Any dream

"Baby I've been thinking about a trailer by the sea
We could go to Mexico, you, the cat, and me
We'll drink Tequila and look for sea shells,
Now doesn't that sound sweet?"

Dreams have a shape like clouds, and every time you look up they've changed or moved or become something else, sometimes fading out to nothing.  And my dreams slowly become the most flexible fluid plans imaginable.

On the wall at home now is an Academic Year Planner.  And my word there's a lot of days on it, a lot of spaces, almost daunting but not quite.  Visually it's inspiring all that emptiness that's mine, all mine, mine to fill.  I've never had this before; a life free of Ought, Should, Have to.  And it's funny because I was talking to a rider in the changing rooms last night about post London, and she's excited too by a life similarly free of those obligations, of the future which isn't just a chance or an opportunity to be and to do but a very real place with all those things you can do because I Want, Like To, Can.

On the planner is a six week rough chunk labelled New Zealand. A friend is working for me on flight options out and back with all the flexibility in the world.  And the rider from the changing rooms has offered me use of her parents house in the South Island.  And it would be foolish to decline because there will be a washing machine (I am ever practical) and harvesting of pears and grapes, and it fires up my passion.

And Joshua Cadison brings me the words ...

"Jessie paint your pictures about how it's gonna be
By now I should know better, your dreams are never free
But tell me all about our little trailer by the sea
Jessie you can always sell any dream to me
Oh Jessie, you can always sell any dream to me"

Too tired

So tired from the weekend yet still hauled myself out of the office and off to the climbing wall tonight.  There's obviously one hell of a huge part of me who has the bit between her teeth and wants, one way or another, what it takes to keep building or at the very least maintaining a level of fitness which will help me to get what I want out of the next year.  The rational part of me is a little afraid that I'll probably end up injured.  But at the end of the day, exercise maintains a certain level of contentedness, and exercise with other folk is sublime.

And tonight was perfect, climbing as part of a threesome.  Which means you do slightly fewer climbs but also means that while you're belaying or simply watching you get to chat with folk.  Also, given how knackered I am from the weekend it means that we got to be sure I didn't fall asleep belaying.  Unfortunately I'm so hyper now what with the good times I'm not sure I'll actually sleep.  Ooops.

And the Beautiful South bring you:

Let it rise up in the morning and take us for that walk
Let it do the talking when we're too tired to talk
When we're too tired to talk
 

Material Girl

This weekend I have mostly spent cooking.  With a sneaky bike ride completed at Cannock Chase on the way home.  It was part of the deal.

I reckon I live pretty much 85% of my life in the present, 10% in the future, and 5% in the past (does this add up?).  Obviously recently stuff changed with plans to become some kind of middle aged itinerant and perhaps I'm looking ahead more than living in the now, but that's not the norm for me. 

This weekend had me a little bit in the living in the past zone.  Many reasons.  I responded to an urgent request for a cook to look after a group of volunteers on a training weekend.  For the Waterway Recovery Group, an "organisation" I've been involved in intermittently for the last 21 years of my life.  They've seen me at all manner of stages of my life, and it's through them that I met my now dead husband way back in time now or so it seems.  And some of them never knew me before I was with him, which sometimes I find a little odd as it feels like I've known many of those good folk for pretty much ever. 

Anyway, the thing is, the reason I'm able to become a wanderer for the kind of period I'm planning is because of Dave (late husband)'s death.  His life insurance ensured the mortgage was paid off, and it also left me with enough so that I can do this, so I can buy the van and so I can manage without earning.  Having said that, I'm a saver too, it's not all ill gotten gains.  And his heart would have expanded at the thought of me doing this.  He'd have been proud of me, and he'd be so goddamn pleased to see me so happy.  He would have approved.  Which, actually, isn't that important because my mantra on these occasions of "The Dead Don't Get To Have A Say" applies, whether the dead would or would not have agreed with my decision.

I don't know why I wanted to just jot that down as an acknowledgment to what has made this possible.  And no, I'm not lucky, but in some ways, perhaps fortunate.

And because it's about the money, we're singing along with Madonna:

"Experience has made me rich ..."

Enormous wellbeing

Despite having given my three months notice in, I have to say some days, and in fact more so since giving in notice, I really do love my job.  Love it.  I will  miss some stuff here.

Yesterday took part in a conference call with the providers of the funding and our "Head of Marginal Gains" - which in itself is a very cool job title to have.  We talked athlete profiling and Project Rio.  Which seems even more remote from me than ever since I definitely won't be here in 2016.  The plan was next for me and Mr MG to head off for an "off site" meeting at Manchester Climbing Wall to discuss the way forwards.  What actually happened is that call over we did indeed stop in the office to talk about what next.  At the moment that Mr MG said what we really need is to get the CEO in front of a whiteboard ... the CEO knocks on the door (he's so polite), comes in, picks up the dry wipe pen and off we go with the planning of the next step.  Ended up with a wind surfing chat (well, they did) and off me and MG trundled to Manchester climbing wall for tea, cake, chat and good times climbing.  I love that I work in a place where everyone does stuff outside.  I love that I can stop at traffic lights, feel a bump against my bike back wheel, turn round in order to berate the person and find myself saying hello to our cycling Finance Director instead, and benefit from a shared part of journey home including banter.  I do love my job.

Climbing last night, I was in a lazy old mood.  After running Monday, cycling to work and back Tuesday and walking Wednesday it's not that surprising I guess.  Explained to Mr MG that I was in chilled type mood, and indeed he was wanting to do some routes where he could succeed so between us we agreed a lazy plan.  And because he's a sports scientist he can always find a good rationale for such changes in attitude.  Conditioning.  Apparently doing reasonable volume of easy stuff can be chalked up to Conditioning.  So we mostly conditioned, chatted and put the world to rights.

And today I have agreed to a 2009 van with 40,000 miles on the clock but with air conditioning.
I have also asked the boss what the chances are of Bradley winning the tour. My lips are sealed.

And I leave you with a bit of Blur.

"I feed the pigeons I sometimes feed the sparrows too
it gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing (parklife)
And then I'm happy for the rest of the day safe in the knowledge
there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to it (parklife)"

My Own

Well, I have taken the plunge.  Ordered a van.  Decided that trust pure and simple was the way to go and placed in the hands of a total stranger the task of sourcing the van.  And once that decision was made, harder decisions then had to be made over upholstery (Royal blue & pale grey), flooring (sparkly bits), worksurfaces (charcoal grey), bed type, seat type, air conditioning (yes please), and the job as they say was a good un.  It should be with me for the end of August.  I'm excited.

Lonely planet guide to New Zealand arrived last week and Eccles library has given me food for thought with travel books now scattered around the dining room, amidst guinea pig cages, bikes in bits, climbing ropes and the normal paraphernalia of my every changing life.

And we're looking at something like this:

http://www.teahupoo.co.uk/gallery_2.html

And all is indeed well with the world, with today's lyrics from New Order:

"I would like a place I could call my own.
Have a conversation on the telephone."

Mmm, a place of my own.  With two double beds.

Boxing Gloves

Unplanned bike ride in to work today, courtesy of accidental early morning awakening and a sense of unrest in general.  For which exercise is possibly the only way forwards.  The run yesterday although making me smiley and calm somehow didn't carry through to this morning, and confusingly finding myself not even aching, well, what was there for it really?  On your bike.

And I'm setting off thinking, OK, you've got 45 minutes, 45 minutes to get this out of your system, to think hard or to beat your body into submission.  And by glorious coincidence I managed to do both.  One of the joys of simple straightforward exercise is head space.  I don't get that so much on the mountain bike where my head is crowded by concerns relating to the consequences of falling off and how to avoid such unnecessary evils.  But running or road riding, yes, I think as I go along.  Sometimes I also hum.  Sometimes there are tunes inside my head, and sometimes oh yes, I sing out loud.  But today I largely breathed.

I seem to have a psyche where I forget to push on.  I mean, I start with good intentions, focus, determination and think OK on this ride I will push it on particular sections, until my lungs and legs both protest.  And so I start, but then I get distracted either by the thoughts in my head or something around and about and I simply forget and find myself once again in spinning mode.  But today I was saved by a skinny man with hairy legs and a red rucksack.  For as I stood at red lights they turned amber and as they did so, he scooted on by.  So I set off in chase.  As you do, and indeed it was a bloody marvelous workout, because catching him was simply not achievable but getting nearer to him was, and as he reached his pace, I struggled to maintain the same distance, but made myself struggle and kept struggling and everything hurt and the hurt was good.

And swizzling through my head is Aztec Camera:

"Ambition and love wearing boxing gloves
And singing hearts and flowers"

Don't stop

This is not my body.  No really, this is some alien stranger.  And most definitely not me.  I am soft and cuddly and have curves.  Somebody has made a substitution and frankly I'm suspicious.

From somewhere unknown after a few weeks away from the indoor wall, without doing anything different, special or intense I was suddenly able to lead 6a climbs.  And felt alive. I was looking at my arms though as if they belonged to somebody else.  Some weird person who has competent wiry arms which can be trusted to both hold and pull, to grab and pinch.  Nearly said lift and separate but clearly I'm thinking of something else.  These weird arms could climb, could almost leap upwards and heft this stranger's body upwards.  They were unbelievably trustworthy and I thought at the time it was just a teeny bit weird.

So, unaccountably annoyed with myself tonight and unable to contain the general feeling of irritation I realised exercise had been missing from my life for ... well, maybe as long as three days if I'm honest.  But as I'd already spent significant time seeing if retail therapy could lift my mood time had pressed on.  I know, I thought, I'll go for a run, that'll sort the bitch in my head out and calm her down.  Trainers were selected, and out the front door I stepped.  To find that really sploshing June evening rain had just begun.  No matter, I'm going to run.

Plan was to take the 5K route I know well, and to do it at the pace of someone who has only run once so far this year.  To try to do it at a speed which meant I wouldn't stop for breaks, something my legs and lungs would survive.  And about fifteen minutes into the run I was a) drenched and b) smiling.  Run, Forrest, Run, thought I.  And I ran and I ran.  And suddenly I looked up from my running reverie.  I was in Worsley.  This had not been part of the plan at all.  Somehow on a run I have done dozens of times, right near my house I had actually managed to get lost running.  But all was good, I took advantage of another bit of cross country track I know reasonably well from cycling, and trotted on home.  To find my restful pace had been in the vicinity of an 8 miles an hour pace.  Which was weird, because I am not that person.  Not one of those weird fit people.  Definitely not.

And Queen is bouncing round my head.

I feel alive
And the world, I'll turn it inside out yeah
I'm floating around in ecstasy
So don't stop me now
Don't stop me
'cause I'm having a good time
Having a good time

Best friend

No, the bike is not my best friend.  Did something very weird last week and went out to "play" on the hybrid.  A delayed departure from home in the evening led me to go oh what the hell, let's do something that just involves getting out of the front door, no time to pack up and head for the hills.  So playtime.  Unusually.  On the hybrid.  There was a cunning plan.  It went something like ride on the road, up a hill or two, find the sustrans route and crack on towards the Irwell sculpture Park where you will wing it and work out later how to get home.

Which started well.  Roads worked, and miraculously nobody got lost.  Arrived at the entrance to the trail and eyed up the sign posts in a vague attempt to stick with cycle legal paths.  Gave up.  Rode anyway.  But apparently damp luke warm evenings alongside rivers with dappled shade provided by trees has a  horrible side effect.  Midges.  And it wasn't the biting which was the problem, it was the hailstone like effect of riding through the clouds.  Before long I was managing to cycle with my head down, eyes closed, mouth closed and not breathing through my nose for fear of taking the little devils on board.  And they hurt as they came in through the helmet vents and bounced off my chin and my neck and down my t-shirt and apparently also inside my bra.  Little perishers were horrible, and this is why you shouldn't ride on footpaths ...

And because my longest serving friend in the world is in hospital right now, this song is traipsing around my head:

In rain or shine
You've stood by me girl
I'm happy at home
You're my best friend

Fly Away

Thank you to Tracy Chapman for today's pensive lyrics:

You got a fast car
Is it fast enough so we can fly away
We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way

So the quest for a camper van has become a little all encompassing if I'm honest. Well, alongside the quests to climb better, cycle faster and keep close friends closer.  I'm a woman, I can multi-task.  And my thoughts on what I want keep changing.  But that's all good because it means I'm making decisions, and hey, decision making is always good.  So far I have established more desirables than essentials which is also fine because the perfect custom made van is probably not going to be available in budget so it's good to have some wiggle room.  If the world was an ideal place I would like a long wheel base so I can get bed and bike inside.  I would like it to have been a shuttle or minibus in a previous life so there are some windows in the back.  I would like a couple of gas burners.  A water reservoir would be good.  I find myself supremely unbothered as to whether it has a pop up roof. I am not so tall.  Insulation would be good.  I definitely don't want anything pimped on the outside, no alloys, no lowered suspension, no stupid body kit, less stuff I have to worry about really.

And it's going kind of well.  Appointments are made for Monday & for Wednesday next week. My very accommodating ex boyfriend is joining in the search at his local garage and I have yet to give the brother in law a ring about roping him in to come and view stuff with me.  Because in him I trust.

And next year is looking exciting.  There is a notepad and in it I gradually accumulate ideas, some of which simply say Via Ferrata, and Champagne route.  There are going to be a lot of guidebooks in my future.  Which is fine because at some point before I go ... I do have a birthday.  Who would have thought it, I can get older ...

And off we go singing along with good old Tracy:

City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped round my shoulder
And I,I had a feeling that I belonged
And I,I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone

On fire

So, indoor climbing last night after a few weeks of doing other stuff, such as climbing on rock with weather, waves and sea gulls, getting out on the bike and including a spot of walking was interesting. 

Indoor climbing is physically more intense somehow than outdoors in that you do a greater volume of work and you make more demanding moves because you're on a top rope generally with a partner who you trust.  There's no set up and there's no walk and you get a lot more height gain in.  So it gives a better workout.

Climbing outdoors is, for me, all about mind versus chimp.  There's a terrified gibbering animal inside me who is accounting for maybe 90% of who I am, and my challenge is to snap into the rational thinking person who focusses on the rock and my limbs and one section at a time makes her way up the rock.  The two don't work together well outside and the energy drain is largely from getting the person who knows she can do it back in charge over the "I'm going to die, I'm going to die, I'm going to die" animal.  For perhaps I am going to die but squealing about it isn't going to be helpful.  There's less of a physical challenge because the work has already been done in this respect, and I'm working with pre-existing muscles, skills, knowledge and ability and staying within a range of difficulty which, for me, is actually quite safe.

So, all this in mind, it was weird getting back on the indoor wall last night and finding that somehow despite feeling I haven't done anything truly pushing in the last few weeks I have improved, fairly exponentially as it happens.  Everything I asked them to do my arms did, my grip (which I previously thought was non existent) just got a hold of things, and everything worked.  Grades previously out of reach suddenly became possible, and it was good.  And much of this is because suddenly I'm in a place where there is safety and trust.  Absolute trust in my totally solid climbing partner.  And we both moved on to things we didn't know we were going to try and we were both successful.  And all was good.  And some of it was extraordinary.

And today I'm largely humming along to the sounds of The Boss:

At night I wake up with the sheets
soaking wet and
a freight train running
through the middle of my head -
only you can cool my desire

oooh I'm on fire......

Two feet

So, the weekend's attempt at doing my mountain bike leadership course didn't go so well.  Which is a shame because I was committed to it and had put a lot of behind the scenes work in.  I'd worked hard on making sure my log book was complete and not a work of fiction, I'd funded my two day outdoor first aid course and taken leave from work to do it, I'd read the paperwork, I'd had the bike into the bike shop to try to make sure it was roadworthy before the course, I'd paid out for the course and accommodation.  And I jibbed after day one.  For reasons both logical and emotional.  And that's enough of that.

I did, however use the Sunday to attempt to lose some of my feeling of inadequacy, the sinking realisation that I have no place on a bike due to reasons of slowness and shit skills.  And it went rather well.  Whinlatter's red run is within my ability level; there's no problem with the ascents, the roots, the drop offs.  There is a problem with the downhill sharp gravelly berms but nothing that can't be overcome by a dignified get off and walk position on the matter.  And I know it is a horrible gloating bad thing which puts me into a really bad light, but at the end of the day, I am grateful to the two fellas going up the fire road who were slow enough that I not just could overtake but really had to overtake to avoid the holdup.

And I've been brave, and had the difficult conversation on the phone with the man who ran the course, and I've provided feedback to the folk who ultimately have responsibility for the course, and have been offered a couple of options to do the second day in a less intimidating group of people.  I'll think about it.

And today my internal song is sisters are doing it for themselves. Standing on their own two feet ...

Altered Ego

You know that phrase your mum said to you when you were little?  Something along the lines of pull a face like that and if the wind changes it'll get stuck like it?  Might have accidentally done this in a weird way.

*HEALTH WARNING* really really contrived metaphor.  Those of a squeamish nature with views on use of such contrivances please walk on by.

Being a proactive type and all about the change and the navel gazing, kind of decided at some point this year to try to get rid of the prickly shell I hang onto, horse chestnut style (you've been warned).  I mean, horse chestnuts are pretty sturdy beasts anyway without the shell, so why not just let the prickly bit go, vanish, let folk see the shiny conker (this is dreadful isn't it?).  So I did it.  Left myself open.  But inside the prickly cover there wasn't a conker, there was a smartie.  Soft and sweet with a shell that could be cracked by a very determined guinea pig (even I'm hating this direction now ...).  And somehow, having let the shell go, and revealed my inner smartie (sigh) the wind must have changed because it's now part of who I am; it's got stuck like it.  Which actually I'm mostly OK with.  I mean yes, I'm vulnerable to gentle hammer action but it's OK because there are plenty of smarties in the tube (ick).

So what has this got to do with anything active, you may hear yourself ask?  Well, it's something that now pervades my entire sense of me, and with an unfortunate side effect of making my confidence knockable.  Which isn't really the proper me.  I am confident, maybe not always competent but I have a steadfast inner core who knows who I am, what I can do, and isn't afraid of being me and being clear about who that me is.  Yet somehow my bike confidence has taken a huge bloody knock over the last month.

The trouble here is that I really do like to ride with other people, I like being part of a group, I like rapport, jokes, gentle teasing, and mickey taking for those inevitable stupid trail moments.  I like the shared talking over a cup of tea afterwards, the feeling of a shared experience, of belonging, being a part of a collective, even if it's for the fleeting time of a day.  I like reminiscing with other people over great days out, indifferent days out, and sodding awful days out.  It's a part of the joy of the bike for me.  Yet my confidence has taken an immense battering.  I have gone out of my way to try to increase the pool of people I ride with, and the result seems to have been a feeling of inadequacy courtesy of having shifted that prickly conker exterior.  I am slow.  This is not modesty.  I am slow.  And although not a testosterone rich bloke who has a problem with being at the back, I do have a problem with feeling that I'm taking away some of the joy from other people who are having to wait or worse still babysit me.  I don't want to be that sucker of living souls.  I'd rather ride alone.

Don't get me wrong, I also love to ride alone.  There's a massive joy to doing things at exactly your own pace, a freedom to do whatever you want to do, the challenge of attempting things which you maybe wouldn't with an audience just to experience and to experiment.  I am too shy to try these in company.  Again ... don't want to slow anyone down.

Anyway, where's this leading?  It's leading to the fact that I'm now nervous of even trying to find new riding folk.  I have probably three people now who ride at my pace, and as they are all particularly brilliant people to get along with, then frankly what on the earth am I fussing about?

And because I am an exceptionally old burd, I leave you with the Fun Boy Three Tunnel of Love circa god only knows when.

"consequences altered cases
broken noses altered faces
my ego altered altered egos
wherever i go so does me go"

Staying Alive

So onto the final drama of the Pembroke weekend.  Cannonball wotsits name climb.  We'd been climbing all day, and done our final abseil down to the small inlet between the rocky outcrop and the cliffs.  Carl wanted to do a particular climb but even as he was ascending the first few feet I was having to move me and the ropes further up the rocks out of the way of the ever encroaching tide.  Even getting to the bottom of the cliff to start the climb was going to be at the very least a wet feet experience and definitely would meet the description "interesting".  But it was not to be; he got off to a slow start and realising my potential predicament, but more importantly becoming aware that his ropes could get wet, down he came and we sought out an alternative way up the cliffs and out of the getting damper by the minute environment.  Carl's encyclopaedic knowledge of the area soon gave us an option.  The hardest climb yet of the day at HVS, and indeed the hardest second climb to date in my ever expanding log book.  Fortunately he saw my pathetic face and decided to bring me up to a small rocky ledge a few feet above the waves rather than drown me (again).  So there I was, tethered to this small ledge, uncomfortable under foot, less than a foot out from the cliff and about four foot long.  Attached by three anchor points.  Then again, as it ever were, he left me.  And climbed.

The climb followed a crack into a chimney with an overhang, small traverse then a climb up a slab face to safety.  All seemed to be going mostly well, until there was one of those hesitations where you know your lead is buying time because he simply seemed to be placing as much gear as he could into an area about a foot square.  A good delaying tactic if ever I saw one. And he climbed up and put a friend in on the right, then over and a wire it was on the left and clearly he was making some decisions.

Then.

A shout.  And rope going suddenly very slack.

And I can see Carl a lot lower down than he was in the chimney, and there's a loud crack at my feet, and I'm in foetal position still trying to get some of the slack back on the ropes.  Then it's quiet, and nothing moves.  I'm looking up.  Carl's looking down.  Both of us trying to quickly assess the other's safety.  There's a rock on the ropes next to my feet that wasn't there before.  There's a cut on my ankle, and blood seeping into my climbing shoe.  And Carl.  Well, Carl's still up there, and he's precarious.  And I take in the rope.  I ask are you OK, he says he is, asks if I am,  I say yes.  Deep breaths.  Climb when ready.  And he climbs until a safe place is finally found, and I ask him if he can wait there, and he can, and I remove the rock from the ropes.  And I naively think that's it, issue dealt with, we're off.

Carl reaches the top and says safe, I let him off belay "off belay", and he hauls the ropes through while I faff with things on my harness, getting the nut key forward, putting the prussik loop backwards.  "That's me", I say as the ropes get me.  A pause for rigging and I get a "climb when ready", take myself out of the gear on the ledge and shout "climbing".  And I don't notice, don't see, because I haven't been watching the ropes.  I don't notice the damage, and don't realise what it is, exactly my life would depend on should I fall.  Which fortunately, I don't.

And inevitably the song I leave you with is Staying Alive.

Chimney stacks

Chimneys, stacks and indeed Cannonball runs. 

Climbs all have names, and mischievous some of them are too.  Bank Holiday Monday saw me doing no routes at all with any relevance to her Majesty's Jubilee, but did see me doing climbs named such things as Sheer Delight, Chopping Block and Cannonball Express.  And it was a gentle start to the day. 

I am a bitch.  Let me explain further ...

A few years ago I did a navigation skills course with a friend of mine.  She carries the kind of karabiner you'd put your keys on and a bit of cord on the outside of her walking rucksack.  Her purpose in doing this is (IMHO) so she can identify herself as being "a climber".  It gives her a sense of one upwomanship and prestige I suppose.  Logic and reason suggest this is a crap idea because actually if you're doing scrambling through small gaps etc. you really don't want something on your bag which can snag and get you tangled.  So, when the instructor challenged her as to why she was carrying the bit of tat on the outside of her bag, she was flustered and put on the spot and made the outrageous and simply untrue statement that she'd "abb'd off that".  Which was laughed down.  Being the bitch I am, I spread the tale to a few mutual friends so much so that it became an in joke "I've abb'd off that". 

And this is why an Asda mug with a karabiner  handle became, on the face of it, part of our Ab system. 

And weirdly, even with the mug in situ (along with three other sturdy points) other folk didn't pay attention and descended the same rope without question.  Nowt as queer as folk I guess. 

And the whole Abseil experience became a positive joy ... not quite so certain of the climbing though!



In the words of David Bowie:
The Jean Genie lives on his back
The Jean Genie loves chimney stacks
He's outrageous, he screams and he bawls
Jean Genie let yourself go!

Slip Sliding

By the end of my first day of sea cliff climbing I felt I was handling my abbing with a certain aplomb.  Things had become smoother, far less jerky and indeed completely non exhausting on my right arm.  I suspect there is a certain male advantage to some of those hand movements.  But nonetheless, things progressed.  Each time I arrived at the oh so carefully selected belay ledge Carl was patiently stood on the widest flattest part possible a suspicious look was given to the sea.  And indeed to Carl.  And things went from strength to strength. Half way up I even deigned to raise my hand in a cheery wave as the oh so familiar face of Steve peered down at me from the top of the cliff.  But the weather began to change, and despite the sure and certain knowledge I could get no wetter, somehow rain stopped the playing, and the trudge back to the car park was made.  This was also the last day I attempted to fit all the paraphernalia into a 25 litre daysack.  Mistake.  Ropes a dangling from all manner of places, and that thing where you hang your helmet as a nice rattling ornament from the side of your bag, swishing from side to side and interfering with your elbows.

And the evening was spent in the pub describing to my friends the torment and torture the evil man had put me through.  Little did I know what was to come ...

and courtesy of Simon & Garfunkel

"She said a bad day is when I lie in the bed
And I think of things that might have been"

Not afraid

After a midnight arrival at the St Petrox campsite, erecting the darling tent by the light of the van headlights, a still night changed into a bird song dawn all too soon.  In the spirit of joy at the little things the teeny gelert calor gas burner was ignited, kettle was on and the customary camping breakfast of tea and oats so simple in the somewhat over the top packaging pots was quickly achieved.  For this morning we had a military briefing to attend.  Off to Range West with high, high hopes.  Dreams of men in khaki uniform were foremost in my mind.  And we arrived, and there were a motley crew of climbers awaiting the briefing.  Scruffy for the most part and somewhat weather worn if the truth be told.  My climbing partner embraced the spirit of camaraderie and that weird appearance of being part of some exclusive and strange "scene" by knowing some of the stranger looking characters and idly making chitchat as we awaited permission to proceed to site.

The first uniformed individual greeting us was, much to my disappointment, female.  The next man up was a somewhat sturdy gentleman sporting a beret and a rather stereotypical moustache.  And we were informed about routes through, about times of activity, quantities of ammunition, nesting birds, seals, all manner of housekeeping details.  Then as I glanced along the row, suddenly I felt part of this bedraggled community, because randomly there was a familiar face.  Denial was my first reaction.  Because the face I thought I knew was a sea kayaker with his own base in Cardigan, and he was with a woman and children and to the best of my knowledge if he was the man I thought he was, he was a childless singleton.  I know, it's just a detail.  And I dismissed the possibility that this could be the Steve I knew ... until the close of the briefing when I came face to face with him at the handing in of the "I have listened to everything and the army has no liability" forms.  And from that point onwards, it seemed wherever I strayed along the Pembroke coast, so did Steve.  If I climbed a cliff, there he was at the top.

From there we headed to Flimston Bay.  I had a deeply patient and extremely detailed lesson in how to set up an ab.  Anchor points were jointly identified and discussed.  And then came the moment where I had to practice with the prussik loop.  After quite some time, a latent memory rose to the forefront of my chimping out brain (there was a certain amount of me that was pretty much just going wibble with fear by this time).  I am a left handed prussiker.  Simply cannot manage it on my right hand side.  Not a clue why not, but back in the good old tree climbing days of yore (those were much more bruised days even than now), I have a weird near ambidextrous thing going on.  I say this as I type looking at my left hand mouse; a true deterrent to others using my computer.  And the first abseil down the cliff was jerky and slow, and by the end of it my right arm was wondering how it was ever to climb back up the cliff again. 

A veritable cats cradle of ropes, slings, and pieces of wire were set up to secure me and my gibbering chimp to a teeny and rocky ledge of extreme discomfort.  Small splashes were occasionally tickling my ankles and all was well.  And then Carl left.  Climb when ready was, in my head, similar to "please don't leave me" but somehow that's not how it was interpreted.  And up he went, and left hand belaying also took place, and there were squawking birds and there were interested seals popping their heads up.  And Carl reached the top.  At which point it was a cue for a freak wave to hit me.  Chained to the cliff as I was in my cowardice and some degree of terror this was interesting.  At least it wouldn't sweep me away, but at the same time, there was no escape.  Carl was in the fortunate position of having topped out and being in a place to look down and observe when he heard the sound of the sea change.  And down he looked and nowhere was I to be seen.  Then the wave cleared and my red helmet was once more visible, with a laughing (possibly hysterically) Alison.  Then the second wave hit me and somewhere in all this, Carl had me on belay.  For once, with no messing, the wires, slings etc. were removed.  The first ten feet of climbing to get me above the wet rock was uncannily quick.  Who would have thought I could move so nippily.  And that was just the first day of drenched salt stained trousers ...

And I  leave you with Belinda Carlisle singing "When I'm lost at sea I hear your voice and it carries me.  In this world we're just beginning to understand the miracle of living. Baby I was afraid before, but I'm not afraid anymore."

Wind swept

Four days camping in Pembroke attempting to climb sea cliffs have just been and gone.  For we love royalty and the generosity in sharing a double bank holiday.  The mountain hardware refuge tent decided to accompany me for the trip.  That once much detested piece of equipment has worked its way somewhat sneakily into my heart.  And learning to finally love this tent is, for me, symbolic of learning to love me; to do more than accept those times of solitude, but to simply enjoy whatever experience comes along.  I can love that space, the feeling of smallness I have there.  My thermorest taking up only a fraction of the greedy space, and me in turn taking up just a portion of the mat.  Because  I feel small here, small and curled up in the ultimate friendly space.  The tent itself tiny at the edge of the field and the field just a part of the patchwork of agricultural land that spreads across Britain.   Yet here, in this infinite space, where I am small to the point of insignificance, I am also huge.  Because my thoughts fill my body but they also expand and soar, without boundaries, and without limits and there is nowhere that isn't home.  And this is why it will be OK to travel alone.

But I'm not in Pembroke alone.  I have a driver.  Who is also my lead climber, my teacher, my mentor and someone who I'd be honoured to feel I could finally think of as friend.  Because it remains a new and raw acquaintance.  And it's two people who find we can talk of anything, and we share the kind of conversation I seldom share outside my head.  And the joy here is that I am no longer restrained to just one perspective.  Ideas bounce, together we twist subjects, we both change and we both build on ideas which are curling like smoke in our heads.  Concepts come from each other and jostle and nestle up to pre-existing ideas, turning them into something new.  And if he would just stop attempting to kill me, maybe we could be friends.

He has an infectious enthusiasm somehow incongruous with a 6 foot 5 man near to 50 with a brain the size of a small planet, and makes sea cliff climbing an awesome experience I'm privileged to have shared.  And when I'm in a less whimsical mood I'll explain further.

Until then, I want my love, my joy, my laugh, my smile, my needs.  Not in the star signs or the palm that she reads.  Courtesy of Beautiful South.

Alone now

After some extensive research (OK, one google and then RTFM) I juggled with the front derailleur last night.  It won't go into the small ring. Dabbled with cable tension, dabbled with the Hi and Lo screws and generally fiddled with the evil scourge of satan thingy.  And the manual said to test it while riding.  So I did.

In the spirit of general Can't Be Arsedness I didn't bother with the Thule wonder bike rack, just took the wheels out, put some vague pieces of cardboard between the brake discs in case of accidental pushes on the brake levers, took down the mini seats and bunged it in.  No drama, no class or finesse.  Off we went to Rivington because frankly where I live there are no hills.  Well, not unless you keep going up and down the bit of road which bridges the canal.  Which is not exactly satisfactory.

Rivington and feeling playful I took the map and some attitude with me.  Started on my normal trundle down to the folly on the side of the reservoir, which looks like the ruins of a small castle, but I suspect was built that way.  Doing this in an evening is interesting.  It is class hang out area for Yoof, but was quiet and still and litter free as I pootled on by.  The first small climb of my natural route goes up alongside a school yard.  It is muddy, always, whatever the weather, and there are tree roots and the funniest thing is being made to jump out of your skin abruptly by the pig noises from the school's mini farm set up which you ride alongside.  This is the first point at which I have to get into little ring; and it doesn't go.  Which is fine because I am prepared with a) some knowledge and b) a screwdriver and an Allen key.  So I dabble with the Hi and the Lo and something seems to make sense but still no small ring.  So I reach down and plonk it in with my gloves.  Somehow the rest I've had at the bottom of this hill to mess with things I know nothing about has had an effect because I think for the first time ever I make it to the top of the hill still pedalling.  The slightly (and trust  me, it is only slightly) technical nature of the small incline has always had me off before, but today I am distracted by my gears and just keep moving). 

At the start of the long hard slog up the hill on the uneven cobbled type paving I have another go.  Somehow what I do now means that not only do I not have the small ring, I no longer have the large ring.  Which is OK because I only checked it was working experimentally; can't actually remember the last time I used the damn useless making up the weight object.  And we muddle through.  Then the phone rings, and I think blimey, I have phone reception so stop and chat, and again the rest is good because once the call is done I trundle on and on and on up the up.  In fact, it's going so well, and the mist is so alluring that when it comes to my normal straight on and descend I don't. I take the sharp right and keep going up.  The next choice I take the left and keep on going up.  I'm going up and up and up and up with the mist around me.  It actually gets to the point where the old track is approaching the road section and I realise the visibility is so poor that actually, even with the lights on there's a sense of danger from other folks in cars.  And the Common Sense Bear kicks in and I part descend my knobbly track.  Smiling.  Naturally.  Not a route I'm familiar with at the next junction but I go what the hell, take a new path and I do, and I want to cry.  Picture a bouldered river bed without water, and this is what it feels like I'm descending.  Big rocky loose stuff, tricky to find a line, surfaces that move as you go over them.  And then there's a weird central platform of tarmac, probably 18 foot in length and I aim at it.  Brake at the end as I realise the drop off, although manageable, would take me onto a bizarre landing point.  So I get off and edge my way down the rest, sighing with relief as I make a familiar landing stage.  I've climbed so far it's now all about the descending, and I choose routes at random in the hope I'll make it back to the car park, and now I'm smiling. There are drainage ledges across the pathway and to my surprise I find I'm pumping and taking air as I go over these.  And I'm smiling.

Still no small ring and now no large ring.  Mechanics are calling.

Singing "And we tumble to the ground, and then you say, I think we're alone now."

Except I had no tumbles and there was no we.