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| 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.
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| Wroxeter Roman City |
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| 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.
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| Ludlow Castle |
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| 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.
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| Cracked carbon |
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| 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.
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| 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.
