Matt

Writer of words, rider of bikes.
Also fond of a good walk.

A bike leans on a National Cycle Network waymarker, a tree to one side and a loch in the background.

This had to be the one. No. Maybe that one over there? Wrong again. Each time I decided a towering hill was the one guarding the head of the glen, signifying I was nearly home, my hopes were dashed. Eventually, I stopped torturing myself and just let the climbs come. The glen would appear in its own time, it couldn’t be rushed.

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A child rides their bike on a winding trail through a pine forest, their green coat billowing behind them.

After settling into our little white cottage, we rode the path from the village down to the visitors’ centre. Off-road riding almost from the door. This was how things should be, this was going to be a good holiday.

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A waterfall called Sgwd-yr-Eira, The Falling of the Snow, makes a white curtain as it plunges into a pool below

We tread carefully along the rock-cut path, our faces misted with spray and our voices raised against the white noise of the plunging water. This is what we’ve come to see, this is Sgwd-yr-Eira – the Falling of the Snow.

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A child cycles along a rough track in high country, grassy slopes on either side.

Not every family rough-stuff expedition we attempt goes smoothly but an October ride in the Elan Valley proved to be a hit, despite the conditions.

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Viewed from behind, a young boy in a blue shirt cycles over a viaduct on a sunny day – green trees in the distance.

When a drive back from Cornwall took us past the start of the Granite Way in Okehampton, it was the perfect chance for a ride that offers a unique perspective on Dartmoor.

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A young boy in a blue t-shirt sits on a sandy beach, his yellow bike propped up in the sand behind him.

Our largely car-free week in Cornwall showed what’s possible when people have access to good cycling infrastructure.

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Three bikes lean against a wooden gate and fence in a forest.

Following a year in which the pandemic had kept us close to home, the prospect of a few days pedalling along tracks by the River Wye felt like a distant adventure.

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A young boy in a blue t-shirt cycles away from the camera on a forest track.

It had been six months since we’d been to Mortimer Forest and it felt good to be back. For family rides, forest tracks offer us the sort of traffic-free exploration that’s hard to come by where we live. Whenever we roll out of a car park and into the trees, we feel free.

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A child in a blue t-shirt rides a bike away down a farm track.

When the fruit farm’s website announced the ripening of the strawberries, we knew exactly where our family ride that Sunday would take us.

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Between Lulworth and Kimmeridge, rocky cliffs – white with patches of green – jut out into a pale blue sea.

It was an adventure I’d dreamed about since a childhood bedtime story – an adventure that spanned 14 years, starting in Minehead when I was a teenager and finishing in Poole as I was about to become a parent.

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