Yeay, a gratuitous Hasselhoff moment! It's a flimsy fabrication of an excuse to go check out his website really, but it is I understand (for those who experience weekends) Friday night and somehow that seems like reason enough.
Actually, I went night riding last night (see how tenuous the link is), my first time ever, and as part of a group which included an off road tandem. That takes some strength of relationship really. Imagine the trust, and also picture just how much tandem time bickering it must have taken to get to the point where they could publicy appear on a bicycle made for two? My limited experience of a similar situation is spending three days in a two person canoe with my ex. Who was already my ex at the time. Which perhaps might explain the three days of gentle bickering and provision of amusement to those with us. Three days going down the River Wye with all our kit in a blue plastic barrel (just as I believe was used by the original indian tribes). The difficulties over steering, where we're going, who was responsible, and hilarious (retrospectively) criticism of each other's efforts. Any rapids were actually a welcome relief because at least then we'd both shut up and just attempt to get through them the right way up. To ride on a tandem with a partner must be a form of living hell I suggest. Or perhaps make or break a partnership. Steer clear I suggest.
And the ride was endurable, although I confess I spent the entire thing in a state of severe apprehension and misgiving and general out of my comfort zone status. Which is fine because my comfort zone is becoming a little unfamiliar these days. I say this as I pack light for my next trip which kind of starts Monday as I meander down to my mum's in the Home Counties. Oh yes, I am originally from Hertfordshire, be in no doubt as my estuary accent hardens itself up in readiness for a return. A ferry to be caught with a vehicle followed by driving on the right. And that's only the start of the newness.
Hmm, never really actually properly listened to the lyrics of Stairway to Heaven. Now, being me, I am over analysing them. Possibly because I have time. The lovely luxury of time and I can spend hours just inside my head thinking, mulling, considering. I'm so relaxed it's bizarre. A welcome side effect is that my TMJ thingy which is basically knackered jaw cartilage is leaving me well alone, as the occasions when I'm holding my jaw tense are pretty much zero, and indeed my diet has moved to softer foods such as cake ... it's a good life. This picture shouldbe on my inspiration noticeboard at home really. Along with the Dove advert wiomen, a silhouetted cyclist, Bear Grylls and a Guinea pig ...
Open Uni next unit has started, and from initially thinking oh well, it'll be what it'll be, I'm feeling moderately optimistic it might just work quite well. Free from distractions I'm a lot more likely to knuckle down to my books, and with an imminent departure to the continent (next week) with no TV, limited English speaking radio, and likely to be limited Internet, well, evening distractions are likely to be few, aren't they? I'm feeling really happy about leaving next week too. I am trying, well, possibly over trying to maintain friendships, and feel kind of reasonably comfortable with where I am. It's important to me, and I try hard, not really a needy thing about wanting to be loved, but something much more fundamental to me. A sense of community and belonging which somehow encompasses an understanding that things shift and change, and happiness is a state that embraces that movement. Flippin' 'eck, studying Buddhism for the first unit of the course, alongside this travelling malarkey may change me ...
Yesterday and today have been about getting stuff done, seeing folk, baking cake, that kind of thing, saving myself for this evening's MTB night ride out there in the Peak District. May be time for winter clothing, methinks.
And I leave here pondering Led Zeppelin ...
"There's a feeling I get when I look to the west,
And my spirit is crying for leaving.
In my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand looking."
So, today is a rest day. If I could even understand what that means. It started quite well with PJs on until about 9:30. Who knows what I was dithering doing until that time. From there on, it got busy with the Fiamma Bike Rack. Oh my, what a world of bits and pieces. Why don't manufacturers send these things out a little nearer complete? There are bits left over. But then my very competent mechanical husband always used to say "you can tell it's a good job when there's bits left over". There are a couple of random things which look like they should have somehow been vital to the construction but I still can't quite see how ... anyway, the rack is on and maybe I'll use it, maybe I won't. Maybe due to the time taken assembling I'll make damn sure I use it.
I've done three days consecutive on the bike and I didn't die. In fact, I don't feel the faintest bit fatigued today and am wondering just why I elected to declare today a day of rest. I don't actually think I need it. Something suggests to me that maybe the days I thought were kind of hardish really weren't. Maybe I am a rider who could begin to absorb 6 hour days perhaps?
Saturday was a road ride around the Peak District. Five hours around the back roads and a fair amount of ascent and unfortunately me descent. However, my mountain bike handling skills do seem in some ways to be vaguely serving me well, one almost certain "off" was definitely prevented by some bike memory from the MTB. Can't corner on either bike though, why is that I wonder ... although every time I do a corner ringing in my ears are the words of my friend Dan - never ever brake unless you are vertical. Which kind of works for me. I almost hear the rebuke if I even consider trying to brake during a corner.
Sunday was a mountain bike ride, and somehow it didn't seem that long. When did I become the kind of person who thinks a 4 hour ride is relatively short and easy. It was blissfully lovely though, riding with a group where rather than being at the back I was actually in the middle. Even when I'm not at the back though I am really mindful of those who are because I've been there myself almost every ride that I do. Being mindful of them doesn't mean assuming their feelings are the same as mine are at the back mind you. I suspect I am in the extremes of reaction to the situation because I get a female feeling of guilt for holding the group up, and I tend to turn myself inside out to try not to be a hindrance. Not everyone does that, and I envy those who can take a relaxed approach and realise that far from holding the group up they are an integral part of the group and it's not just a case of "nobody minds", it's really a case of that's normality of group riding and nobody even notices let alone actually minds. Well, possibly only the occasional testosterone driven bloke.
Monday again on the MTB but this time transferring to Ruthin, North Wales. The Over the Top route from the Ride the Clwyds website. What a fantastic local council they are to provide these routes which are genuine mountain bike rides, not some sugar coated tow path. They are fun, not all surfaced wide tracks. Brilliant. Hats off and all that. Funny thing about the Ruthin ride is that the first time I did it, the ride was 5 hours plus. The timing has gradually improved, partly as a result of actual knowledge of the route and partly less breaks, less walking and generally being a bit more gnarly on the bike. Under 3 hours these days. I do believe it's time to add a loop to it ...
Ruthin was in the mist and cloud, and it was a kind of amazing feeling of being isolated in a white landscape with the occasional luminous orange autumnal tree looming at you. And the occasional sheep. I always feel high up when I am in the clouds, like nothing could possibly be above me In heaven perhaps.
Ah, and today we're on Guns & Roses.
"Mama put my guns in the ground
I can't shoot them anymore
That cold black cloud is comin' down
Feels like I'm knockin' on heaven's door"
Battered. I am driving my body quietly and at my own pace beyond anything I've done before. And I'm shrinking. Or at least weirdly independantly a number of my ex work colleagues commented on how tiny I was looking when I popped in for coffee this week. My theory, which the bathroom scales at home support, is that I'm smaller without my job. Not in a way that bothers me at all, but I no longer have to assert myself or take a lead on anything whatsoever. I don't have to be a big person any more, nothing like larger than life, all I am these days is me. And that's quite enough, thank you. Sometimes perhaps a little too much.
Being away does odd things to your relationships with people. In a lot of ways it does good things because it leads you to a point of absolute clarity as to what's important in life, and it is as ever it is, the people. Which means I make a conscientious effort to maintain the valuable people in my life. Hard work sometimes, but good worthwhile hard work which is important to me. Internet connections aside, I have time, and want to make the best use of the blocks of time I'm spending at home. This has meant that from returning home on Sunday, I've done lots of things with lots of people, some really unexpected, things I didn't even know I was doing happened, and friends have also been making efforts to pin down my availability. It's lovely, I feel somehow held, supported, some kind of metaphysical arms around me the whole time. I'm humbled by my mates, truly grateful and truly humbled.
Yet funnily, I'm itching to be on the road again. Eager as the proverbial mustard to get over to the continent, with the ferry now booked for 31st October. I carry with me the people who are important to me, hand luggage, not hold, I keep them close to my thoughts and to my heart.
Funnily enough, this song was going round my head today on the road ride with three guys. Mostly because of the line "left behind" because as is my way, I was at the back. But trying hard.
Following some solo days, it was pretty bloody marvellous to be joined by the splendid Carl for climbing on the Isle of Skye. Carl has a brain the size of a planet, is well over 6 foot of blonde intellect with his own van and an encyclopedic knowledge of climbing, climbs and climbers. I'm fortunate to have a climbing partner like him in my life. He has a near obsessive passion over weather forecasting and comes complete with a sparcely equipped Toyota van. Nothing like the plus luxury of Shazza. A huge advantage of climbing with Carl is that the two of us giggle like school children with regularity.
So he arrived on the Saturday with plans. Big plans. Because, hey, he'd come a long way for this "weather window" and had also got brand spanking new ropes following the Alison and Pembroke sea cliffs incidents earlier this year. So before I knew it, we were walzing off towards Crioch crags for a spot of mountain type routes. And oh my, they were high and fearsome. Knee tremblingly huge immense, a scale like nothing I'd contemplated climbing before. Walking, yes, or looking at from a distance in admiration, also, all over that. But climbing them. Flippin' 'eck. But yes, we attempted a multipitch ascent. Then we got lost. A little unfortunate to be sure but by no means marred the day because we were then presented with a team challenge of retreat down unknown paths which was a silly experience we both did together. I actually love the dual reliance on each other, and with Carl, frankly it's a pleasure. We work well as a team.
Monday was mostly a wash out so we did the climbers version of tourism. First we visited our intial planned goal for the day of sea cliffs but then we toured Old Man of Storr, Rhuada beach cliffs and finally ended up at Neist point for an overnighter with a cragging day in mind for the Tuesday. And all was mighty fine, and as ever we slept with beautiful views, rivers, fountains and general fresh air stuff all around. And Carl having forgotten to bring his own trowel, oh yes, we bonded, knew more about each other than folk really ought to know.
Tuesday was Neist Point crags. Mmm, cragging. Quite a lovely thing to do with all the time in the world, sea breezes and importantly no other folk. Imagine that, crags with climbs at all grades and nobody else in sight other than the occasional walking type tourist pointing out that my red top made me visible climbing for some distance. And it was a good workout, and there were many laughs, there was the type of concentration where Carl was looking down on me going through a particularly tricky sequence of moves being quite impressed that at this somewhat tense time I was still carrying out conversation ... that is until I told him to shut up. Which was fine because when I'd completed the horrid horrid moves he was giggling at me. Lots of laughter, that's what climbing should be all about. To hell with those serious tick listers, I like to laugh.
Arrival at the bothy was with some trepidation. The first door I opened was one of those oh shit moments when I thought the tent I'd caringly carried all that distance was going to come into its own ... but further investigation revealed the proper bothy.
Welcoming looking, eh? It's weird stepping in, no idea what to expect in terms of space, "facilities" and whether anyone else will be resident. Because of the various items left over time, you can't entirely be sure if these are the temporary trappings of a returning hiker or whether these are "useful things" left for the enjoyment of others. There was a sleeping mat and a sleeping bag there amongst all the usual debris of candles, tea bags, flip flops, a discarded waterproof etc. but as darkness arrived it became apparent I was on my own for the night.
Except I wasn't alone. Before I finally caved in and retreated to my bed in the unheated metal roofed hut, I was pleased to make the acquaintance of the bothy mouse. With that for company and the roaring of rutting stags, it was going to be one hell of a long night. But I was warm and I was dry, and all I needed to do was sit it out until morning. I slept with my tea light on for the whole of the night, working on the theory that the flame might just put the mouse off actually coming onto the bed platform. And the stag noises were at least predictable, and I believe I did actually sleep, snuggled up in the 4 seasons down bag.
Early to rise the next morning at first light (I couldn't wait in honesty), morning saw the normal tea and porridge routine which I seem to carry with me wherever I wake up. And then, aching everything, it was time to go find the van. Just another four hours of walking to go, but at least this time, with the load lightened by the consumption of food and water the previous day. Up and at them for the rolling restful walk back to Inverkirkaig via Lochinver and the moorlands.
So Suilven. Big fat mountain or possibly hill. I'm not particularly fussy about such details. A challenge is what you make it. Having driven into the Assynt area, it dominated the approach, and yes, it had to be achieved somehow. I hesitate to use the word "climbed" because to me these days that involves ropes and rock shoes and clanking of jingly jangly shiny odd things. Walked perhaps or maybe scrambled. I may have spent too much time mulling over my current reading matter of Muriel Grey's First Fifty about her Munro bagging exploits. No relation to Fifty Shades of Grey I must add. I expect she's quietly tittering about that possible connection. Maybe she has had more sales because of it, who knows. Readers expecting the same thing will be disappointed, but me, I'm enjoying the book, although it's the slowest read ever for me because evenings consist of the night falling around the van, followed by me turning off the light knackered by 8:30, with only a chapter read. I'm doing worn out rather well.
This is the kind of view that drew me in.
With a little help from the Cicerone Scottish guide book and the Backpackers Highlands book I identified the perfect route. Not the shortest route, where's the fun in that, but the route from Inverkirkaig past the Kirkaig Falls. Picture here explains why that was a good plan ...
Autumnal or what, eh? The route had me approach Suilven from the south side, after a walk in of over 3 hours. It was a two dayer, so I was packing weight. 50 litre rucksack, which to my credit I did not fill, after all, just because there's room doesn't mean you should load it, does it? And I tried to travel light, despite the obvious need for water, sleeping bag, thermarest and the just in case tent.
After walking with that weight and feeling it in shoulders and hips, I stood at the base of the mountain (or hill, whatever ...) and thought oh shit. This is bloody immense, it's high, it's steep and oh joy of joys, it's a scree scramble, my favorite (said with an enormous treacle coat of sarcasm). And there I was, already feeling the weight of the world (well, OK my rucksack) on my shoulders, strength and balance all uncertain. But there was still a hill to be scaled (neatly avoiding use of word climb there), and there was all the time in the world. As the words at the top of my stairs at home say, Every Journey Begins with a Single Step. In other words just start moving and then keep moving. Simples, eh? The ascent (see, another non climb word) was slow and painful but at least it was steady, every footstep placed with care, every angle of my body considered with rucksack weight balanced. And I reached the first saddle (or are we calling it a Col) in the sunshine. Which conveniently turned to cloud just as I made the west pinnacle of Suilven. No photo opportunity there then. A simple slide, shuffle and scamper took me down the north side, and included a lengthy chat with a tattoed and pierced geyser I found lurking on the Col (we talked about the state of our knees; I felt old), followed by a discussion with men with guns and camo gear which was a tad disconcerting if I'm honest. I suspect my burgundy Rab Alpine jacket saved me from being shot at though by standing out from the scree and heather as the hunters eyed up the stag I nonchalently walked past. The ongoing walk took me along peaty moors, lowland lochs, unpathed navigation to a landrover track, and just as the rain began once again to show its strength, there it was, the bothy. Home for the night.
And because it somehow makes sense, a little Lily Allen to brighten the day.
