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!