanging metal and was instantly aware of the presence of a large number of people around the van. Peering through the sheet taped to the rear window, heavy with condensation, I could see a group assembling what looked like a makeshift fence blocking off the back of Optimus. Alongside me was parked one of those open-backed monster trucks so common on our roads these days and what I thought was a speedboat attached to the rear. I was already hemmed in at the front by another camper-van and for a moment I was concerned that I’d ended up in one of those low budget horror films where all of the locals are in on it. Was I going to be surrounded, set on fire and burned as a sacrifice to the local god of the sea? Nervously, I slid open the side door and climbed out, concerned I may be greeted by a mob wielding planks of two by two full of nails, pitch forks and rag-covered torches, dipped in oil and burning intensely.

Instead, what I found was a large amount of people milling about in wetsuits. An older gentleman, for some reason surprised to see me emerge from the van (there were at least 15 similar ones in the car park interspersed with actual camper vans) said good morning, and I asked him what was going on. Turns out, there was a sea rowing gala that morning (rather them than me) and he politely offered to get them to move the mini-marquee they’d been erecting which was blocking my escape…I mean exit route. With the van out of it’s temporary prison, I readied myself for the day’s ride and set off looking for something to eat. The Golden Arches reared their head at the side of the road and I took the opportunity to enjoy a sausage and egg mcmuffin, hash brown and a tea, safe in the knowledge that I’d be burning it off very soon.

The sun begins to rise across the water

An uphill start

I knew there weren’t many long-term parking spaces in Braunton where the Tarka Trail began, a 30-mile traffic-free cycle route that follows the Taw estuary and a section of disused railway line. It’s one of the longest traffic-free cycle paths in Britain and had been on my adventure bucket list for some time. The lack of parking meant i had to head a few miles out of town to the beautiful Saunton Sands, a huge expanse of beach popular with surfers and used for numerous films and pop videos, including that end of evening/wedding/party or any other event for that matter, classic, Angels by Robbie Williams.

I’d forgotten that the road down to the car park was a steep, slippery concrete track full of speed bumps, not the easiest start to what was planned as a gentle ride. Having parked up alongside numerous Transporter vans clearly belonging to surfers rather than cyclists, I mounted the bike and successfully climbed the hill back up to the main road without incident and I was on my way. A downhill stretch into town with the wind behind me made for a fast and easy start, the incredible vast and grass-tufted sand dunes of Braunton Burrows undulating their way to the shoreline on my right.

Saunton Sands with the beginning of the endless sand dunes behind

I found the signs for the Tarka Trail as soon as I entered Braunton and on the other side of a pay & display car park I found the beginnings of the route proper. The path was well maintained and headed out alongside marshland and then the perimeter fence of the former RAF Chivenor, now home to the Marines. It brought back fond memories of my childhood when I remember visiting for an airshow; we parked in a huge carpark and my dad said that we should remember that we were by an orange VW camper van. Upon leaving the show, we discovered that there must have been around 50 orange VW campers in the car park and it took us some time before we located our Nissan Bluebird. Strange that one of the reasons I was now visiting was to have my own adventure in my VW van, I wondered as I rode along how much of my desire to own the van stemmed from this memory.

The path reached the water and then skirted along its very edge, the waves lapping against the low wall to my right. It was Saturday morning and the path was alive with families on bikes, dog walkers and joggers. I’d forgotten my bell and this turned out to be an oversight. In my mind I was going to be travelling along completely alone in the wild, but with the path heading towards the busy town of Barnstaple, this proved to be far from the case.

Rising to meet a bridge busy with vehicles, I crossed in the cycle lane that ran alongside the main road, briefly jolted back into reality as the traffic streamed in both directions, before dropping back down to the estuary on the other side and instantly back into my peaceful cocoon accompanied by the sounds of the waves and the numerous birds swooping by and digging for their brunch on the banks of the estuary. The joggers and dog-walkers soon subsided and I was left to enjoy looking out for signs of what must once have been one of the most beautiful railway lines in the country. I was also left with the incredibly strong headwind buffeting me and making it feel as if I there was a tug-of-war rope wrapped around my waist and a local rugby team consisting mostly of ginormous farm workers pulling me backwards as I attempted to cycle away. My average speed plummeted as did the gear I was cycling in, and I accepted that my lot for the next 20 miles or so was to drag the entire squad of Old Bidefordonians along for the ride.

The great thing about going so slowly was that it gave me time to take in my surroundings. The bleak but beautiful natural environment and the constant reminders of the area’s rich industrial heritage kept me fascinated throughout and when I reached the old Bideford station and a pub that sat alongside the platform with a sign promising cream teas lured me in. I assume the sign sits outside all year round as when I asked at the bar, I was told that all they had was chocolate bars and crisps. A KitKat, a bag of salt and vinegar and a pot of tea later, it was time to head back out into the wind.

I continued along the line, passing over the same river time after time as it meandered through the countryside with numerous oxbows. Long forgotten canal locks, an impressive stone aqueduct and grand industrial buildings gradually gave way to thick forest and with this, so the quality of the path deteriorated too, evolving from the smooth tarmac surface I’d been riding for over 20 miles into compacted gravel with jagged slithers of bedrock poking through. On the cross bike this would have been fine, but my old-school 23mm road bike rubber wasn’t ideal for the job. And then it started to rain.

At 25 miles and still about seven from Meeth where the cycle path ended, I decided to turn back. I was more than happy that I’d get 50 miles in for the day and I was looking forward to turning round, knowing the wind would be behind me most of the way back. I figured I’d make good time because of this; I figured wrong. Not long after the tarmac returned, I felt my front tyre soften and upon inspection, I realised I had a slow puncture. I also realise that the torrential rain, 50mph winds and temperature of around 4 degrees had made my hands so cold even through my waterproof gloves, that I was unable to get the tyre off the wheel to change the inner tube. Pumping it up, I rode a few miles steadily, paying close attention to how it felt beneath me and so the routine was set for the journey back. Some time, I’m not sure how long exactly, and numerous tyre inflations later, I made it back to the van. A quick change and clean of both the bike and myself, a cup of tea from the beach cafe and I was on my way to my next planned overnight stay.

No room at the inn

The road towards Lynton and Lynmouth involved a series of ever-steepening hills, and I knew that when I got there, the steepest of all was waiting. Driving alongside the river, the road descended steeply, with signs warning of 25% sections, into the village of Lynmouth, a place once destroyed by an epic flood. It was easy to see why, flanked as it was by steep forested hills with powerful rivers careering downwards toward the harbour and the sea beyond. Climbing once again out of the village onto Countisbury Hill, I recalled the numerous times my family had visited during my childhood and how in my head, the hill seemed to be of epic proportions. It turns out, my childhood memories were accurate; Countisbury Hill was as steep as I remembered, with more 25% signs and to add to the sense of peril, the road clung to the cliffs, dropping away hundreds of feet at what seemed like an almost vertical angle to the rough sea below.

The top of the hill was to be my overnight stay…sort of. It was a 1.5-mile walk to my accommodation once I’d abandoned the van on the top of the moor. My plan had been to get there, settle in, then take a walk along the South West Coast Path back to a pub I’d already scouted out. The long day and the wild weather (it was by now a wind of proportion usually reserved for houses falling onto witches) dissuaded me and I chose to stop at the pub on the way. The pub was the kind you dream of finding in the countryside, flagstone floors and a roaring fire with an empty table right beside, hearty food and a fine selection of craft beers. Having warmed up considerably by the fire, satiated my hunger with the best steak and ale pie I’ve ever had (a real pie at that, one completely surrounded in pastry, not one of those pretend pies with a ceramic base that is disappointingly inedible) and rehydrated with a fine craft beer from Bath Ales, it was time to head for my…ahem…hotel of sorts. I had considered asking if the pub had any rooms left, or even if I could lay my sleeping bag alongside the dog bed nestled next to the fire, but my plan was already made and it was the main part of the adventure for the weekend.

From the car park, a narrow tarmac path led out across the moor into the darkness. It was pitch black; Exmoor is in fact Europe’s first Dark Sky Reserve, the lack of artificial lights protected to allow you to enjoy the true wonders of the cosmos. As i gathered my things, the clouds parted and above me I could see the distinctive band of the Milky Way traversing the night sky. The only light came from my bike light, a powerful USB rechargeable one I purchased a few years ago that allows you to actually see as opposed to just be seen like many basic bike lights. There was not a soul or sound, except for the wind which occasionally blasted me sideways across the narrow path; no cows, sheep, nothing. The path began to descend sharply in a series of twisting hairpins, down into a gulley which I knew only from studying the map beforehand, eventually made its way down to the sea. Originally flanked by thick gorse, as I descended further the valley sides were covered in rockfalls, piles of rubble that looked as if some village had been blown up and the ruins left where they lay. It was as close to being on the moon as I guess I’ll ever feel.

The walk seemed to take forever, the darkness never allowing me to know where my destination lay, but as the path straightened out I finally spotted my hotel for the night, a stone bothy. Bothies were originally places of refuge for farm hands or estate workers but these days are more commonly designated as refuges for walkers, mountaineers and others looking for adventure. This one is owned by the National Trust and for a paltry £22 you can stay for the night. After the usual challenge of getting into any holiday accommodation, which always reminds me of a Crystal Maze challenge, involving 4-digit codes and hidden key-safes (except with this one, there’s no automatic lock-in, just a permanent lock-out if you can’t solve it), I was in. Accommodation was basic, a wooden bunk-bed on which I could lay my roll mat and sleeping bag, a sink with cold-water tap, a few candles and a composting toilet that involved venturing back outside and mastering another door lock.

The door to the bothy had two parts, a sturdy outer barn-door shutter made of solid wood and an inner one with a single pane window. Once in and with the outer door closed, I was completely shut off from the outside world. The only light came from the few candles and my head torch which allowed me to sit and read my book, the tale of a man who decided to cycle the entire route of the 2000 Tour de France, albeit in twice the time as the pro’s, before settling down for the night. A peaceful night it was not; I frequently woke as the wind increased in strength, buffeting the outer wooden door and whistling across the tin roof, but I’ve never felt more alive. I felt like Ray Mears, Bear Grylls or my hero, Sir Ranulph Fiennes.

Short and windy

The wind was still going strong when I rose, and as the sun began to rise I took a walk further down the path to the lighthouse that I knew lay just around the headland. The whitecaps, the foam crests that sit atop the waves, were buffeting against the cliffs before falling away, and the wind was making it hard to stand. The view was breathtaking.

My plan had been to dump the kit in the van, get the bike out and get straight onto the country lanes of Exmoor. The wind however seemed so wild as to be dangerous, and after climbing back out of the gully, I drove down into the fishing village of Porlock for breakfast and to wait it out for a while.

I sat in the cafe, run by another Brummie who’d escaped to the south-west and checked the weather app. It looked as if the wind would ease slightly; already seeming lighter as I walked around the town, but I couldn’t tell if that was just because of the sheltered position at the foot of the fabled Porlock Hill. The steepest A-road in the UK was certainly not on my list of things to cycle that day, but there was a toll road that ran parallel and wound its way through the forest at a much gentler gradient of around 6 or 7%, not unlike many Alpine climbs. The toll road was just over 4 miles long and I figured it would be a good challenge to ride up and down as fast as I could.

Fuelled by tea and some an apricot jam-filled shortcake, I finally replaced the inner tube on the front wheel and I set off. The toll road split off just as Porlock Hill reared its ugly head and I gently rose out of town past the final few houses. The gradient changed gently up and down but never kicked too much, allowing me to push from the start. The road was strewn with branches and pine cones, requiring me to to weave in and out of them like some sort of Atari computer game. I felt strong and thought I was making good progress, only to look at my watch and realise that I wasn’t even halfway. I reached the toll booth, just £1 for bicycles and deposited my coin in the honesty box, watched over by the man I presumed manned the toll booth, from his kitchen window opposite. Just checking I was being honest I suppose.

The last section was the hardest, the loss of tree cover meaning I was hit full on by the winds again and about half a mile from the top, a hailstorm added to the sense of drama. It was also the steepest and I pushed hard to maintain my pace. After crossing a cattle grid I could see the junction with the main road ahead and knew that was where the Strava section came to an end so I put on a little sprint finish a la Tour de France and then slumped over my handlebars trying desperately to draw in air without ingesting a hailstone. My only choices to get down were to take on the nearly 30% main road, follow a cycle path through the forest which was a green line on my Sustrans map (green lines can mean everything from off-road but still beautifully laid tarmac, through to a vaguely distinguishable route through the swamps of Mordor), or to retrace my steps.

Descending the toll road I picked up speed quickly, leaning into the gusts of wind each time they hit to avoid being blown across to the other side. Not that it mattered, on the whole ride up and down, the only people I saw were the toll booth guy from his kitchen window and a woman out walking her dog. I wondered how much it was for dogs to use the road. I was conscious of the slippery surface and the remnants of evergreen lining the route, but i was also invigorated by picking up speed easily after a tough ascent. Whilst it took me over 27 minutes to reach the top (6th fastest on Strava this year), I was back down by the van inside 11 minutes (3rd fastest in 2019). I was pleased with these stats, until I saw that the fastest ascent ever had been made in 14 minutes, nearly twice as quickly as me and only a little longer than it had taken me to come down. I later realised that this was because the Tour of Britain had used this road so I was less disappointed.

The end of the adventure

With the bike safely stowed in the van, that was it, my mini-adventure was over. I drove the coast road back to Bristol, passing through places full of childhoods memories; Minehead where walks along the seafront and ice creams were common place, as well as searching for golf balls with my dad in the bushes and sand dunes alongside the links course. Car Hampton, where I consumed numerous sausage and chip dinners in the Butcher’s Arms after tiring myself out climbing up and sliding down the fibre glass house in the shape of a boot, long gone now likely for health and safety reasons. Blue Anchor bay, where we’d enjoyed weekends and school holidays in our static caravan, Watchet, its famous centuries old harbour and the place where, every summer Bank Holiday, we’d enjoyed taking part in their window-spotting competition.

This didn’t involve looking for panes of glass, oh no, it was far more complex than that. As part of their summer fete, the locals organised the competition and all the businesses took part. Their task was to place something in their window that didn’t belong there, often as simple as a staple or a coin but sometimes more complex and sneaky. Holiday-makers would traipse around the town with a paper form and pen, staring shoulder-to-shoulder into the windows. When one family member spotted the mystery item, hushed murmurs would signal it was time to move on, before cupping their mouth and whispering the item into the ear of the pen-holder, so as not to give the game away to fellow contestants. I can’t remember what the prize was, a free meal at a local pub or similar, but answers were treated with the secrecy of a coded message outlining the plans of D-Day. The fete had two other memorable features; a parachute display team would be dropped high above the Memorial Grounds where it took place and upon landing, would pick up the nearest square of numbered cork on the field. These had been placed there earlier in the day by entrants into what was a cross between a raffle, spot the ball and an RAF training exercise.

But most of all, I remember the annual Town Crier contest, I believe it may have been the UK championships, where men (and occasionally women) from all over the country would come dressed in their ancient garb, ring their bells and bellow out announcements, always beginning with ‘Oyez, oyez’ (pronounced Oh-yay) to get onlookers attention. These days it would resemble a sort of shout-off between Brian Blessed, Alan Dedicoat the ‘voice of the balls’ and Peter Dickson of X-Factor fame.

I climbed out of the town and headed for home on the twisting road wedged between the sea to my left and the Quantock Hills rising away to my right.

Had I enjoyed the adventure I’d set out for?

Oyez, oyez.

A wheelie wonderful weekend in Wales

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The drive from Bristol to Wales on Thursday afternoon gave us a good indication of what was to come in the days ahead. The sun shone down from on high, intense and uninterrupted, not a cloud in the sky to stifle its powerful rays even for a second. After leaving the motorway, we wound through the farmland and rolling hills of Worcestershire, Herefordshire and Shropshire before crossing the border into Wales. Quiet villages full of crooked, centuries old buildings lined the route, interspersed by farmland, rivers, forests and panoramic hilltop views.

We arrived into Newtown in late afternoon and after dropping Sam at her B&B, Vicky, Brian and I headed for our cottage. What greeted us was stunning, a collection of beautifully refurbished farm buildings surrounding the main house, a lake complete with fountain and even a couple of highly inquisitive llamas. A quick spot of unpacking and off into town to greet the arriving riders, get some dinner and watch England play Belgium. Unusually, we weren't too fussed by the latter because somehow we'd already won our first two games and qualified, so the debate was more about whether we wanted to win to maintain momentum, or lose and possibly get into the easier side of the draw (which as it turns out, we definitely did). After a short briefing on the first day's ride over dinner, everyone headed off for an early night ahead of the first day of cycling.

Day 1

By 8:30 the following morning, our group of riders had amassed outside the Elephant & Castle Hotel in Newtown. The sun was shining, it was already warm and after a few bike tweaks, a little air in the tyres and the usual remembering someone had forgotten something, they were off. Brian and Simon rolling out on the front to pace everyone sensibly, Tom roving in the middle to ensure everyone was ok and Vicky at the rear ensuring nobody took a wrong turn and that everyone was supported. It was my turn to drive the van and I was excited to experience a day supporting in the Transporter. There's an official balance one on the way later this year so we'd hired one for this trip and I was keen to see how useful it would be. Turns out, it's amazing!

The route wound along the valley on a quiet B road for 15 miles, following the river and surrounded on all sides by green hills. It was a pleasant and steady start for the group and it didn't seem long before they'd made it over the first hill of the day to the water/feed stop in the market town of Llanidloes (roughly and poorly pronounced, Thlan-id-loice). Out of town and there was more climbing to do, this one long and in full sun but with great views of the valleys between the green peaks we were climbing. Driving along to catch up with the front riders, it appeared that the locals had decided to run a scrambling bike race on either side of the road, meaning that the riders had to join the main road and travel along for a good mile or two before continuing the race on the other side. With their race heads on, some were taking great risks cutting corners on the main road and I was pleased to hear Brian had given one of the organisers a piece of his mind. There's a lot of information in Brian's mind I might add, so I am sure the guy felt all the wiser for it!

The vast majority started their descent down into the town of Rhayader and I headed back to help with the first mechanical issue of the day, a faulty inner tube valve, which was causing Alex's tyre to constantly deflate. Vicky had waited for him so once we'd replaced it with a new one, they were off again. Tom had kindly waited for them in Rhayader so that they could work together on the climb into the Elan Valley. I drove off to head for a rendezvous-vous with the others at the lunch-stop but was quickly called back when Vicky rang to say her bike had broken. The hanger holding the rear mech (the thing that makes the gears change on the back cog) had snapped and it was unridable so she jumped in the van and Tom and Alex headed off again. Luckily there was a bike shop with the right parts literally round the corner and with Brian's mechanical expertise, she was able to get up and running again and ride as support crew on the Sunday.

Out of Rhayader and the road climbs at a constant but challenging gradient of around 8-10 per cent towards the Elan Valley. Built in the early 20th century, the dams that line the valley form a series of lakes that control the flow down from on high and still supply Birmingham with water to this day. Before the dams were built, the land was occupied by two large manor houses and a few small villages. All are now lost beneath the waters but you can discover more about them and their connection to the famous poet Percy Shelley, at the Elan Valley Visitor Centre. Once you reach the top of the climb, you enter a breath-taking moon-like landscape of heath, rivers and lakes. You can only imagine what it is like on a cold, windswept winter day; you probably don't want to know for real. But cycling around it in glorious sunshine is well worth the effort of the climb, and you're rewarded with a winding Alpine-like descent along the dam edges as you breeze effortlessly down towards the visitor centre.

A quick lunch stop at the visitor centre and it was time to head north again, briefly following the main road before cutting across onto a National Cycle Route that hugged the river. We topped up everyone's water and energy levels in the quaint little town of Llangurig and I opted to jump on my bike and accompany Alex and Tom for the last leg of the day. It was a real treat as I'd expected to be in the van all day but Vicky was keen to drive it too so it worked perfectly. Simon, Brian, Laura, Jason, Graham, Sam and Oliver set off just ahead of us and after another short, sharp climb up to the ridge-line, we reached a series of wind turbines. You'll find them dotted across the hills and mountains of mid-Wales and they're an awe-inspiring site, so huge in their construction and capable of a somewhat eerie sound as they're propelled around by an invisible force. The road back down the other side was completely traffic-free and we rolled along enjoying the views, seemingly a million miles away from the thoughts of daily life. No emails or calls to answer, no meetings or deadlines, just the scenery to enjoy and the hypnotic revolution of the pedals all the way back to base.

That evening we dined in the pub as a group and I handed out the awards for the day, the title of which are never decided until the day itself. Laura and Alex took the honours on this occasion, Laura for pushing Brian and Simon to ride harder than they'd expected with some great hill-climbing, and Alex for ensuring his bike suffered multiple mechanicals so that he could deliberately spend longer out on the road enjoying the beautiful countryside.

Day 2

Another sunny day lay ahead and this time we took a short drive to Llanidloes to commence the day from there. Vicky was on van duties today and I'd warned the group we faced a challenging start with a few big hills right from the off. I'd also said that their efforts would be rewarded with some stunning views and that was definitely the case. The day started with a blanket of cloud and after two steady climbs and speedy descents, we reached the Clywedog Reservoir, the tallest dam of its kind in the UK. It was amazing to think that the water we were seeing today and yesterday would flow over 100 miles downhill along the rivers Severn and Wye until it passed just a short distance from our house on its way out to sea. 

Birds of prey flew overhead, their imposing wingspans making it easy to imagine we'd travelled to a far-flung land that time had forgotten. In fact, as we climbed past Dylife onto the Plynlimon escarpment, part of the Cambrian mountains, Oliver remarked that other than the beautiful tarmac edged on both sides by bright white paint, there was almost no evidence that human beings existed at all. Not a building, pylon or man-made structure in sight. Instead we were greeted with jaw-dropping views of steep-sided gorges that would not look out of place in Jurassic Park and as we reached the top of the 3-mile climb, a panoramic of the mountains surrounding us, whilst in the distance lay the imposing peaks of Snowdonia. The descent into Machynlleth was joyous, rolling for mile after mile with barely a pedal turn, the only work to do to steer the bike when the occasional cross-wind gusted through the barren landscape. 

We descended the last mile into town, passing the links-style golf course, expect that this one lay at the foot of a mountain rather than on a windswept coastline. Over the cattle grid marking the return to civilisation, we regrouped for a feed stop in the bustling market town. Graham and Sam remarked that they were glad we'd come down that long descent instead of up it, and their expressions were one of surprise (and I suspect secret excitement) at the news I gave that we were indeed going back over it on the way home. 

Refreshed and refuelled, I offered the group the choice of routes to reach our lunch destination; a quieter road through a hilly forest or a flatter but more main road that hugged the estuary flowing into St George's Channel, which connects the Irish Sea to the Celtic sea further south. Whilst there would doubtless be a few more cars, my promise of less ups and downs and unforgettable scenery meant they opted for the latter. I was delighted as my recce just a few weeks before had revealed a road that hugged the coastline, with only one of the most daring railroads built in the UK separating us from the azure blue water. The sun was now shining through strongly again and that coupled with the pine forests to our right and the way the light reflected off the water to our left and we could have just as easily been descending down into Monaco as heading for the fishing village of Aberdovey. 

The miles ticked by in joyous calm until we reached our lunch stop. Aberdovey's brightly coloured houses and coffee shops sit opposite a small grassy park with views across the tightly packed masts of fishing boats and out to sea. It was a perfect to stop for sandwiches and pizza to balance out our morning exertions, contrasting so sharply with the wild mountaintop we'd been on just a few miles before.

One of the challenges of taking people to such beautiful places is getting started again, so after a leisurely lunch we headed north along the coastline and into Snowdonia. This was actually to be the flattest part of our day, taking a pass that ran alongside Tal y Llyn lake at the foot of the giant imposing figure of the mountain, Cadair Idris, all 2,930 feet of it. I'd hoped the group could rest up along here, enjoy the views and regroup before a reasonable climb and another long descent back into Machynlleth. It doesn't always work like that of course and instead we had to battle through a headwind. The support crew did their jobs, sitting at the front of each mini-group and allowing some relief for everyone. The climb to Corris didn't seem too long, or maybe it just felt short in comparison to what was to come, and soon we were gently descending to Machynlleth, back over the 300-year old stone bridge and enjoying tea and cake in the mid-afternoon sun. 

The biggest challenge yet lay ahead, nearly eight miles of climbing back over the Cambrian Mountains. As I rode alongside Simon, I quietly whispered that it was a brute of a climb, before dropping back to take up my position at the rear of the group. Long climbs on a bike are as much a mental challenge as they are physical. Dropping through the gears allows respite for your legs, but it also means it takes longer. Jason, Laura, Tom, Simon and Brain pushed off into the distance and Oliver, Graham, Sam and I remained fairly close together behind. The road starts at a fairly steady incline but as you near the top there are some steep sections and the effort shown by all was tremendous. It's a weird feeling when you're moving uphill, pedals sometimes revolving so slowly you're not sure they're still turning. Many wrongly assume that only the super-fit can do it, but as long as you have the right gears, a willingness to try and a little practice behind you, you can make it. One of the real joys I get from our events is the look on people's faces when they achieve something they were unsure they could.

It took us nigh on an hour to crest the mountain, but after more food and water, we descended the shorter side the wind in our faces and then turned off for a flatter route home, skirting the edge of the hills through the Hafren Forest in the dappled light of late afternoon, just above the banks of the the source of the River Severn. Legend has it that Hafren was a princess of ancient Britain and drowned in these waters, giving rise to the Welsh name for the forest and the longest river in Britain. Back in Llanidloes the group celebrated their achievements with a refreshing beverage and a few pub snacks.

Everyone headed to our converted barn later that evening, including Laura's husband Michael who'd joined us in Newtown and taken the chance to explore the mountains by foot and bike with their amazing dog Charlie sat in the basket whilst he pedalled, and we enjoyed fish and chips with a beer or a glass of wine overlooking the lake. Jason took the prize for the day for his timekeeping skills, but as it was the last time we'd all ride as a group with Alex, Oliver and Graham heading home the next day, everyone received their ride awards, specially designed beer or wine glasses with a little reminder of the importance of balance.

Oliver has mentioned to me on more than one of our rides how everyone who comes along is always great fun and easy to get along with, and he noted how the nature of the events themselves were self-selecting; people who like people, like to challenge themselves but also don't like to take it too seriously and to balance out the hard work with great food and the odd drink. As we always say, the social side is as important as the exercise. We want you to come away feeling physically tired but mentally reinvigorated and refreshed.

Day 3

With long journeys home back to reality, everyone agreed they wanted to ride the shorter route on the final day. Setting out this time from the quaint Norman castle town of Montgomery, the staging post of many a border battle in times past, we acted like true Celtic soldiers and invaded England, the border just a mile or so to the east. I was back in the van today, Brian having done a grand repair job on Vicky's bike, borrowing a few parts from mine in the process. 

The group moved along at a fair lick and after catching up with Oliver, Graham and Alex for a farewell coffee in the town, I caught them up just before the only real climb of the day. They refuelled and headed up on to the Long Mynd, the most famous of the Shropshire Hills. More stunning scenery, more remote and peaceful roads to ride, this time the Portway, an ancient trackway that traverses the ridge line. Passing the glider club, the group descended a very steep road, up to 25% in places, before quiet lanes led them to Bishop's Castle for a well earned drink and snack. We timed it well as we ended up in the middle of the summer fair, enjoying an eclectic procession of carnival floats and vintage farm vehicles. After that, all that was left was a quick 10 miles back to the start and our long weekend was complete.

A balanced weekend

All in all, it was a perfectly balanced few days. Quiet roads in beautiful scenery, great company, lovely food and a good challenge. I realised over the course of the weekend that it's wrong to classify these weekends as events, they're more like mini-breaks; social occasions built around getting away from the hustle and bustle of life for a few days to make friends, challenge yourself, get a bit fitter in the process and find your balance.

Look out for our full schedule for next year coming in early September. We'll have more day and weekend rides and walks than ever before and a range of distances and challenge levels to suit everyone. We'll also be linking up with local charities so you can help others whilst pushing yourself, getting fitter, healthier, happier and finding your balance.

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