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:
BEFORE
But it didn't take long before I looked like this:
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 . . .
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.
The coastal waters 1100 feet above the town of Minehead.
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.
