Blues, bikes, bags and busting moves.

Packing in progress

After my last escapade with Boof on the 'Mad Marchers', I've found myself floundering in the post-adventure doldrums. Turns out, returning to work isn't quite the heroic quest I'd hoped—it’s more like being seconded to Mordor for admin duties. Eventually, I coaxed myself outside for a lovely 6.5k run across Studley fields, dodging sheep and existential despair. Spotting the homemade swing by the river was reassuring, and even better, some kind soul has added a pair of chairs, presumably for exhausted wanderers or dedicated picnic enthusiasts. Not long ago, the Phantom and I unearthed a wheelbarrow here—no one knows why, but the countryside collects oddities like I collect questionable race medals. Despite the temptation, I skipped the swing and chairs; running was my sole purpose, and I didn’t fancy explaining wet kit to the Mrs!

Seat or swing?

My first cycling outing was no less epic. Phantom guided me along a sprawling 37k loop, introducing some new roads and climbs that didn’t appear on my Garmin to date. My bike felt positively weightless for once, probably because I’d left all my bags and emotional baggage at home. There was minor drama atop this technological marvel: just before setting out, I had to charge my Di2 for the first time—a reminder that even fancy gear needs attention, much like houseplants and the Queen’s corgis. Admittedly, Di2 isn’t flawless, but nothing says “modern adventure” like scrolling through menu screens while getting rained on. The ride itself was a splashy affair, and the nights are drawing in, meaning I spend as much time locating my gear in the dark as actually pedalling.

Following this burst of athletic zeal, I missed several days of exercise—side effects of severe post-adventure blues and good old workplace stress. Lately, I’ve been gloomier than a cat in a thunderstorm. In my unfamiliar struggle with a 'black dog', sleep became a concept rather than a reality. Family and friends were kind with textbook encouragement, but it was reading 2 Corinthians 1:2-4 that finally untangled a bit of my neurosis and provided comfort.

Spot the Doo?

The weekend rolled around and with it, my 94th ParkRun at Arrow Valley. An uncanny occurrence: I didn’t spot a single familiar face, which, frankly, felt like being cast in a parallel universe. Dodging elbows and shoelaces, I suspected my time would be lacklustre, but my watch told a better story—under five minutes for the first kilometre! Buoyed by this statistical miracle, I pressed on and not only set my fastest ParkRun of the year (by a racy 18 seconds), I finished 114th out of 502, squeezing across the line at 24:34. Warm-up, cool-down, and the feeling that I've done something worthy of a smile.

Whacked now!

My weekend starring GoaTheaD, my steadfast bike, wasn’t all sprints and celebration. She received new, slightly less posh aluminium bars for next week’s Rat Race. Fussed, packed, and faffed for the event, and on Sunday, exercise meant walking Ernie—who remains less concerned with race prep and more interested in sniffing out tennis balls. Perhaps tapering is wise anyway, given my sparkling ParkRun peak.

Monday’s run crossed Studley fields again, the full moon still hanging about like an eager spectator. Mist lingered over the grass, heightening the sense of meaningful poetic reflection—or just making it trickier to avoid cowpats.

Funky bar

Tuesday, a gentle cycle to test GoaTheaD’s new bars, still wrapped in the retro Kinesis tape - bonus, and thanks to Des at the shop (best bar tape I've ever reused). The eternal kit list still needs finalising, and my Garmin needs a charge.

Wednesday, my last pre-event run: a quick, breezy jog around Studley’s streets, which always ends with me mentally packing things I’ll forget. Now, if only my Rat Race kit could magically bag itself, I’d truly be ready for Thursday’s next chapter.

Marcher Castles Way Kit List 2025

Marcher Castles Way Kit List 2025

BIKE: GoaTheaD Kinesis GTD V2

Wearing: Shoes (with toe covers), socks, helmet, cap, cargo bibs, ss base layer, ss jersey, arm warmers, gilet, fingerless mitts, glasses. Rear jersey pockets will hold waterproof jacket (Endura GV500) and shorts (Gore), bum cream, wet wipes, grooming kit (electric toothbrush and paste, bupanthen, sudocrem), 1 x electrolyte tube. Rapha wallet will hold pills, paperwork, pen and monies/credit card. Iphone  and Garmin watch.

Aero bar bag (7 litre Restrap): Spare Bibs, Merino PJ’s, bed socks, spare socks, down jacket with woolly hat and head torch in pockets.

Seat bag (14 litre Restrap): 2 x Real Turmat food, silk liner, sleeping bag (Alpkit pipe dream 200), MSR Freelite 1 tent plus pegs, sleeping mat (neo-lite x-therm), pillow (Alpkit), Thermarest pump sack. Tent poles, foot print and sandals attached to bag. Later moved tent boles and strapped to aero bars with re-strap straps.

*Packed tent and pegs in pump sack (in case wet) and put into seat bag first. Fold sleep mat in half and place in sleep bag. The squash sleeping bag with silk liner inside into seat bag followed by pillow.

Frame bag (Alpkit custom made): Sun tan lotion, Lezyne pump, wet-weather gloves, tool kit (containing Gerber, multi-tool, chain links, disc brakes, chain link, tyre levers and patches), mechanic gloves, zip ties, oil, knife and spork, mug (containing gas, stove, lighter), t-bags, lock, plug kit.

Top tube pack (Apidura 1 litre): K-lite USB charger (with cable to Garmin and front/rear lights), Zendure A3 battery (10,000 mAh), iphone, spare cables (phone, Garmin, lights etc), Exposure joystick light.

On Bike: 2 x bidons, Garmin Edge, Exposure dynamo light, extra lights.

Marcher Castles Way - with a twist

A stolen pic of what might lay ahead

As planned – or so we thought – Boof and I set off to conquer the Marcher Castles Way. Like most adventures it didn’t exactly go to script. However, it delivered memories by the cycle load.

The weather played a peculiar game with us: fine while pedalling, showers whenever we dared pause for a café stop, and then brightening miraculously as we set off again. Night one saw a proper downpour which gave my tent the chance to prove it really is waterproof. Night two promised drier fortunes until, just as we prepared to pack up, the heavens opened for ten minutes and left us stuffing sodden fabric into bags. Back home the house resembled a camping laundry, tent innards spread over doors like some avant‑garde installation.

Wroxeter Roman City

Fellow cyclists and Boof

We began with a ritual sausage and egg sarnie at Upton Magna, then pedalled on towards Wroxeter. Not a castle, admittedly, but the Roman ruins there still impress, and provided the perfect backdrop for our first photos. Here we bumped into two fellow cyclists who immediately guessed we were doing the Marcher Castles Way – apparently cycle helmets, bulging bags and daft grins are a giveaway. They were just finishing their five‑day version; we, still fresh, hadn’t yet realised what lay in store.

Onward to Ironbridge, home of industrial heritage and also, oddly, a shop window display of mechanical fish that swam backwards while rotating. Possibly symbolic of our navigation. After a long wait to be served, we set off again into gravel and climbs through pretty Abdon, where ruined houses dot the hillsides and the dramatic sky seemed to draw curtains across the landscape. A lone walker nearly outpaced us on a trek, which was humbling, and tent poles on my bike threatened escape at every bump.

By the time we reached Clee Hill thirst and hunger had fully set in, but the chip shop came gallantly to the rescue. Then we ventured higher, off the beaten track, and pitched tents to wild camp among wide open skies. Boof had a frog for company that night (a grasshopper kept him company the following evening), but I slept poorly and woke expecting a glorious sunrise. Instead, we were literally camped inside a cloud – visibility nil, atmosphere damp.

Day two began with muesli and tea, though Boof was unimpressed with breakfast at that hour. Soon after, Ludlow Castle came into view, perched nobly above the town like a reminder of the Marches’ turbulent medieval past. For me, it offered an excuse for a second breakfast – always superior to the first. The route afterwards grew ferociously tough, with gravel too steep to ride, forcing us to push bikes indignantly up inclines. Clun Castle then appeared, a striking sight nestled in its green valley, though my legs were too busy complaining to fully appreciate its history.

Ludlow Castle

Clun Castle

By this point, Boof’s bottom bracket was grumbling almost as much as we were, and with the endless rollercoaster hills taking their toll, we improvised and strayed onto the Wrekin to the Sea trail. Wrong direction? Almost certainly. But fate provided a lucky escape: a passing campsite where, handily, Boof held membership. We grabbed the chance to be civilised for once, pitching without secrecy. The kindly owner even promised to fetch us pies, coke and porridge. We stayed up as long as possible awaiting his return, but he never came back. I was snoring long before Boof succumbed to sleep.

The final leg home was relatively short. We cycled up and down and around the Stiperstones natural reserve which was lovely but energy sapping. Foodwise (fuel), I started with a ‘kebab stew’ cooked on my stove, then joined Boof for a more conventional café breakfast – his plate a magnificent “jumbo.” (We did have another breakfast somewhere within our journey - I remember the gnome on the counter - a disgusting creature giving us the bird. How odd I thought, but the food was delicious). Soon enough we were back at Upton Magna for a last sarnie stop, and finally rolled into K’s far earlier than expected. Adventure completed, if a little sideways.

Cleaning my bike the next day revealed damage far less charming than the memories: splintered carbon bars where my aero clamps had rattled loose. Expensive lesson learned, so I’ve “downgraded” to aluminium – a quarter of the price. According to Mr Orange, I've been more sensible as he pointed out I was the only guy still clinging to clunky ergo bars anyway.

Cracked carbon

Naked bike

No sooner had I unpacked and the next adventure is in my headspace: the Rat Race coast‑to‑coast with Mr Orange. Hardly time to catch my breath. Still, I managed to celebrate Ernie’s fifth birthday on my return. He’s entirely forgiven for stealing my cereal and camp food. Speaking of cereal, I’ve continued sampling Surreal’s offerings. The frosted flavour, alas, tastes alarmingly like cardboard, while the cinnamon version is pleasantly spiced and easily the best yet – mercifully not as rock‑hard as some earlier attempts.

Happy 5th b'day!

And so, the Marcher Castles Way ends: a ride of damp tents, castles old and crumbling, clouds mistaken for views, improvised routes, backwards‑swimming fish, gear failure, and a great many breakfasts. Not the adventure we had planned, but certainly an adventure worth having.

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.