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:
|This man is certifiably insane.|
|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.
Except for the burning thigh part.