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.
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| 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 |
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| Mindy |
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| 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.
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| (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.
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| 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.
