Odyssey from Oban: the beginning

We had been here before, at the CalMac Ferry Terminal in Oban, three years previously.

2014

2017

Ringing the changes as we posed by the departure board to recreate the shot we took when we stood in the same spot, Tom and I mused that: 

• we now numbered four, rather than five (Thomas Ivor being away enjoying a summer holiday with his mum); 
• we had two little girls proudly riding their own trailer bikes, rather than a four month old baby and a nineteen month old toddler; 
• the “old faithful” trailer was no more; the bikes were not the same ones, having been stolen and replaced in the interim; 
• we had gained two new pairs of panniers; 
• we weren't carrying nappies (hurrah!); 
• the only surviving cycle kit from the original trip were the panniers, bar bags and Tom’s rear brake rotor; and 
• Tom and I haven't changed a bit [*disclaimer - this bit may not be entirely true...*]

Last time, we had set off with high hopes and, thwarted by strong headwinds, had cut short our trip at Lochmaddy. This time, we had a far better idea of where we were going, places we were keen to revisit, places we had missed last time that we wanted to explore, and a whole lot of local knowledge bestowed by our generous host from the night before (including a hand drawn map of highlights and camp spots for us to visit on Barra). The forecast also promised a prevailing wind from the south for the majority of our trip. We were optimistic, and Tom in particular was determined: this time, we would cover the whole of the Hebridean Way.

The good omens were stacking up: thanks to the kindness of the new friend we had met and stayed with the previous night, we had secure parking for our car, and had managed (with only one slight hiccup) to get everyone and all the kit to the quayside, the car back to its parking space and Tom back with us in plenty of time for the ferry. The slight hiccup was failing to unload the water bottles when we unloaded everything else from the car. With some seriously inventive stowing technique, Tom cycled back to the ferry terminal from Connell carrying no less than six bidons about his person. Probably best not to ask where they were stowed....

Tickets for the ferry purchased, we also had a spare hour to make the most of proximity to the seafood stall on the quayside for lunch. This is one of the best bits of holidays by the sea - seafood more plentiful and tasty than anything we can get at home. I set off with Ruth for a first foray, and Ruth meant business. She had, in her pocket, three coins totalling four pence, and she meant to buy us all dinner.

The staff at the seafood cabin were brilliant - a lobster was extracted from the chiller cabinet for Ruth to examine at close quarters and to marvel at the pincers (held fast by elastic bands). I was only frustrated that I hadn't brought my camera with me to capture it!

Ruth can now identify for herself crab, lobster, scallops, prawns and mussels, and on seeing the pictures on the menu made a few requests of her own, her eyes decidedly larger than her tummy! The staff let Ruth "pay" with her money (whilst quietly taking the real payment from Mummy) and solemnly gave her the "change" (including her original three coins).

We went back to Tom and Rhoda bearing freshly cooked scallops in garlic butter, a very generously filled prawn sandwich, a similarly generously filled smoked salmon sandwich and a portion of freshly cooked mussels. The scallops and mussels didn't last long. Tom and Rhoda went back for a second go, and came back with dressed crab, a pot of prawns, more mussels and more scallops. When you know that in the evening you'll be cooking over a camp stove, you make the most of good food when you find it!

The time to the ferry departure had ticked away easily, and we gathered the uneaten sandwiches and retrieved the bikes and luggage from the rack. In the queue for the ferry we spotted another family of cycle tourists, and the girls were delighted to see a child conveyance they recognised - a Weehoo! In day to day life, we meet very few cyclists attempting anything like what we do, especially with children, so we were delighted to say hello. Ruth and Rhoda, in the inimitable way of children, decided that they had a new best friend. Instantly.

We boarded the ferry and the girls were already disappointed that our new friends had to park their bike on the opposite side of the ferry! During the crossing, we chatted with Clem, Steff and Noel and found that they were intending on a circular route out and back from Oban.

The weather for the crossing was kind, (unlike three years ago when Ruth was spectacularly sick in the canteen shortly after polishing off a full meal), and we had our only minor mishap when Rhoda lost her footing and barrel rolled down a flight of steps, giving herself a significant bruise to her shin. The first ‘first aid moment’ of the trip was dealt with by judicious application of an ice pack and some chocolate buttons, and Rhoda was soon back to looking out the windows with Ruth and her binoculars and playing noughts and crosses in her notebook (new game of the trip, requiring some surreptitious parental manipulation to get Rhoda to achieve the occasional win, since she generally wasn't all that bothered about whether her three noughts or three crosses were actually in a row, and was pleased with herself for taking a turn and drawing a nought or a cross anywhere on the page).

We unwrapped the sandwiches from Oban for a snack, supplemented by a bottle of Irn Bru for Tom (when in Roma…), two fruit shoots and a cup of tea. We’re so rock and roll. Rhoda also asked for a hot chocolate, and was surprisingly patient about letting it cool down.

The girls made friends with a dog and its owners, travelling in the pets area by the staircase, and enjoyed much enthusiastic patting. Ruth and Rhoda seemed surprised to see a dog on a boat- the idea that pets might travel on the ferry hadn't occurred to them.

As we approached Castlebay, we took the girls up on deck so that they could enjoy the view of the eponymous castle as it came into view. Tom and I took a good look at the beaches on Vatersay as we passed, as we were planning to head there to camp for the night. The weather was dry but the cloud hung low over the hills as the ferry made its way in. We were glad that we weren't starting out on the big climb up out of Castlebay to the east this time, as it looked like the road was disappearing right into the cloud.

Instead, when the ferry disgorged, we paused to let all the cars set off on their way, before heading down to the Co-op to stock up on food and water. A motor home beeped and its driver and passenger waved as it passed us- it was the couple with the dog. Ruth and Rhoda waved back exuberantly.

On our last trip, we hadn’t been over the causeway to tiny Vatersay. This time, we were determined to start at the very bottom of the Hebrides, and that meant tackling the only climb marked on the OS Map with arrows to indicate its sharp gradient profile. We set off with the brave (stupid?) aspiration of slogging up it without pushing, with Steff and Clem along too. I was soon in my granny ring, wishing I had changed the cassette for one with more teeth, when a local lad on a road bike passed us with a cheery wave. My heart sank when he stopped about fifty metres further on to get off and push - if he couldn’t cycle up it on an unloaded road bike, how were we to fare slogging up there fully laden on touring bikes, towing the children?

As it happened, I needn't have worried. Tom made it at least as far as the cheery local chap before abandoning: we cycle tourists are clearly made of tough stuff! Ruth and I stopped for a quick photo of the ferry as the climb offered a lovely view back across the bay. Ruth was astonished at how far away and how little the big boat that we had just left looked, and proudly got her own camera out of her top tube bag to capture the moment for herself. We stowed everything away, and I braced myself to push the bike up the remaining 12% slope to catch Tom, Steff and Clem.

It was at this point, that Ruth proved herself to be rather a smart little cookie. “Look Mummy, I’m helping!”, she announced, determinedly changing her gears and starting to pedal. And she wasn’t kidding - the bike lightened measurably as I pushed it, our pace quickened. I was rather ashamed that I hadn’t even thought to ask her to pedal as I pushed - I had just assumed that because the going was tough, she would want to rest. This was the first lightbulb moment where I realised that Ruth had her own ambitions for this trip, and she was not planning to be a mere passenger. I looked at my baby - a baby no more, and was awestruck at the strength of personality she is already exhibiting. As we neared the top, Tom saw the effort she was making and called out praise and encouragement for her. She dug in even more, visibly proud of herself.

The gradient eased as we neared the war memorial at the top of the climb, and we caught Tom and Rhoda, who had stopped to wait for us (Tom had beaten me to it, despite the “help” from Rhoda only consisting of her usual backwards pedalling). Ruth’s disappointment that Steff, Clem and Noel had gone faster than us was very vocal. She wanted to ride with our friends, and if Mummy wasn’t up to it, she was single handedly going to propel us to catch them up.

What Ruth still has to learn is that whilst we may well not have been as quick on the way up, all that extra weight does have its advantages on the way down! With minimal effort, we were soon freewheeling down the other side with gathering speed, gravity doing all that was necessary to catch up the gap, and the wind soon swung in behind us too.

We whizzed along a little further with Steff and Clem, over the causeway, before they decided to turn off to find a camp spot. We had already determined upon heading to one of the two beaches at the end of the road (depending upon which way the wind was blowing), so we carried on, swooping down quiet roads, and passing a group of ladies on road bikes at the side of the road, who looked as if they were about to set off having fixed a roadside mechanical.

When we reached the beaches , it was a really easy choice of where to pitch - one beach was sheltered, the other was facing the full force of the wind. We pushed the bikes through a gate and up a path over the dunes towards a stile. We could see a couple of people already there, and when we reached the top, we saw a large teepee already erected looking out over the sea. The people we had seen as we laboured up the dunes were unloading large quantities of cushions and duvets into the teepee, the sort of romantic looking camping gear that is hugely impractical - quick to get damp and slow to dry, heavy and cumbersome. Then there was all their kitchen paraphernalia - it looked more like moving house than camping! We looked back at the six bags on each of our bikes, and once more wondered why anyone would think they really needed so much STUFF just to spend the night in a tent.

The ladies on road bikes that we had passed a couple of miles back arrived and came to take in the views. They stopped to chat, the girls’ cuteness factor having attracted their attention. They were travelling light and bright - a group of friends from across the UK reunited for a summer cycle trip (but no camping). They also watched the performance with the teepee. As they turned to leave, Tom and I decided that we would find our camp spot further up, and we strolled along looking for a nice flat patch big enough to take the tent, ideally not visible from the road or the houses beyond.

We think we did rather well with this one:

We even managed to get the tent up and all our gear inside before the midges really descended. The new Alpkit tent pegs found purchase in the sandy ground, no problem. Money well spent. Tom did the honours with the cooking and braved the midges, whilst the girls stayed zipped in their inner tent and I inflated sleeping mats and shook out sleeping bags to loft. This was the bit of the day the girls liked the least - whilst the midges swarmed outside in the shelter of the tent, the girls were cooped up when they really just wanted to run around. It was already getting dark, because it was already early evening when the ferry arrived. We promised Ruth and Rhoda a proper beach trip in the morning, scoffed our pasta, and heard the first drops of rain start to pit pat on the fly sheet.

Tom looked at me - “Do you think we can get the bikes in here? It would be a shame to get everything soaked on the first evening of the trip.” Only one way to find out! We piled the panniers down either side of the vestibule, and brought in first the two trailer bikes (laid to try to avoid damage to the derailleurs and to avoid the drive trains coming into contact with the tent inners), then my bike, and finally Tom’s bike. Everything inside! It was certainly cosy, but we had no problem creating a route from each inner to the tent door, and with the girls already tucked up in their sleeping bags, the vestibule space would only be wasted overnight whilst we all slept. Tom and I were ready to escape the midges by battening down the hatches in our inner tent.

Tom sat up and downloaded copies of the memory cards from each of the cameras, and soon the glow from Tom’s phone and head torch were the only lights we could see. We are always struck by how dark the darkness is when you are away from the urban light pollution. Both of us tend to fall asleep quicker. Tonight, we could hear the waves lapping on the shore and could snuggle up into our sleeping bags while the rain poured down knowing that all our gear was inside the tent. Bliss. We would find out in the morning whether the tent had lived up the big promises TerraNova made about it - nothing like a dose of sideways Hebridean rain to test how waterproof your tent really is...

Bothying at Cadderlie - When cycle touring becomes night hiking!

I have never before stayed the night somewhere without having any idea where I was. Our trip to Cadderlie was therefore a first in more ways than one!

We did our research before we set off: we had the map, the GPS co-ordinates and a reliable account that the run in to the bothy was a 3.5 mile path that we would be fine to cycle along to get in, once past the loose stuff round the back of the quarry.

Unloading the car as darkness closed in, I was reminded of why we had stayed the previous night in a Premier Inn (me: dear husband, I do not want to arrive after a six hour drive in the pitch dark to a derelict hut dragging tired children and all our sleeping and cooking gear with me, especially when eldest daughter is still recovering from the illness that saw her have a ride in an ambulance to A&E just a few days previously!)

It was raining, but the book suggested a walk in of only an hour or so. Cycling three and a half miles, we thought, even with a hilly route, we could do in half an hour, but despite best efforts to arrive before dark, we were to be thwarted, and we successfully missed all of the scenery that we had been planning to enjoy as we walked in.

Shortcut to two hours later. We are standing on the path, in the rain, wondering just how much further the bothy is. Ruth is taking our picture, for which I at least manage to smile gamely:

There has been very little "cycling" in - this was a slog - dragging loaded, heavy, recalcitrant bikes along loose, wet, steep gravel paths (and on some stints, hanging on for dear life to make sure that the bikes didn't hurtle down the loose, wet, steep paths without us!). We have therefore made much slower progress than the expected timings for walking in, instead of cruising along on our bikes.

After three miles of trekking along the path, we began looking around expectantly. Are we nearly there? Tom decides it's time to consult the GPS to see where we are relative to the co-ordinates we need for the bothy.

What a blow - the co-ordinates confirm our fears. We still have a mile to go and Rhoda is on the verge of nodding off in her seat and falling off. The jelly baby rations make their first appearance of the trip to keep morale up! What could be better encouragement to a three year old to stay awake than the promise of sugar?

Nearly three quarters of a mile further on, we come across a large gate, closed across the path. The head torches and our bike lights reflect back at us from eyes belonging to unseen creatures. Just 400 yards short of the bothy, we encounter an entire herd of rather large 'heeland coos'. The sign on the gate informs us that this is a working farm and asks walkers using the path to keep the gate closed.

Flashing our head torches in one another's eyes now, Tom and I have a brief exchange of glances. Too late to go back (no way my aching back and shoulders would cope with the return journey without a rest). Do we pitch the tent right here on the path and just crawl into it and admit defeat? Farmers don't leave bulls in fields with public paths across them without warnings, do they? Those coos have mighty big horns. Could we even pitch the tent here? The ground is very compacted - we'd never peg it out. We could probably see the blasted bothy from here if it weren't well after bedtime.

We elect to do what any responsible parent would do. "Ruth, can you go and open the gate please?" Ha! That will sort it. A herd of heifers is no match for a toddler who's not had her tea yet.

Ever the gentleman, Tom ventures first into the field, Rhoda back on the bike for the last push. Ruth slams the gate shut, jumps on her bike and I set off gamely behind Tom. "Are there any lions, Mummy?", ponders Ruth aloud. I stifle the urge to giggle. The indistinct shapes around us start moving. And mooing. I reassure Ruth that there are no wild lions in Scotland. No, darling, no tigers either. Ruth is satisfied. Mummy and Daddy hold our breath - what will a field full of cows make of a family of cycle tourists turning up in the pitch dark and tramping across their field?

Not a lot, as it turns out. They moo, and they bravely run away.

Next problem - how do we see where to turn off for the bothy? We peer off to our right, looking out for any posts, waymarkers, or paths. The torches don't illuminate very far. We recalled the description of the walk in - cross the burn, over a wooden bridge...

We hear running water. It has to be close! Is that it? We pause by a stream and scour the area for any sign of a path or a roof (or a welcoming gleam of light from anyone already there!). Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Naff all.

Tom looks again at the GPS. It should be 100m to the North and 300m to the east. We press on. Louder sounds of flowing water, and , is that the bridge? This one is bigger. Much bigger. There's a post... We stop. Nope, that's just a post. Wait, there's another one! Sensing he is the only one with a shred of hope left, Tom sets off on a solo reconnaissance mission.

WE FOUND IT! Mummy cannot see it. Mummy is sceptical. Ruth is hungry. Rhoda is nodding off again. HONEST, IT'S RIGHT THERE! Tom shines everything we own in the direction he is pointing. I can finally make out the shape of a building in the gloom.

There is a path. It is wet, muddy and rather squelchy. Remembering that the last time Daddy offered Mummy help navigating boggy ground, she ended up thigh deep in mud, whilst Daddy kept his feet dry, Mummy is more than happy to let Daddy go first.

We find the door, and open it (when we later look back at our arrival footage, this bit is vaguely reminiscent of the 'Blair Witch Project'). We have shelter. And we have it to ourselves. We bring in our gear and have a quick look around. Tom sets about trying to get a fire lit to warm us through, as our coats are sodden. We peel off wet layers and hang them to dry on the hooks on the wall.

Time to crack out a celebratory stroopwafel each for two tired little adventurers. Rhoda gets a second wind and wakes up. Ruth watches the fire lighting with interest. There is disappointing news on the fire front. There are stacks of kindling, newspaper and copious supplies of toilet roll, but a sad couple of logs and no coal.

This was the first bothy I have arrived at where the previous visitors had apparently made no effort to leave any fuel for those following them. Dead wood lying everywhere, there turns out to be nothing to cut it with.

We cook a hasty meal of pasta on the Jetboil (thank God for the speed of the big Jetboil) and get the girls' bedding set up.

When I turn around triumphantly with a hot meal, I find Ruth curled up and asleep in front of the fire. We rouse her and persuade her to eat a little before we tuck her into her sleeping bag. We hear nothing from either Ruth or Rhoda until morning - they sleep the sound sleep of little girls who have had a big adventure.

Tom and I sit in the living area and look out the bothy book, before we go to bed. There are some very "inventive" entries, and a couple of recent ones warning of less-than-timid mice. We are therefore extra careful to put away all of our food and cooking gear, and to hang up all of our bags well away from the floor.

I then spend a fitful night imagining marauding hordes of mice gnawing through packaging and mice crawling across my face. None actually do, there is no sign of any mice anywhere the next morning. On the other hand, one creature that surely has had a midnight feast is the tiny but fearsome midge. Rhoda's face is covered, Tom has been bitten liberally around his hands, ears and back of his neck and I am sporting a few too. Ruth hasn't a single one.

Daylight reveals to us for the first time where we actually are. It is still raining, and the views across the loch are less expansive for the rolling cloud over the mountain tops, but still pretty breathtaking. Out of the window, we can see the herd of coos that we encountered last night meandering around the bothy, and a fairly well trodden route shows their habitual track to the water's edge.

Tom goes out to look for more firewood, and to refill our water bottles from the burn using our new water filter. That should be enough to keep us healthy, but for good measure we also give the water a blast from the Steripen to give any bacteria a neutering. It doesn't taste bad.

We all put on our waterproofs and head out for a walk. Exploring, we discover that we are in fact, somewhere really rather beautiful. The views out from the bothy are stunning (even in the rain). The burn next to the bothy is also very beautiful, and is an internationally recognised and rare geological feature. The sound of the cascading water is glorious.

The midges by the water, however, are pure evil, and are unperturbed by the Jungle Formula repellent. We retreat to the bothy to decide what to do next.

Having undertaken such an effort to get to the bothy, and comfortable within it, we debate the merits of trying to stretch out our stay to another day. Water is no problem, but we only brought food rations for an overnight stay. We have (as always) a stash of extras, but not a huge amount, and there is no fuel. Any wood we collect now will be sodden and not really ready to burn immediately. We contemplate sending Tom out on a solo mission toting empty panniers to bring back food and fuel, but it is a decent ride to the nearest place, and he will be gone for several hours if we take this option. With the rain falling, the girls will soon be fed up of being cooped up. The bothy is equipped with a library, but the titles it stocks are a little mature for a 3 and a 4 year old.

We therefore pack up our things, and decide to head back to the car. The journey back takes nowhere near as long in daylight as it did last night - we make quicker progress across the loose sections with the confidence that daylight brings (especially the downhill parts!) and pause to enjoy the views out.

We encounter only one person during the whole of our trip, and he turns out to be a certifiable nutter. I say encounter because he was hidden in the undergrowth (we didn't ask what he was doing) and proceeded to offer (unbidden) a detailed account of his entire life and the plot of a self-published book he was writing, set in the future after we have colonised Mars, invaded the Netherlands but seceded from Scotland, and involving various members of the Royal family in acts of unspeakable perversion and debauchery (working title, "Good f***ing, my liege, Good f***ing", naturally). I ended this particular encounter (having blundered into it only after Tom and Rhoda had been captive for some minutes already) by saying "Girls, close your ears. Nice to meet you, but we're leaving now. Goodbye!" We may have just missed out on first reading the of next literary blockbuster to come out of Bonawe - we will never know (but I'm ok with that!).

Racing another incoming shower, we return triumphantly to the car, and mobile signal, to find a text message received late last night offering us a bed with a friend nearby - the whole expedition had been undertaken when we had an offer of a warm, dry, midge free bed for the night! Our first adventure of the trip under our belts, we bravely decide to see if said offer still stands, 24 hours on...

Book Review: 'The Pants of Perspective' by Anna McNuff

We have a lot to tell you about recent cycling exploits at the moment, a number of comment pieces lie half-done in my drafts, but I just have to write this review first. That's right, a book about a woman who went for a run. Alone.

"Whoah! (English for 'stop a horse') - that's nothing to do with family cycling!" I hear you cry.

Wrong! 'The Pants of Perspective' has EVERYTHING to do with what we do with our children - and after a week or so of slogging away on the WattBike at the gym, reading Anna McNuff's first (and, to her great credit, self-published) book, smirking at the puerile humour, chuckling at the impeccably observed travel and popular culture references and trying to highlight the incisive, cerebral bits whilst my phone's touchscreen was covered in sweat droplets (you know, the kind where the phone thinks you have 17 fingers touching it at once, all trying to type drivel), I want to share some thoughts on this super book and its author.

We first encountered Anna at a show in London just over a year ago. I had three tired children in tow - literally, since two of them were in the Croozer - and as we made for the exit, passing a speaker's area in the 'adventure travel' bit of the hall, I just had to stop and listen to the crazy lady in the unicorn shrink-wrap and bare feet, dancing around excitedly talking about her plan to set off around Europe entirely guided by her social media following. We had a train to catch but I made mental note to find out more. There are too few engaging female voices in the adventure sphere - and we have two adventurous girls!

Fast forward a little while and I was brave (spelt 'm-a-d') enough to head into London one evening with Ruth and Rhoda in tow, to one of the mighty Dave Cornthwaite's 'Yes Stories' pub gatherings. Despite being on the bill, Anna made a fuss of the girls (despite one of them making a loud bodily noise during her talk) and was delighted when Ruth asked her to come on an adventure with her. We don't like to make any activity 'gendered' in our household, and that's best reinforced by a range of role models; try as they might, neither of them is likely to manage a Sean Conway style beard, this side of retirement, anyway - although I know Anna will be suitably impressed if they do.

Rhoda and Ruth have announced that they are off to Argentina to play in the mud. @AnnaMcNuff I am holding you responsible! pic.twitter.com/X82pn8yIep

— Family ByCycle (@FamilyByCycle) April 17, 2017

Having followed, with the children, Anna and her friend Faye Shepherd's wonderful trip through the Andes at the turn of the year, on its recent release I started reading what I expected to be a runner's tale, only to be confronted by an insight into my own little girls' minds...

"Being the middle sibling between two brothers I quickly learnt that in order to get along in life, I must simply do what the boys did. And if I could do it better than them, faster than them, last longer than them, then that earned me something called respect. And I liked respect. I liked how it felt...

...So that’s just what I did. I did things as hard and as fast and for as long as I could."

Physiologically, there really isn't much to choose between prepubescent girls and boys. There certainly isn't any reason for their aspirations or opportunities to be different. Our girls want to go and explore the world. They want to ride their bikes. They want to camp outside in the rain. Ruth is made keen on her cycling and bothying. Rhoda collects sticks. There is no reason on God's earth to be limiting or steering the aspirations of little girls to be anything other than equal participants in the world - and most of all, I think, that means letting them develop some 'grit'. Letting them compete on level terms with everyone (and to hell with tokenism and 'best girl', or 'race against the boys from the year below' nonsense). Our daughters, just like their brother, are encouraged to aim to be the best at the things that inspire them. Not the best of some arbitrary or physiological sub-set imposed by themselves or society, but the best they can be, without limits to their aspirations!

What Anna unpacks in her book, the journey, the personal growth, that she shares in her account of running New Zealand's Te Araroa trail, is rooted in the gritty, competitive, won't-take-no-for-an-answer little girl she alluded to. She's a brilliant adventurer and a cracking story-teller, and she's still competing on equal terms with the boys, no quarter asked. How it should be, if you ask me.

The daughter of Olympic medallists, Anna was a top competitive rower who chucked in a dream, only to embark, almost unwittingly on a bigger one. She cycled across every state of the USA on a bright pink bike before setting out, unprepared in many senses, to run the length of New Zealand. Serious adventures.

I'm sure I'm not the only one who right at the moment can't be going off on such mega expeditions but is encouraged (some simply content!) to read of and live vicariously through following the travels and adventures of others. As such, each adventurer-turned-author has two fundamental things to proffer with their tale - the nuts and bolts of a journey, and a portion of themselves. Sometimes you get a good balance of the two. Sometimes you get a bland account of someone's trip without an inkling of how it moved them inside. In other accounts, from the self-pitying to the self-aggrandising, you hear so much of the person you don't feel you travelled with them, or in the case of one celebrity traveller's book, a recital of all the people they fell out with on the way, and why it was definitely all their fault.

It's the style, the shape, the tone, of Anna's writing and the sense of just the right balance that made the journey, which you must read the book to learn more about, so absorbing. An epic journey worthy of Mark Beaumont, intimating the delightful unpreparedness that reminded me of Sean Conway, the erudite, well-read commentary of an Alastair Humphreys or a Tom Allen - and the downright joyful ridiculousness of, well, Anna herself! There's even a love theme, which will lead you on to another super book which Thomas Ivor is going to review soon.

As she runs through New Zealand, Anna hits a man with a 'hug tornado', contemplates having a bath in Fanta, likens herself variously to both a chimp and a crab, invents the name of a new STI... and still (and this is significant) finds time to use the word 'ineffable' as she shares the beauty of the land and the mental ups and downs of parallel journeys.

Via unicorn hair, an entire Avicii album (there was more than one?), named trainers, poo jokes and copious chocolate consumption, the reader is happily carried along on a journey that speaks with erudition right into the developing life experiences of a traveller of our generation, with or without children. I was transported back to my own visits to Crianlarich YHA, a decade or so apart:

"I realised that the last time I’d been in a hostel, I was nineteen. I strutted around the kitchen, considering the differences between my 19-year-old and 30-year-old self. I remember being more nervous back then, awkward, self-conscious even. Now I definitely couldn’t care less. If I wanted to use the only remaining ring on the hob in a crowded kitchen, I would damn well use it. I decided I liked being 30, and carried on making my noodles."

By the end of the journey, both literal and metaphorical, both Katie and I had thoroughly enjoyed ourselves in the company of an accomplished storyteller. Anna's tale of an astonishing feat of endurance counterpoints serious contemplation on life and how we life it, with joyous silliness and observational humour. We can't wait for her cycling books, which must surely follow!

'The Pants of Perspective' is available on Kindle or in hard copy from Amazon - or you can order a signed copy, with or without your own pair of said pants, from Anna's website.

My day at Islabikes - by Thomas Ivor

My day at Islabikes was amazing thanks to Isla Rowntree, Rob Burns and the rest of the team at Islabikes.

Firstly I had a tour of the factory and met all the sales and social media people and had a quick look at some #Imagine project frames ready for testing to see how strong they were. Next we moved on to the customer service team who you will speak to if you need anything from them. After your call they will find the spares and send them within two days. That room also is where the Luaths, Creigs, Pro series and adult bikes are built; there is a conveyor belt to take those bikes down for the 4pm lorry to arrive and take the bikes all over the world.

We went downstairs and met all the people who build the Beinns, Cnocs and Rothans. I also met RJ who was going to help service King Louis with me. The people who build the bikes take a box with a bike in it and build it to RJ's exacting standards. All the standards and rules are in a big folder for all the bikes.

Rob B took us for a drink upstairs and then we went back to RJ to strip King Louis. I learnt about lots of parts and looked inside them. We then swapped bits over like the gear cables and bar tape. Once we had finished it was time for lunch. We had to get out more chairs because not all of us could fit round the table!

After lunch Steve, Rob and I got changed to go for a mountain bike ride; they had lent me one of their Pro series Creig 24s to ride and kindly put my pedals on it. Our route was very hilly. There was one enormous hill where Daddy had to start walking half way up!

We were about to enter a long boggy section where the ride really was going to begin. I had never been mountain biking before, and it was a good job I had watched some GMBN videos or would have had no idea of what to do.


We finally got to the end and went back to the factory where I watched the team test their puncture repair kits for a big ride they were preparing for. Afterwards Rob took me into the showroom, where there lay a new bike for me to have new adventures with - I loved it. I named it 'King Louis II'. I said so many 'thank you's and said goodbye. It had been a grand day out in Shropshire and I hope that we can do some more things together again.

Coming soon: Islabikes - A parent's perspective!

Trailerbike Time

One of the peculiarities of cycling with a family, particularly over significant distances, is the array of peculiar and bespoke kit you end up using. With the size of children being an ever-changing feast, one year's solution may well not be the next, and when you have multiple children, different pieces of kit go from irrelevant to indispensable and back on a seemingly reciprocal basis. Having first been used seven years ago, our trailer is potentially about to drop out of use again and we joke that maybe we should have another child so we don't have to deal with saying goodbye to the trailer! 

Watch out for an article soon about the different ways to tow your children.

It's also the case now that our growing family cannot afford to lose load capacity, which for us is more about volume than weight. As Ruth and Rhoda have grown, we need fewer nappies but a bigger tent. Their clothes take up that bit more space, although they need fewer spare sets. They weigh more, but are almost ready to start carrying some of their own weight. It's a moving feast. With the trailer leaving our touring setup imminently, we needed options to claw back some capacity.

Now that Ruth is riding by herself, one tool that is about to come back into play after a few years off is the trailerbike, with which we last rode in 2014 when we traversed the Outer Hebrides - Thomas Ivor's first proper tour.

That first trailerbike, a Trek Mountain Train which we bought off eBay for just £34, did us sterling service, but there's no escaping the significant weight and ungainliness of the thing. We had one of two problems with it of late, particularly the occasion when the folding arm's hinge bolt undid itself and the arm fell off the back of the car - mercifully at low speed in a town with no damage done. Unfortunately, the bolt, which has a rare locking head, was lost; Trek no longer stock the parts. It's been sat gathering dust in the basement for a while, and I couldn't help but feel it was a little more agricultural than the rest of our kit.

When one of the old Islabikes trailerbikes turned up for a reasonable price on the excellent Facebook group, I decided to go for it, with an eye on Ruth's next move. The weight difference is significant, and best of all it mounts to the adult's bike using a bespoke rear rack, rather than the seatpost. Our frustration at the small gauge of the rack (requiring adjustment to our Ortlieb panniers' clips to take up the slack, meaning our fronts no longer fit on the rear for short trips) was more than tempered by the stability of the setup, and the adjustable handlebars, which meant we got Ruth riding straight away, to our surprise.

It was then that progress came to a grinding halt, when our touring bikes (and crucially, that special, not-made-any-more rear rack) were stolen off the back of our car.

The chances of us obtaining a replacement rack were slim-to-none - but first impressions of the trailerbike had been so strong we weren't going to give it up that easily. Only a couple of days later, the children and I waited at the station for Mummy to arrive home having been to the south coast and back after work, on the all stations stopping train, to fetch another identical trailerbike, which was being sold with two racks. We were back to two bikes and two racks, even though it would be a while before we would use them all. I'm so glad we did.

Soon I discovered that for short trips and day rides, I could hitch the trailer to the back of the trailerbike, and we were mobile as a three-up combo. I will admit, it's like trying to fly a freight train when hills are involved, but on railway path, it worked a treat. Ruth got to ride, and if ever she tired, she could jump in the trailer. As it happened, the threat of the latter always caused her to dig deep and keep riding!

As we looked to another year's touring needs, I decided it was probably the right moment to invest in making the trailerbikes ready with a bit of a makeover, and so the #PimpMyTrailerbike project began...

Coming soon: How we rebuilt our Islabikes trailer bikes for touring with the littlest people!

Mike Hall - Ride in Peace

"I have hosts of friends, but not more than half a dozen the news of whose death would spoil my breakfast." - Lord MacAulay

Woken earlier than normal today thanks to a reminder for a dental appointment, I groped for my 'phone beside the bed and couldn't quite believe what I was reading. I was back in May 1994, with a sick feeling in my stomach, for the loss of a man I never even met.

By Cm2white - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0,
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=46001961

Mike Hall and Ayrton Senna were both extraordinary men. Both died at almost my age, doing something they loved, doing it flat-out, at the top of their game, and in days where they had expressed concerns about safety.

On reading with disbelief of Mike's death, hit by a car near Canberra, Australia, in a part of the world where cyclists  are by all accounts pretty poorly esteemed, I was reminded of the moment, sat in the back of my parents' car on the way back from church all those years ago, I heard the radio news announce that Senna had died. It couldn't be true - he was one of the greatest. He was only 35. He was an inspiration. It wasn't right.

There are those that have died during heroic feats of human endeavour, where the risk of their activity was created by nature - but Mike was doing something we do. He was riding his bike. He was better at it and more dedicated to it than most of us can hope to be, but it really hit home that this was a man-made danger to which he had succumbed. An avoidable loss.

Today's devastating news cuts to the heart of the long-distance cycling community - our community. As a family we offer our condolences to Mike's family, and to his friends and ours who today mourn his untimely loss. A fund has been set up to support his family, and the love and respect from the cycling community towards one of their own, a true one-off, is palpable. He lived life to the full and inspired so many.

Mike Hall won the 2012 'Round the World Cycle Race' in 91 days, 18 hours. He went on to win other ultra-cycling races, and to organise them. He was chasing the leader of the Indian Pacific Wheel Race when he was killed. 

As the dentist drilled my teeth earlier, I heard the Divine Comedy on the radio. "You have got to love what you do". We have the consolation that Mike, like Senna, did just that - and he leaves as his legacy a challenge that we should do the same - and do it to the full.

I wasn't privileged to have met Mike Hall, but I didn't have any breakfast this morning.

That smile. Ride in Peace Mike Hall. RIP pic.twitter.com/TlFyTG3i4d

— Sean Conway (@Conway_Sean) March 31, 2017

7 great reasons to take your family bothying

It's been a long time coming but following the girls' foray into bikepacking, we broke new ground at the weekend with a trip to a bothy in Mid-Wales with our girls Ruth (4) and Rhoda (2). What an experience! It's something we want to share.

What's a bothy?

The term originates in Gaelic and these days a bothy is generally taken to refer to a shelter (often in the way of old crofters' cottages or estate huts) in a wild place, which is available for the use of passing travellers. The vast majority are in Scotland but there are a few in Northern England and in Wales, lots of which are cared for by the Mountain Bothy Association. We visited one of two belonging to the Elan Valley Trust.

A bothy isn't likely to impress Lenny Henry. You're going to have to bring your own sleeping gear. And cooking gear. And lighting. And make a fire. Oh, and you'll probably need to take water with you, and a trip to the toilet may involve a spade and a bit of a walk...

Hold on, though, - that's wild camping with the benefit of four walls, a roof and guaranteed permission! Here's why we think any adventure-loving family should give 'bothying' a shot:

1. It's free!

So many opportunities to do things in the wilds actually come at a cost. Even campsite prices seem to be rising steadily, often calculated in such a way as to penalise families travelling light and bright, who aren't turning up with a Chelsea tractor, a tent the size of Belgium, more Christmas lights than Oxford Street and a shrunk down, folding and ultimately dismal version of every appliance and item of furniture found in their home. 

You've got to get to your chosen bothy, but that goes for any outing. You've got to eat and keep warm, but you'd have to do that at home. Fundamentally, using a bothy needn't cost you anything. How many forms of under cover accommodation can claim that?

2. They're always open

Not only are bothies free to use, they're a reliable place to stay the night - particularly at a time of year when campsites are closed and the weather even less dependable than normal. Just be prepared to share with whoever has had the same idea as you! We had the bothy to ourselves on a Saturday night, and judging by entries in the 'bothy book' it looked like most visitors had enjoyed a similar stay, but we reckon you could have slept twenty in the bothy we visited, without trouble. Of course, you might find a bothy equally welcoming and useful as a lunch stop during a day in the wild.

3. The adventure begins at home

I've always reckoned that the best adventures begin with map sheets spread across the lounge floor, or multiple browser tabs open on the computer, at least one of which is Google maps telling you the distance from your home to somewhere exciting.

A very distinct part of bothying is that the onus is on you to find them, not only when you go, but beforehand! Locations used to be protected by almost masonic-like secrecy, but no longer! Nevertheless there's still a school of thought that says that these wonderful places should be kept for those who will cherish them. If you want to try this bothying lark badly enough, and take the trouble to do some basic research online, you'll find all the information you need for a wonderful adventure. Then, you just need to decide how you're going to get there! For a first trip, we would recommend choosing somewhere relatively low-risk - some bothies are surprisingly close to public roads - and be sure before you set out that you have the tools and skills to navigate to your destination.

4. There's less to pack - and you already have the gear

It's always great to discover a new activity for which you (not to mention the children) don't need to go out and buy a load of stuff up front. The great news is, if you camp as a family, you already have what you need - you just leave the tent at home and throw in a few candles instead. Boom. For us, that's a significant weight saving on our bikes. Ruth and Rhoda took the opportunity to test out their new Alpkit 'Cloud Covers' which reduced the bulk still further. There are a few consumables to consider, but the equipment you'll want, you are sure to already own and be familiar with if you camp as a family, with or without bikes.

With a bit of research you can get an idea as to whether you will want to take fuel with you for heat. Some bothies have a ready supply of wood nearby, but by no means all. We chose a bothy which we could get relatively close to with the car, so took in a 10kg bag of coal as insurance. It turned out we didn't need it and as a result, subsequent visitors will get a pleasant surprise and a warm night, too!

5. The weather doesn't matter (so much!)

We can't promise that the bothy you visit won't be draughty. We won't tell you that the night won't be a cold one, and getting there will be an adventure in itself, and subject to the great outdoors, but four walls and a roof is a major game-changer when the weather is marginal - or downright awful.  We went all-out to test this theory by going to Wales in February, in the back end of the mighty storm 'Doris', with a forecast for it to blow a hoolie and persist with rain. Camping would have been miserable. Anything else would have been too urban and too expensive. The bothy was brilliant.

6. Peace and quiet - remember that?

Mrs Large (the elephant) should have visited a bothy - although the book might well have ended up being called 'We're going on a bothy hunt'. If you want solitude, you will find it in the back end of nowhere, especially at times when others are dissuaded from going there. One of the main rewards for the schlep to a remote bothy is getting away from it all. To step outside your front door at a time when the world is still busy, and to see - and hear - absolutely nothing artificial, is priceless to us.  We put the girls to bed and sat with a roaring fire on, totally undisturbed, before retiring for the night without having to lock up.

7. Have a unique adventure

How often do you stay somewhere that is a destination in itself? Every bothy is different, not just in setting and geographical location, but the structures themselves, the rudimentary facilities they offer, and indeed the fellow travellers you may meet there. There is a bothy to suit every taste - some are little more than a hut, a few have toilets and running water. Some are many miles from the nearest road, set in rugged mountains or on desolate moorland; others enjoy their own beach and view of the coast, and a good few are accessible to adventurous families.

Where to find your first bothy, then? Well, that's easier than it used to be. The Mountain Bothy Association decided not so long ago to start publishing the locations of their bothies, and some super books have emerged in recent times. We really like "The Scottish Bothy Bible" by Geoff Allan (review coming up!), and an enchanting film from Alastair Humphreys which our children have loved for some time.

We're already looking for an opportunity to go bothying again, with our bikes and Ruth's new bikepacking setup. We've been tipped off about one or two interesting options in Scotland. Be sure to bookmark our blog and follow us on social media to find out more, and if you've got a question, or you've got a bothying story to share, please do so in the comments below!