All of a sudden, our endless, parched summer was over, and the UK was fast becoming a familiar patchwork of brilliant greens under a canopy of wet clouds once more. Time then to plan a trip to Wales!

I jest, though now that I’m based in Bristol again, I am reminded what a bikepacking delight it is to have this rugged nugget of a country so close to my front door, despite its infamy for moisture. I’ve long been in awe of the diversity and density of the biking there, a striking contrast to cramped southern England, just a pedal away over the splendid Severn Bridge—or a short train ride beneath the Bristol Channel’s watery depths.

Wales is the size of New Jersey, if that means anything to you. But it has 600 times more sheep!

My admiration for its topography harks back to my formative days as a mountain biker in the early 2000s. Back then—long before the dawn of heat maps and GPX files—we debated between following tell-tale magenta dashes that denoted rights of way on our well-thumbed Ordnance Survey maps, or heading for the exciting, all-weather, cross-country trail centres that had sprung up in the late 1990s. These had tongue-twisting names like Cwm Carn or Nant yr Arian, and were more point-and-shoot in their riding style—precursors, in some ways, to the augmented-reality-esque mountain biking of Bike Park Wales and Dyfi, of Atherton and Red Bull fame.

A bwlch is a gap or a mountain col, and for good reason, it appears in many a Welsh place name.

For the most part, our outings crossed lush, green hillsides carved by ice sheets and meandering rivers, and traced ridgelines along giant, glaciated U-shaped valleys. They were shaped—in terrain, direction, and even state of mind—by an ancient trail tapestry of drovers’ tracks and rural rights-of-way, and riddled with steep climbs up deep gorges that defied rhythm or reason. We learnt that the best you could do was accept your lot and get on with it: muscle your way up out of the saddle or succumb to the inevitable and simply push. In search of the wildest off-road adventures, we pedalled through swathes of boggy, peaty moorland, which promised the remoteness we longed for and never failed to humble or surprise us. There, Wales’ temperamental weather trained bikepackers in the art of overcoming adversity, just as these moorlands have long drawn soldiers seeking mastery in navigation and survival.

The Black Mountains are named after the brooding appearance of their heather-covered ridges and high peat plateaus.

Situated within easy reach of both Bristol and Wales’s capital, Cardiff, the Brecon Beacons National Park was our go-to stomping ground—and when I found myself in the UK a number of years later, over an unusually sunny weekend to boot, I put together a bikepacking homage to the Black Mountains and the Central Beacons, the principal ranges encircled by the park.

Dubbed The Brecons Bash, the route knits together two once-classic “Killer Loops” at its core, epic day riders published by the once popular Mountain Bike Rider. To transform them into a multi-day adventure, a two-carriage train drops riders off at the end-of-the-line station in Merthyr Tydfil, beginning a rollercoasting ride to Abergavenny that climbs up and down, and up and down once more, the Brecons’ most iconic off-road cols, Bwlch ar y Fan and Y Dâs, be it by push or pedal. The hard-fought rewards? Sweeping views across the Brecons, mile upon mile of remote heathland yomps, and long, glorious, and often rather bumpy descents.

This is not sandal-friendly terrain.

Now that I’ve returned to Bristol after several years away, it felt like the perfect trip to repeat, and an ideal way to introduce Emma to Wales. This time, however, we’d create a loop out of Abergavenny, using the Monmouthshire and Brecon canal path to ease us into a weekend of classic Welsh riding. Offering a rare couple of hours of gentle rambling—during which we overtook flotillas of ducks and near-sedentary narrowboats—the canal path also let Emma adjust to a borrowed bike: a Brother Cycles Pinecone. We’d both chosen to go old-school for the bash and were thus piloting fully rigid mountain bikes. But Emma was channelling this spirit more fully. Her bright yellow Pinecone came complete with rim brakes, inner tubes, and a friction thumbie she dubbed the “vibes shifter,” along with era-correct splatter paintwork. In keeping with bikes of the time, she might have welcomed a triple chainset. But given that this route involves its fair share of pushing no matter how many teeth you have at your disposal, we weren’t going to let that period detail get in the way of a good time.

Meandering and treehugging along the Monmouthshire & Brecon Canal.

Sure enough, our initial meander ended abruptly, as anything flat is destined to do in Wales. We turned off at a mechanical lock, where sluice gates and hand-cranked winches raise and lower chambers of murky canal water—into which squeeze narrowboats common to British waterways—onto an equally narrow backlane that crunched with twigfall as it bolted directly towards the cloudy heavens.

Before long, we steered our way onto a bridleway that traced the Beacons Way, a 99-mile hike across the park. Initially, we climbed past a flank of sessile oak trees, the national tree of Wales, opening and closing a series of stubborn gates, and pedalling through working farms amok with sheep and littered with rusting Land and Range Rovers from decades past. From there, we emerged onto open moorland, where we intersected with the original Brecons Bash—grass one moment, mud the next, and rocks after that. Onwards we rode our bikes, or rather pushed and hefted, beneath sullen skies that refused to settle, until we made it to the top of the infamous “Gap,” or Bwlch ar y Fan, between the prominent peaks of Fan y Big and Cribyn.

Let the Welsh initiation begin!

Our arrival there coincided with three exciting events. The first was the Dragon’s Back Race, a legendary 380-kilometre, six-day stage ultra-marathon traversing the mountainous spine of Wales, from Conwy Castle in the north to Cardiff Castle in the south. Boasting 16,400 metres of cumulative climbing, it crosses Snowdonia National Park and crests mighty Cadair Idris Peak. Yes, that’s an average of 2,600 metres and 63 kilometres each day—which I’m not sure I could even manage on my bike! In awe, we stood watching a line of stringbean runners scramble down the aforementioned Dragon’s Back, a precariously steep and narrow trail that descends and ascends on either side of the Gap.

I cheered one man on and asked how far he was running that day. Understandably, his eyes were somewhat glazed. “I’m not even sure anymore. Fifty miles?” All he knew was that darkness was falling and he still had miles to go before he’d kip down in a field for the night to tackle the final 65-kilometre trot to Cardiff. Nonetheless, he seemed more impressed by our own distinctly humble undertaking.

“Are you heading over the Gap?” he asked, glazed eyes widening. “It’s bumpy!” he added, mimicking holding handlebars and being jolted down a descent, as if he had it lucky with his five days of exhausting cross-country running. Later, I double-checked the stats for this penultimate segment of the race, and it was indeed 75 kilometres, complete with a mammoth 3,200 metres of climbing. That’s enough to glaze any eyeballs, whether two-legged or two-wheeled.

Chicken keema curry atop Bwlch ar y Fan.

Darkness was indeed closing in, so we decided to call this grassy hollow home and set up my near-vintage Tarptent Rainbow, a solo tent that last saw service in Central America in 2011 and whose specs now include two busted zippers and seam tape peeling like dried skin. This coincided with the evening’s second exciting occurrence. Just as we were tucking into a delicious dinner—dehydrated chicken keema curry brought back to life in a quilt cosy—a rescue helicopter swooped out of the night sky and flew directly over us, its powerful spotlight turning night into daytime for a moment as it scoured the hillsides back and forth. We watched it hover above Cribyn for some time, before it eventually dived back into darkness once more, leading us to wonder if a tired and forlorn Dragon’s Back runner was being airlifted to safety.

The last event took the ethereal form of a gale-force wind that struck at midnight. It manifested from nowhere, buffeting our little Rainbow from every which direction, aluminium poles bending like an archer’s bow and silnylon walls pressing into our faces like clingfilm. Meanwhile, our impossible-to-close porch flapped and snapped between broken zips loudly and relentlessly, until it was finally time to wiggle out, bleary-eyed, into the windy world again the next morning.

Against all odds, the 15-year-old Tarptent Rainbow survived the night.

Continuing north, the Gap is initially even more tortuous to descend than to climb. Our second day began with a rocky scramble down a flight of jagged, misshapen steps, albeit crafted beautifully from Old Red Sandstone—purportedly an old Roman road—along which we occasionally rode but more often picked and pushed our way through.

It was the weekend and outdoor enthusiasts of all ages and abilities were making the most of it. We crossed paths with a large group of women hikers who greeted us with warm smiles and cheery Welsh gusto, as if oblivious to the ever-expanding collection of ominous, inky clouds that had gathered overhead. Similarly unbothered by such meteorological concerns, groups of wandering kids—no adults in sight—stumbled around beneath enormous backpacks, knee-deep in Duke of Edinburgh outdoor adventuring awards. They battled their large Ordnance Survey maps in the wind—the exact same kind as the ones we carried on our mountain biking forays in years past—and tried to wrestle them back into some semblance of a folded state.

Cymru Am Byth. Wales Forever!

In turn—and after pick-me-up coffees in the shelter of an oak-lined trail—we reached an open plateau where sheep vastly outnumbered us. Between munching on the endless banquet of grass and long peeing sessions, they observed us with detached interest. The sheep in Wales take their delicious pursuit of tending mountain lawns seriously. It demands 24/7 commitment, 365 days a year, whatever the weather—and they had early afternoon snacking to do.

Beyond, a V-brake-melting descent led us to a muddy byway that guided us through a passageway of almost impregnable ferns, narrower than our handlebars and towering well above our heads, before connecting us to the second monster climb of the loop. The infamous hike-a-bike to Y Dâs. I admit that I’m less HAB-averse than some, and I’ve even been known to enjoy them on occasion. But I wonder if even a mother could love this particular brute, gaining some 250 metres in elevation over a mere kilometre in distance in an unrelenting mishmash of rock, sculpted dirt, and ferocious inclines. It’s an old-fashioned heads-down push, hard enough on an unladen mountain bike, no matter the era, let alone loaded with camping gear.

It takes a legion of sheep to manicure these mountains.

“I guess you’ve got to do the ups to enjoy the downs!” quipped one hiker, watching me struggle up a switchback so steep my handlebars bumped my chin. As I paused to rest my sore back, I gazed out at the bucolic countryside and wondered, What if I could trick my mind? What if I could convince myself that “You’ve got to do the downs to enjoy the ups!” I repeated this mantra with each slow step forward, reminding myself how far we’d travelled for such a treat of a climb. As if to congratulate our efforts, only when we reached the very top—cheered on by two girls in high street clothes they might have bought from Zara—did the clouds circling us all day close in for the tightest, dampest Welsh embrace.

Didn’t the forecast say it was going to be sunny?

Like any UK bikepacker worth their salt, we’d studied all the weather models diligently before leaving home. What had now become a persistent drizzle was completely unforecast, and initially we waved our phones into the air, searching for cell signal to double- and triple-check our apps—as petulant as this will sound to anyone familiar with outdoor recreation in Wales.

Damp and downcast, we considered pushing on to the bothy by Grwyne Fawr reservoir and seeking sanctuary there. But knowing its tiny proportions, we suspected it was likely already a stone-walled sardine can packed head-to-toe with hikers. Instead—and just before the downpour crescendoed—we settled on a misty yet idyllic riverside camping spot. The ever-crafty Emma upcycled a zipper from her rainproof pants to help seal off the tent for the evening, and we settled in for a wet night, damp walls all the closer to our two sleeping bags, given that our tent was designed only for one. Beneath our air mattresses, we soaked up pools of water with a sacrificial pair of Emma’s underwear, which she wrung out on the porch every few hours.

Wales’ sheep population numbers 10 million, and I wonder if this is the roundest one.

Unsurprisingly, perhaps, our last day began completely sodden. Distracted from its munching duties, an unusually round sheep—like a four-legged sponge that had soaked up rainfall all night—watched us cram dripping gear into bags. As the morning downpour wetted our jackets through once again, we marvelled at this creature’s complete disregard for such inclement conditions. Even more, we admired its 100% natural, 100% dialled layering system.

Back on our bikes, we rode down a track shiny with wet, slippery stones and then up a broad gravel road that spiralled its way up through a forest plantation. When the sun did pierce the clouds, we stopped to unpack our gear and allow it to dry out as best we could—and to allow our spirits to lift too. I had a good feeling that the worst of the weather was now firmly behind us, and I proclaimed it thus, confidently even, as if I were now fully recalibrated to the complexities and nuances of British weather and could provide a far more reliable forecast than any phone app. This was just as well, I enthused, as the final traverse across open moorland, speckled with heather, gorse, and bilberry, promised fantastic views to the conical-shaped Sugar Loaf hill, the southernmost peak of the Black Mountains, and out across the Usk valley. I was excited for Emma to enjoy the full majesty in this spectacular finale of the trip.

“Can I ride this route with 40mm tyres?”

Sadly, I must have been away from the UK for too long, because I couldn’t have been more wrong with my bold prediction: within 20 minutes, a wall of drizzle materialised before us, into which we rode and were quickly soaked through once more. On the wet, brake-pad-screeching descent that ensued, we crossed paths with a hundred sheep and one lone cyclist. The latter rode a ’90s mountain bike he’d lovingly resprayed and converted into a drop-bar gravel bike, a fine testament to the longevity of such machines and the places they can take you. However, like Emma, he lamented his complete lack of braking power in this adverse weather and down such precipitous slopes. Still, it was consoling to know we weren’t the only ones caught out—steep hills, torrential rain, V-brakes, and all.

A great place to test your waterproofs.

Thankfully, a rolling country lane warmed us back up to safe operating temperatures, guiding us swiftly to Abergavenny’s train station, where we squeezed into a busy carriage with four other hardy bikepackers. Quizzically, Emma and I noted their remarkably dry clothes and steeds. “What pact with the Diafol had they signed?” we mused.

The moss-draped rainforests of Wales.

Regardless, we were thrilled to have completed the loop and relieved to be out of the elements, homeward bound once more. I can’t say I wouldn’t have preferred the clear skies we’d been promised, however tenuous that promise may have been. Or that the parched, dry summer might have lasted just a few days longer. But this is wild and windswept Wales, and it wouldn’t have been a proper initiation for Emma any other way. As for me, I’m just happy to be back in Bristol for now, and to have Wales as a neighbour again, come rain or shine. I look forward to chasing once more its elusive riding rhythm, refreshing past memories of two-wheeled adventures in this storied land, and creating new ones too.

Brother Cycles Pinecone

Emma borrowed a bright yellow Pinecone from Brother Cycles for her trip to the UK—a simple, steel, rigid mountain bike that can be reinvented with differing wheel sizes and brake types. Ours sported an eclectic, eminently stylish mix of parts, plus our own bags.

First, we attached a Jack the Rack and a BXB bag. I’d not tried this rack before, and I’m very impressed. It works with 22.2mm diameter bars, and it behaved admirably across some seriously bumpy terrain. Into a matching, bright yellow Wizard Works triangle pouch that echoed the ’80s mood, we crammed an inner tube and tools. Out back, a more contemporary Tailfin Cargo Pack safeguarded a sleeping bag and kept layers bone dry—a necessity for all UK outings, and Wales in particular. As tempting as it was to throw on some old panniers to complete the look, we figured its slim, waterproof profile would be more suitable for the forecasted bike pushes and the unforecasted weather.

Shifting came courtesy of a very pragmatic Microshift Advent X groupset. Though it suited rolling gravel forays, a cassette that topped out at 48T and a 38T chainring meant less-than-ideal gear inches for old-school mountain biking in Wales. We kept the thumb shifter in its friction setting.

We surrendered ourselves to the non-tubeless wheelset and prepared to pay our dues to the god of punctures. Should such a sacrifice have to be made, we’d use it as a chance for an impromptu picnic. It’s quite the mental leap running tubes again after banishing them from our tyres. But after all these years, they still work pretty well!

The build included a whole host of other thoughtful touches, like tapered spacers from TRNK, snazzy purple brake cable housing, tasty Middleburn cranks, and a set of Avid Arch Rivals, an eBay find and considered by some retro and resto modders to be the finest rim brakes on the planet. As this loaner bike was a size larger than Emma would normally run, we weren’t able to run the lever-activated Jump Seat dropper I’d earmarked for the trip.

Brother Pinecone Build Kit

• Frame and Fork: Brother Cycles Pincone (Medium)
• Rims: 27.5-inch non tubeless
• Hubs: Shimano XT front and rear
• Tires: Teravail Ehline 27.5 x 2.3in
• Handlebars: Magic Components KT800, 37mm backsweep
• Stem: Nitto
• Headset: Hope
• Crankset: Middleburn with square taper BB
• Cassette: Microshift AdventX 11-48 (10 speed)
• Derailleur(s): Microshift AdventX
• Brakes: Avid Arch Rival
• Levers: Avid
• Shifter(s): Microshift thumbshifter
• Saddle: Selle Italia Flite
• Seatpost: Thomson silver
• Front bag: BXB proto
• Rear bag: Tailfin CargoPack
• Front rack:Jack the Rack
• Accessories: 2 x Oveja Negra Chuckbucket stem bags, Wizard Works mini triangle

The SuperMutt

Lest my SuperMutt should feel left out, here are a few accompanying shots—you can learn more about this bike in my Summer Editor’s Dozen. With its endlessly long dropper post, all-powerful hydros, and contemporary fully rigid geo, it feels like the modern-day equivalent to the mountain bikes that have long roamed these Welsh hills—more similar in spirit, at least, than the full suspension e-bikes we mostly saw!

For the gear-curious, the framebag is of a bolt-in variety, sewn by San Util Design in the faraway (but perhaps equally damp) Pacific Northwest, and I particularly love its magenta lining. Elsewhere, bags are by Tailfin, designed locally in Bristol, and rigorously tested in these wet climes.

The Route

This is our version of the route, ridden as a loop out of Abergavenny train station. I’ll update the original Brecons Bash to incorporate the reader-recommended changes. Thanks for the feedback!

Bannau Brycheiniog

I apologise for not using the Brecon Beacons’ new title—Bannau Brycheiniog—throughout this post—for fear, perhaps, of constant typos. Renamed in 2023, Bannau Brycheiniog translates to Peaks of Brychan’s Kingdom, correcting the misconception that burning beacons were once lit atop the mountain’s peaks, from which its Anglicised name derives. You can learn more about the national park’s Welsh heritage and bold plans for its future here.

Postscript: Emma has now replaced the Rainbow’s zipper pulls with new ones, as well as applying a fresh layer of seam sealer and assorted patches throughout. Whilst I’m not sure it’s quite ready for another wet and windy Welsh weekend, I’m hopeful it can handle almost anywhere else in the world…

Further Reading

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