Today my man talked me into mountain biking up to the top of the highest part of
Minehead, a coastal city lying on the south bank of the Bristol Channel. He said, "You had four kids. This will be a piece of cake."
Note to self: anytime anyone ever begins a statement with "you had four kids" just go right ahead and karate chop them in the throat and don't look back.
Okay, so yeah, I did manage to get my fanny on a bike:
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| BEFORE |
But it didn't take long before I looked like this:
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| DURING |
Sweet mercy! I had no idea thighs could smoke like that. But I pressed on, mostly by walking my bike, following the crazy man I married . . .
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| This man is certifiably insane. |
But I have to admit that once we reached the top, it was worth it. The Bristol Channel to our right and pastoral countryside to the left.
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| The coastal waters 1100 feet above the town of Minehead. |
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| A patchwork of Somerset farms off in the distance. |
So . . . since there were no museums or lectures involved in today's activities, what exactly does any of this have to do with writing historical fiction? The experience. I felt the strong gusts of wind wreak havoc with my hair. I tasted the damp, briny air as I watched the tide come in. I smelled skunks and cows and sheep as we rode past pasture land. I lived in the moment, soaking in everything the rural southwest England land offered and it was indeed awesome.
Except for the burning thigh part.
