Mischief, Minehead and not long until the Marcher Castles Way

SJ, the kids and I actually managed to escape for our little break in Minehead – incredible really, considering the chaos that preceded it. Ernie stayed behind, not because he ate my breakfast (though he does have recent previous convictions in that department) but because he pinched some of the carefully rationed food I’d put aside for my Marcher Castles Way trip. Should I blacklisted him from all future family holidays? (Nah, he's too cute and was super pleased to see me once back home - probably sniffing out the rock...)

To make matters worse, Ernie was not the only creature causing grief at home. A rat – yes, a proper rat – decided to remind us that our house is apparently part of the local wildlife circuit. On the evening, before departure, I thought I’d treat myself to a stress-busting soak in the bath… only to pull out the plug and watch the ceiling below get its very own indoor waterfall. Homeserve arrived swiftly and confirmed the culprit: a rat had chewed clean through the waste pipe. A real menace. Supposedly they’ll gnaw anything – pipes, wires, carpets, even your sense of calm. It had also taken a nibble at Moo’s carpet but I decided against sharing that detail with my daughters, because let’s face it, there are some things children don’t need to know before a holiday. In fact, my kids don't need to know this at all, so please don't inform them!

Anyway, water damage and rodent assaults aside, we did finally set sail (in a car, but still) and made it to Minehead. Now, Minehead has had something of a reputation whispered to me as being a little “tacky”. I can officially report that this is slander. Coastal charm, sandy beach, and not a whiff of tackiness in sight. Our campsite was perched on a proper hill climb – all hairpin turns and “are we nearly there yet?” – called Moor Camp (I think), top of Moor Hill and next to Moor Woods (appropriately enough). From our tent we could see the sweep of beach, the sea stretching out to the horizon, and the town glimmering below. Quite the reward after surviving the drive and the kids antics.

Sleeping Spoon

Sleeping Moo

Did I mention pillows? Forgotten entirely. SJ had to buy herself a posh, compact camping pillow, while I improvised by folding up my jacket – a surprisingly adequate but distinctly less glamorous substitute. Spoon’s airbed punctured within a night but was replaced in good humour, and at one point she slid herself clean out of her un-zipped compartment and was snoring happily in the middle of the tent floor. That girl has a hearty snore!

Not a Diplodocus, but not far off

Our seaside routine was simple but satisfying: early dips in the sea, sand between the toes, the tide running away faster than you could shout “wait for me!”, and barefoot jogs along the shore that made me feel like I was in training for Chariots of Fire. The land around has that slightly prehistoric feel in places – jagged coastline, big skies, almost expecting a Diplodocus to appear around the corner.

The town itself was easy to wander about, despite signposts that occasionally claimed we were in two different places at once – we simply assumed we had mastered time travel. The harbour was blustery enough to whip your hat off, and stern signs were pinned about forbidding you to leap dramatically from the pier. Unlike in Torquay, my bravery was not to be tested.

Minehead also had these quirky little model characters scattered about – not entirely sure what the story behind them was, but they gave the place a playful personality. The weather was mostly kind: warm, sunny stretches perfect for a lazy beach day. Sadly, we did spot smoke from nearby forest fires, with teams of fire crews rushing out – a sobering contrast to our holiday calm. We packed up a night early to dodge an oncoming storm, much preferring to fold the tent up dry than attempt it with thunderclaps cracking overhead.

One highlight was our day trip to Dunster Castle, a magnificent pile of history just a short hop away. Perched on a wooded hill above the picture-perfect village of Dunster, the castle has been everything from a Norman stronghold to a Victorian family home. The views over Exmoor and the Bristol Channel are worth the climb alone. The girls had a crack at archery in the grounds – Robin Hood beware – while I ended up scaling a rock-climbing wall contraption that reminded me a bit of Birmingham’s The Depot, though geared more towards overexcited children than creaky dads. Just next door is Dunster’s working watermill, still turning with a steady, soothing clatter that makes you wonder if life wasn’t better at this slower pace.

And in a final triumph, I actually remembered to pack and wear my “Bearded Bimbler” hat for the whole adventure. Small victories.

All in all, it was another cracking family “hollibobs” (to use the technical term). Very little resting involved, of course, because family holidays aren’t for rest – they’re just a lively prelude to the next adventure. Which in my case is tomorrow’s bike-packing escapade. Hardly time to let the tent pegs cool.

Boof, bimbles and 'bobs

Posting early this week because I’m blessed to be off on hollibobs again. This time to Minehead, the sun-kissed jewel of the West Country, if the sun chooses to make an appearance. The usual suspects are coming along: wife, kids, and potentially Ernie the dog, assuming he's well behaved and doesn't steal any more cereal.

Naturally, life isn’t complicated enough (pah), so after a few days at the seaside I’m saddling up with the ever-adventurous Boof (using his alias to provide some anonymity until he tells me otherwise) for a bike-packing adventure along the Marcher Castles Way. For the uninitiated, that’s a cycling route that weaves its way along the ancient boundary between England and Wales, linking up castles so old, some of them are practically falling over from exhaustion. It's history, scenery, and probably sheep—lots of sheep.

Recent athletic efforts deserve a mention as they’ve gone about as well as expected. I bravely trialled choc hazel Surreal cereal, which appeared to be breakfast food but doubled as a test of mandibular strength (my wife, SJ, should like what I did there). The flavour was perfectly fine, assuming you enjoy eating things that make Weetabix seem plush. Milk didn’t help. If there’s a world record for calories burned munching, I must be in the top ten. As for running, Ernie and I did a familiar trek around Studley fields, where Ernie managed to lose his collar - what a goon! On the cycling front I completed about 40km—or so the sweat would suggest. I forgot to start the Garmin - d'oh! My Strava app remains stubbornly unimpressed.

We did another run together in the Uppy-Downey; this was fun and we spotted some deer. Better yet, Ernie found a random tennis ball. When a dog finds a tennis ball during a run, does it count as cross-training? 

Now it’s time to (re)start packing, which in my world translates to chaos. There’s that age-old dilemma—how little can you take and still call it bike-packing? The answer, apparently, is “less than you think.” If anyone has invented a way to pack three panniers and still find your socks, do get in touch. Until then, if you spot two over-loaded cyclists by the border, give us a wave. That’ll be Boof and me, riding the Marcher Castles Way—stopping at every castle and hill for sure. Wish us luck. If I miraculously remember to hit the start button on my tracker, there might even be proof. Proof with Boof, ha!

The Boy with the Golden Spoons, Stanned and The Woods of Splendour

Back at home and work after a lovely week’s leave in Torquay, and what a week it turned out to be. Somewhere between woodland escapades, cereal disasters, and a golden spoon or two, I somehow managed to make room for both adventure and chaos.

Whilst on my holiday I caved in to the lure of slick online advertising and ordered myself a stash of cereal called Surreal. It promises big time: 14–15g of protein per 40g serving, less than a gram of sugar, high fibre, gluten-free, grain free, vegan—you name it. They also sent me a funky bowl and spoon, which sealed the deal, because who doesn’t want to be the boy with the golden spoon? Even if it does mean buying it for myself.

The first flavour I tried was banana—though bizarrely, there isn’t a banana to be seen in the ingredients list. Banana's! Oddly enough, the milk tasted like a banana milkshake, which was probably its best feature. The cereal itself wasn’t terrible, but I’d politely describe it as "borderline cardboard." At least it kept me full until lunch. Later in the week I trialled the cocoa flavour after Ernie staged a cereal raid and destroyed my boxes of Honey Crunch and Cookies and Cream, leaving canine slobber as evidence. In a panic I reordered, which netted me a second funky bowl (this time a glorious pink, like my Pinkerton shirt) and another golden spoon. The cocoa itself was pretty decent, Coco Pops’ slightly less exciting cousin, but again the milk was the main attraction.

The week wasn’t all cereal and canine sabotage—there was exercise, of course. I started Monday with a run in the Uppy-Downey with Ernie. A cool 15 degrees made it perfect, and judging by his wagging tail, Ernie seemed delighted to have a proper running buddy again. Tuesday was a hot 28k on the fixie, followed midweek by nearly 9k of running and then an MTB jaunt with the Phantom as we scouted out a potential wild camping spot. During the week, Phantom surprised me with a generous gift: two shiny Leki trekking poles. I was absolutely chuffed—one for me, one for my wife SJ—so here’s hoping we’ll be on a walking adventure together soon. Thursday was mercifully a rest day, though in truth it was more about saving energy for Friday’s main event.

The crumble went down well...

Friday meant wild camping at last, my first camp since February, with the Phantom and Robdog. We ventured into a new patch of woodland which, in a burst of grandiosity, Phantom dubbed 'The Woods of Splendour'. After the usual cycle in, which naturally included a hill, I strung up my hammock while the Phantom and Robdog opted to be ground-dwellers. Supper was hearty: burgers, sausages, buns, and Jade’s crumble consumed before we’d even left home. Drinks followed, ranging from Robdog’s dubious Baileys (hmm, 'Brown Cream') to a roulette of  hip flasks spanning whisky (regret), brandy (fine), JD Fire (winner), and a surprisingly good rum. Nature provided the soundscape, with owls conversing, geese honking in the night, and the odd deer barking. Stars winked through the canopy and the moon teased us from behind the trees—though Robdog’s bout of sickly Baileys added a less celestial note to proceedings.

Morning brought a cooked breakfast before we cleared camp. Strangely, the trees themselves spent much of the night hurling acorns and twigs down at us, possibly passing judgement. And despite the spot being in a remote location, joggers and even a dog walker appeared at dawn, reminding us that ‘wild’ camping in the UK is somewhat unpredictable. Back home, I remembered the goodies I’d won from the Bearded Bimbler in his photo competition: a funky red hat I’ve now rediscovered and will wear on future escapades, and a patch that Mum has kindly sewn (alongside my Rat Race one) onto my running pack. Both patches will now clock more air time than John Denver on Radio 2.

Later in the week I gave GoaTheaD, my trusty bike, some TLC in the form of a wash, and Phantom topped up Stans in the tubeless tyres. Not glamorous but necessary, and she’s now ready for the Marches Way ride with Jamie, followed closely by the Rat Race with Mr Orange—once her missing aero-bar bung arrives. On Sunday I took her out for a 33k spin to make sure the Stans had done its job, and she rode like an absolute dream, tyres holding beautifully. Not wanting my stable to feel neglected, I also treated Eleven, another bike of mine, to a proper wash. Both steeds are now gleaming and adventure-ready.

The highlight of the week, however, was my family’s safe return from their holiday. The kids breezed in full of daring tales from terrifying fairground rides, and the house immediately felt alive again. Ernie, of course, had missed his mum deeply, though I suspect he was more concerned with the cereal stockpile being locked firmly away.

So no, I didn’t hit the big long-distance runs or arduous cycles I’d planned, but I gained a new wild camping memory, two golden spoons, a pink cereal bowl, a pair of trekking poles (one already earmarked for a walking date with SJ), and my family back home. All told, that felt like a pretty splendid week indeed (providing no thought was given to the day job..).

2025 Hollibobs in Torquay - Lobster, dolphin and bags of chips

This past week was spent on our summer hollibobs – Torquay, with the wife and kids in tow. The diet, as predicted, was abandoned the moment we left home. I devoured all the finest fried fare Britain can muster – chips, burgers, and anything likely to make a GP shake their head in despair. The culinary highlight (or lowlight) was a trip to the fancy Rockfish restaurant, where I treated myself to the most expensive lobster I’ve ever ordered… which tragically contained less meat than a minnow on a diet.

Surprised to see this homeless 'abode' whilst on my coastal run

The most local beach in the background

In fairness, I did balance all that fried decadence with ample walking and running. We explored an impressive variety of beaches and coves: sandy, pebbly, some with winding tunnels, and others guarded by harbours complete with daredevil jump spots for those brave (or daft) enough. The sea views stretched across to little islands, and the coastal paths were both stunning and – in some parts – unexpectedly home to the homeless.

Agatha Christie's domicile

Fancy Fishacre

We also dipped into a little culture with visits to two National Trust gems – Coleton Fishacre (a house so fancy) and the clifftop bolthole of Agatha Christie herself. The kids’ cultural highlight, however, was spotting “ganja” and “Irn-Bru” flavoured sticks of rock. They also braved the waltzers at the fair, which gave them a greater adrenaline rush than any cliff-top view ever could.

A little tiny bit like the Green Dragon back home...

SJ and I indulged in a delicious Gurkha meal one evening – I opted for a rich, flavoursome goat dish – and on another day we revisited The Green Cow purely because their burgers were among the best we'd ever eaten (and I say that without exaggeration). A little shopping snuck in too, during which I scandalised my family by purchasing a Pinkerton T-shirt that I’m rather fond of.

Pinkerton

My holiday swimming highlight? Sharing the harbour waters with a dolphin – which, let’s be honest, is infinitely better than sharing them with a discarded crisp packet. Harbour jumps were also performed, though mercifully not while wearing my trusty Malaysian sarong (which did make a public appearance on the beach, earning me praise from a random Bangladeshi gentleman). I resisted the urge to wear my mankini on Lyme Regis beach – the world was not ready last time and this time I doubt things have changed.

Our apartment was a gem: coastal views, an easy walk into the town centre and beach – “easy” of course meaning a knee-trembling descent down roughly a thousand steps. The weather was largely glorious, so I’m now sporting a skin tone not unlike my new T-shirt: pink, and radiating.

The trip also saw me tick off my 93rd ParkRun, this one at Torbay Velopark. I finished 176th out of 460 with a time of 26:29 – not bad considering my bloodstream was about 40% chip oil by then. The course was not, as the name suggested, a simple oval. Instead, it looped twice around what looked suspiciously like a BMX track (though suspiciously flat), before heading along a gravel path, looping a field, and returning to the Velopark gates to finish.

And now? Back home. SJ unpacking. Facing the grim reality of work tomorrow. I’d say “roll on the next holiday” – but first I need to walk off approximately eight thousand calories worth of chips...