Lluest Cum Bach bothy kit list November 2025

All items were housed in a massive Bergen back pack, that had a hood containing 2 pocket compartments and an additional 3 relatively large pockets towards the bottom of the bag.

Hood pocket: Waterproof jacket and trousers (were wearing on this adventure).

Hood inner pocket: Pen, paper, postcard, electronics, glasses, loo roll, candles, head torch, (will add small camp light in future).

Main body: MSR solo tent/pegs/poles/foot print (actually left in car on this occasion), bivvy, foam sleep mat, air sleep mat, 2 x down sleeping bags, inflatable pillow, thermal liner, fuel, food, spare clothes and merino pyjamas, down jacket. (Used dry bags to ensure items stayed dry).

Left side pocket: Kettle (did not take), water purifier, water bottle, hip flask, tea bags in tin, mug, brown, spork, knife, stove, gas, lighter, rubbish bags.

Middle pocket: First aid, pills and supplements (did not take), toiletries, swim shorts and towel.

Right side pocket: Water bottle, dehydrated food, snacks, whistle, camp shoes, hip flask, sit mat.

Wearing: Usual clothes plus wellies, buff, beanie, fleece mid-layer and walking poles.

A trip to LLuest Cum Bach bothy to see the Goblin King

What a week!

Major transportation issues to kick things off — first, my car failed its MOT in spectacular fashion. The garage quoted £700 for repairs, which, given the car’s street value of about £95 according to one of those “we buy any car” websites, felt a bit like putting a solid-gold handle on a rusty bin. My mother gamely entered the details online, and the results confirmed what the screeching fan belt had been hinting at for months — it was terminal.

Hole in my shoe...

Next disaster: looked down at my shoes and was greeted by my big toe waving back through a gaping trainer hole. Car down, shoes down… naturally, I started eyeing my bike suspiciously. Thankfully, the Zwift bike stood firm — perhaps because it’s only got one wheel to lose in the first place.

Zwift itself, at least, was a relative triumph this week. Two meet-ups with the Phantom: one a proper lung-buster, the other an easy “chatting pace” spin. The toughest of the lot was the seated gear-masher session — the kind that quietly breaks your spirit before pretending it’s good for your fitness. VO₂ max slipped again (down to 51), which was a blow, though perhaps not shocking given the general mayhem of the week. Sunday’s base build ride felt endless — 90 minutes of low-watt pedalling that somehow still left me feeling steamrolled. Maybe I was just worn out from “life admin fatigue”.

Come Friday though, the adventure button was pressed — full adventure mode engaged. The Phantom and I headed deep into Welsh Wales for our latest bothy expedition, parking up in the remote beauty of the Elan Valley. The hike to the Lluest Cwm Bach bothy (or “Lluest Cum Back” as I kept saying, which somehow felt appropriate) was as boggy as it was beautiful. Phantom managed to sink a good foot into a marsh within minutes, establishing the tone for the journey. The mist hung low, sheep regarded us as intruders, and finally, rounding a corner, we spotted the bothy — that squat, stone promise of warmth and shelter.

Before entering, I made the tactical error of exploring a side door. It turned out to be a toilet — or more accurately, a shrine to biological warfare. Pebble-dashed doesn’t quite cover it. Back at the main entrance, Phantom strode in confidently, certain no one was inside. I barely managed “maybe knock first” before he was face to face with a man who would soon be dubbed by Phantoms as “the Goblin King”.

How welcoming

Mindy

Ooh look, a picture of my mother on the wall

Mindy, our unexpected bothy-mate, turned out to be a gem — a Lithuanian traveller with tales, tools, and talents aplenty. The bothy itself was brilliant in that scruffy, characterful way — stone walls streaked with soot, a few sturdy bed platforms, and shelves of “treasure”: forgotten tins, half-burnt candles, matches, stray bottles of water, and even a bong (because clearly it had hosted a range of souls). With a glowing fire and steaming mugs of tea, the three of us settled in like old friends.

(with flash on)

Mindy was a fountain of camping wisdom and introduced us to “bothy bread,” which he whipped up on the stove with an enviable ease — crisp, warm, delicious. He explained the art of the hammock structured ridge line (not the ridge line) apparently 90% of hammock length is the sweet spot… I made a note), and demonstrated using a chain-mail scrubber to polish cookware. The man was basically a walking outdoor masterclass.

We matched his bread with Phantom’s contribution — a Firepot curry that looked like mince but swore it was chicken. Plenty of laughs, more than a few drinks, and a long rambling chat about cycling, camping, and the weird beauty of nowhere in particular. By the time the storm swept in outside, the bothy crackled warmly, our spirits were high, and for a place with no electricity, it truly felt lit.

Sleep came easy. The wind howled, but my Alpkit cocoon and layers of merino worked their magic — a proper toast box of warmth. Miraculously, no midnight pit stop was needed (a got-to-hand nod to Saw Palmetto for that). At 6 a.m. Phantom’s alarm performed its duty, then he promptly ignored it. By seven, we were all up — Mindy packing for an early start, and us firing stoves for a greasy, glorious fry-up, the bothy pan sizzling proudly once more.

We cleaned, tidied, and left the place better than we found it — as all bothy-goers should — then retraced our bog-trot back to the car, chatting about the adventure and half-planning the next one.

Yes, I'm actually washing up!

Back home, flush with inspiration from Mindy’s baking, I attempted “bothy bread: version 2.” Having only fragments of the recipe, I consulted the mighty AI. The resulting loaf could charitably be described as “experimental.” The bread looked insulted to exist — dense, tragic, and somehow both raw in the middle and burnt on the sides. I may not have mastered bothy baking, but at least the spirit of adventure survived.

From Parkruns to Pedals: Adventures with Flairmingo and others

In case you’ve spotted a cyclist lingering suspiciously outside McDonald’s lately and heard whispers suggesting it might be me—let’s clear the air: nope, not me. While the image has made the rounds on social media, the real me prefers to keep my rides a little more dignified, thanks very much...

Monday dawned with me pedalling into the virtual hills of Zwift, the gradient (and my heart rate) going steadily up. Riding solo, I tested my shiny PC—still running like a dream, no blue screens, no tantrums. It’s nice when at least one bit of kit does as it’s told.

Tuesday brought an exciting update on the Solstice Sprint 2026—the route looks utterly ace, winding through rolling lanes and promising enough excitement to blow a hole in my energy reserves by midsummer.

Zwift saw me complete a jolly with the Phantom, who had me sweating through an anaerobic threshold workout serious enough to cement my legs for the day.

Wednesday’s Zwift session with the Phantom unfolded like a Shakespearean tragedy: workout in the background, suffering in the foreground. It was a stinker—so the Phantom says—one of those rides where the only real winner is the towel, soaked with hard-earned sweat and a touch of regret.

Thursday was designated rest day. Bike left neglected, legs put up, mind on mute. Even endurance heroes have to let their hamstrings consolidate their grievances sometimes.

Friday called for a solo spin in the pain cave, revving up the cadence until my pedals blurred. Who needs a disco ball when your own legs can pulse at 110 rpm? Evening was chilled and civilised—the Mrs, good tunes, and a pristine vinyl copy of Screamadelica finally gracing the turntable. Shame Spoon wasn't there to see us dance; she loved watching her parents dance to Afro Left by Leftfield. Ha!

Doo and Flair were at Start (Stratford-upon-Avon) ParkRun

Saturday was milestone day: my 101st Parkrun, and—drumroll—Flairmingo’s legendary first! We strolled the Stratford-upon-Avon Parkrun, clocking a “leisurely” 64:15 (finishing with dignity at 516th of 521). I’m hopeful Flairmingo’s Parkrun journey is just beginning—she’s got the barcode bracelet and now experience to boot. Later, GoaTheaD (my gravel pride and joy) crunched over country lanes for a solid two hours. The tri-bars, now angled skywards, felt a bit cramped—even the bike seems to be going through an existential crisis, begging me for “just one more centimetre” of breathing room. Think I will push the bar forwards and see how that feels.

Sunday? Rest day, at least in spirit. Took Ernie out for a sedate stroll, the only real exertion being chewing through a tragically tough beef roast at the Little Lark. Usually their food is spot-on… but this time, I was left yearning for the heyday when Ree manned the kitchen and every bite was pure culinary bliss.

Flairmingo, here’s to your first Parkrun—what a brilliant start to a journey filled with fresh challenges and new triumphs. Keep striding forward, don't stop, persevere with that flamingo flair; there’s a whole trail of adventures just waiting for you to put your mark on. Here’s to many more adventures everyone!

Sweat, Zwift, and the Letter J: My 100th ParkRun Journey

This week started with a bang thanks to half-term and a Monday off work. Productivity was the order of the day: a Zwift workout, a spot of gardening to prep for the new bike shed, and a trek over the Uppy-Downey with Ernie—proving that even rest days are best spent in motion. Tuesday brought me back to work, but the evening was saved by the Phantom, who helped me install four new fence panels. After that, we swapped hammers for handlebars and joined forces on Zwift, exploring the latest virtual roads in New York as if we were proper city slickers (minus the pigeons and yellow taxi's).

Can you spot the 'new' panel?

Wednesday saw another meet-up with the Phantom on Zwift, this time attempting a VO2 workout that quickly turned into a game of cat and mouse. As is often the way, Zwift crashed mid-effort—some things really do keep you on your toes. Undeterred, we reconvened for another session, this time united by the elastic band feature, trying to outpace each other before the next inevitable software hiccup. Thursday, however, was a tale of tech woe: Zwift crashed twice, and I finally gave up. The crashes have been relentless lately, so I’m wondering if it’s my PC or the program itself. Either way, I’ve taken the plunge and ordered a new Lenovo IdeaPad Slim 3 on the never never (Intel Core i5, 16GB RAM, 512 GB SSD) hoping the weekend delivery will cure more crashes than a Formula 1 pit stop.

Rachel, Doo and Jon

Friday was a masterclass in minimalism—did nowt, save work which wasn't overly heavy. Saturday, though, was a proper celebration. I met up with Rachel Jannaway, her husband Jon, and their dogs Pip and Minnie for our 100th ParkRun at Jersey Farm Woodland Park in St Albans. One of the said 2 dogs was clocking their 40th run, but spirits were high regardless. 

I finished in 24:24, placing 52nd out of 330 runners, and finally managed to scratch off the letter J from my Alphabeteer challenge. Just the letter Z to go now—so close I can almost taste the celebratory toast. The morning wrapped up with a big, fancy fry-up, because no milestone should pass without a solid cholesterol kick.

All smiles after the event

Sunday was a great day also. I kicked things off with a brisk walk with Ernie—which almost certainly left him ready for a nap. 

Ernie the napster

My new laptop, arriving Saturday night, transformed Zwift: a crash-free ride, zippier graphics, and a bigger screen. 

Even my Garmin VO2max score edged up, now at 53, so all systems are go. 

Not quite flawless, mind—the builder didn’t show up to put down the concrete base, declaring the ground was too wet for his liking. Some weeks you can’t win them all, but you can at least enjoy better pixels while losing.

Pedals, Pixels and ParkRuns

This week has been what I’d politely call business as usual on the exercising and adventure front — which is to say: mildly chaotic but satisfying. All my cycling has been indoors on Zwift, that curious mix of sweat and screen time where you pedal like a man possessed yet never actually leave the room. I’ve rattled through a few different workouts, including one that insisted I spin faster than I thought was possible without mechanical assistance. I also joined the Phantom for a Zwift jolly, the first in a while, which was decent fun and made me realise how much I’d missed riding together — even if it was virtual.

Zwift itself, though, seems to have developed a flair for drama. It’s crashed several times this week, despite my graphics card being fully updated. I’m beginning to suspect the laptop might be a bit pants, to use the technical term.

I did actually miss one workout — partly due to sheer exhaustion from all the gardening graft with my Dad. After spending hours digging, sawing, and lugging tree roots, I was properly whacked. The kind of tired where even the idea of clipping into pedals feels like an extreme sport. Sometimes it’s wiser to call it a night and let the recovery pixies do their thing.

When not battling digital gremlins, I’ve been deep in the mud with ongoing tree surgery. With my dad lending a hand, we’ve hauled out stumps, dug up roots, and made what feels like a hundred tip runs. There’s still a touch to do, but it’s shaping up nicely. The mission here is to clear space for a swish new bike shed — priorities firmly in order, naturally.

In bike‑related news, Phantom has already gone rogue and entered me for the Dirty Reiver next April — the UK’s biggest one‑day gravel event up in Kielder Forest. I’d been flirting with the idea of Graean Cymru, which Jonny Mitchum’s riding, but then Boof casually dropped that he’s signed up for the Solstice Sprint — a 1,000‑kilometre, multi‑day adventure starting in Warwick, heading across Wales, looping through the ancient stone circles of Avebury, and back again. Riders will apparently “witness the celebrations first‑hand” on the longest day of the year. It sounds superbly mad, so I’ll almost certainly be joining Boof to tackle it as a pair.

The real highlight of the week, though, was my 99th ParkRun. Not exactly a record‑breaker — 36:37 and 415th out of 504 — but one that’ll stick with me. I ran it alongside my wife, SJ, who beat me by all of one second to finish 414th. She’s only on her second official ParkRun (and keeps reminding me she’s a London Marathon finisher, just in case I forget). It was my 54th outing at Arrow Valley and easily one of the most enjoyable. We even crossed paths with Kirk, though decided against racing him this time.

Colleagues at work have begun catching the ParkRun bug too, which is excellent to see. I was meant to ParkWalk with Flair this week, but she’s on the injury list with a dodgy hoof. Once that’s sorted, we’ll make our lap happen — ideally before one of us needs physio.

All in all, a fairly typical week in my world — a blend of sweat, sawdust, screen freezes, and a gentle reminder that marriage thrives on friendly finish‑line fun. Onward to the next escapade.

Sweat, Sawdust, and Small Victories

This week began with a sweet spot build on Zwift — and for once, the name felt honest. It was, quite literally, sweet. My Garmin app rewarded the effort with a VO₂ max of 50, the highest I’ve ever seen it flash at me. There’s something quietly satisfying about seeing that number climb, especially on a session that didn’t feel punishing. 

I seem to be in that rare and wonderful phase where things are ticking — ParkRun times getting quicker, fitness stats rising. My latest (and previous last) run was this year’s fastest, shaving a rather pleasing 45 seconds off my previous best. It’s a funny mix of delight and mild disbelief when you realise you’re performing better than you thought.

Tuesday had an equally buoyant start. SJ, Ernie, and I headed out for a run around the Uppy-Downey. It had been far too long since I ran with SJ, so it felt good to fall back into stride together. The mood dipped later at Coventry Hospital, where SJ's long-awaited brain consultation turned out to be cancelled — cue some classic NHS frustration. We redeemed the day with a detour to Leamington for a big, fat Greek lunch, all sunshine and meaty fatness, and left our irritation behind with the plates. Back home, I swapped the Garmin for a pair of gloves and played tree surgeon, clearing some space in preparation for the new bike shed Kimbo’s generously gifting me.

By Wednesday, the theme of all things leafy continued. Whilst working from home, I heard the unmistakable sound of branches cracking — SJ again, out pruning with admirable enthusiasm. The garden’s gained a lot more room. I’ve been gathering quotes for the concrete base for that bike shed — ranging from £500 to a rather sobering £1,300 — and wondering how something so solid can cost so much. That evening’s Zwift ride was mild by comparison, supported by two fans doing a heroic job of replicating a British winter breeze in my home bike-room.

Midweek also brought a message from Rachel J, who sent me a photo of a ParkRun in Canada called the Tom Taylor Trail. Long, green, and improbably scenic, it looked like the kind of run that makes you want to travel light and breathe deep. I’ve also decided I want to tick off an inaugural ParkRun someday — a small but oddly appealing ambition now that I actually know what that means.

Thursday vanished into work. The kind of day that spills into evening until it’s hard to tell the difference. I ended up working late, fuelled mostly by kebab, chips and stubbornness.

Friday was hotter — in both a literal and metaphorical sense. Zwift crashed again, of course, and once I’d stopped muttering under my breath and got it running, I found myself sweating through another session. This one was milder, a spin-the-legs affair, which helped ease the week’s fatigue rather than add to it.

Saturday arrived with a dose of personal progress. ParkRun number 98 and another yearly best, another run at Arrow Valley: 23:06, 70th out of 470 runners, and a shiny new age grade to boot. There’s something nostalgic about chasing improvements at my age — it feels less about competition and more about potential. Afterward came the flu jab (tiny bit of blood, no sore arm) followed, naturally, by more tree chopping.

The week wound down gently: an easy hour’s spin on Zwift and a stroll with Ernie. I’ve been enjoying my rhythm lately — steady training, familiar routines, small victories — but I can feel the pull of the outdoors again. The kind of peace you only find wrapped up in a sleeping bag, with stars overhead and food cooked over a flickering flame. Perhaps it’s time to swap the trainers for a hammock and answer that call with a wild camp...