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"
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