Tag: adventure

Alps 2020, Day 4: Snowshoe Hiking and Black Ice

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We left the cabin much later than planned due to the reluctance of our slow, hungover bodies and plodded to the hire shop to pick up some snowshoes. We planned to hike up Mount Joly (2,525m) via the ski runs and hiking trails, which was fairly straightforward – navigable using the map in the ski leaflet, or so we thought.

I always thought of showshoes in the typical cartoon tennis racquet sense, which isn’t too far off. Ours were big, flat, foot-shaped bits of plastic with small metal studs on the bottom for grip, with two “settings” – hinged under the toe, which allowed the outside portion of the device to “flap” down and stay close to the ground when lifting the foot, and fixed, which locked the whole shoe stiff. Hinged was better for going uphill and fixed better downhill. It was strange at first and I kept treading on the edges of my own shoes, but got used to it after a little while. It was amazing how much grip we had, and the shoes enabled us to walk on deep, soft snow and up steep, icy slopes that we never would have been able to climb in just boots.

The Ascent

We hiked up blue runs, red runs and through tall, dark green pine forest, all the time backed by jagged, snow-capped mountains. As we climbed higher the mountains seemed to grow around us in size and number, until we reached l’Epaule du Joly (2,135m) – the shoulder of Mount Joly – and the high, white brow we’d been fixated on for over an hour suddenly gave way to a horizon full of rough, majestic peaks.

The hardest part was towards the top of that section. We had to hike up two red runs, which were unforgivingly steep and seemed never-ending. I focused on reaching that post, then that post, then that sign, breaking it down into more manageable bits, and I wouldn’t stop until I reached a more significant milestone, like the bottom of a new run. I watched some Alpine choughs diving off the roof of a cabin and listened to their high-pitched trill. Ryan and I didn’t speak for a long time.

Peril #1

L’Epaule was the highest ski lift, and to get to Mount Joly we had to move up steep, snow-covered rock. We swapped snowshoes for crampons, looked up at the looming white mass, and started upwards, using the leki poles to check that the snow and ice in front of us concealed hard rock, not open space. It was thigh-deep in places and we regretted leaving the ice axe back in the cabin.

We moved sideways up the steep face, front-pointing the toes of our crampons firmly into the ice, until one of mine came loose. I’d borrowed my crampons from Ryan’s dad and my boots were a bit too narrow for them, so my heel kept slipping out the back. While I adjusted, we really had to lean into the slope and find a solid footing as a slip would see us tumbling down the steep, rocky ridge with no means of arrest.

The crampon was wedged tight on the back of my boot, so much so that I couldn’t move it in our precarious position. Neither of us wanted to make the call and for a moment we just took in the near panoramic view, until Ryan expressed his concern in a strained tone that I’d never heard before. Recalling fatal stories of summit fever and remembering his dad’s words of caution, we reluctantly turned round and headed back down.

With hindsight I’m more disappointed now than I was at the time, but it was the right decision. While testing the ground for firmness on the way down, I punched a leki pole straight through a cornice (an overhanging snow edge that looks solid; we looked up at it afterwards and were almost certain that it was a cornice) into thin air, and with one pokey, semi-loose crampon, I couldn’t have pressed on much further. We’d expected a hike, not a graded ice ascent, so didn’t take axes. The sky had been growing thicker and darker all afternoon and we were concerned about visibility worsening; we didn’t fancy an overnighter. There was no other sensible option.

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Descent

The plod back followed the same route and was scenic but very, very long. We’d both been a little hungover but Ryan felt really rough coming back down, which I maintain had something to do with him refusing to eat. I returned the snowshoes in dwindling light while sickie dragged his poor body straight back to the cabin, then I tried to revive him with a hot drink and some food. We didn’t have much and had planned to find somewhere to eat out for our last night in France, so we got in the Polo and set off on what would soon become a treacherous journey.

In our normal blasé fashion, we did zero research and intended to stumble across a place to eat. We found that the pizzeria in our tiny village was closed, so we sent Google maps to the nearest restaurant. We followed the innocent-looking little blue arrow off the main road and down a suspiciously steep drive, which narrowed, steepened, became twisty, and – most worryingly – increasingly icy.

Peril #2

We couldn’t turn back, so we crawled along. There’s no way to describe the heart-in-your-mouth feeling of suddenly being taken by black ice. We slid diagonally down the road, picking up speed, as I tried to feather the brakes. Our concern (verging on terror) grew, but luckily the gentle braking worked and we slowed to a precarious halt. It was so tense that we felt that breathing too hard could set the car off again. On our left – the side closest to me and the way the camber pushed the car – was a deep ditch and a bunch of not-very-soft-looking rocks and trees. We ran through our options. We had snow chains in the boot, but no way of putting them on without moving the wheels. Attempting to control the car was likely to result in another sliding session, but we didn’t seem to have much choice. For the second time that day, Ryan spoke in a tone that I’d never heard before.

Stifling the rising feeling of dread, I told myself that although I didn’t fancy losing the €800 deposit on the car or negotiating our recovery in French (then paying the fee), we weren’t going to die. Ryan got out (gingerly) and moved around to the driver’s side, then put all his weight into pushing the car towards the uphill camber, while I tentatively eased off the clutch and crept forward. We slid a little, then I was in control. We slid again, and I was in control again. Ryan left his post and walked/slid in front of the car, directing me to the least icy bits of road, and we moved down the hill this way – just tickling the accelerator and the brake – for what seemed like an age.

Finally we reached a flatter bit and Ryan got back in the car. We crept along, flanked on either side by dark, ominous trees and incredibly on-edge, crossed a bridge over a river, and started ascending the winding road on the opposite side of the monstrous valley. The relief was immense but fragile, as we were painstakingly aware that we could come across more ice.

Relief

We emerged literally out of the woods and onto a more major road. Very few times in my life have I felt comparable elation, mixed with the sudden realisation that I was famished and totally exhausted. Not only had we climbed more vertical metres in a day than either of us had before (about 1,000m), in snow, but we’d barely eaten a thing. It was about 9pm on a Monday and we weren’t near any major resorts, so our hopes of finding anywhere open were low.

By chance, we came to a Chinese restaurant on a road in Saint-Gervais-Les-Bains, the nearest large town to our village. We nearly didn’t get out the car as although the lights were on, it looked dead. We pushed at the door and it opened, sounding a bell, but there were no waiting staff or customers anywhere. We looked tentatively around the warm, colourful room decorated with Chinese art and didn’t dare to hope too hard. A minute or so later a waitress came along, looked a little confused by my desperate-sounding plea (in French) for a table and gave us the second-best news of the evening: that they were still serving food.

I have never tasted such delicious Chinese food anywhere, and I don’t think it was just because of the day we’d had. It was everything I could have wanted – prawns in a lovely spicy sauce and fragranced rice with veg, and Ryan had some noodley thing. He perked up afterwards, but we were both so exhausted that after the thankfully uneventful drive back to the cabin (safe to say we eschewed Google Maps and stuck to the main road) we collapsed into bed like two sacks of potatoes.

The best meal of my life
And his

Alps 2020, Day 1: England – Switzerland – France

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We flew from Bournemouth and landed in Geneva an hour and a half late, around midday. A combined baggage allowance of 23kg, which included climbing gear (ie. a bunch of metal) and winter clothes, meant that I was uncomfortably warm and resembled a shallot in both shape and number of layers. It was touch and go whether we’d make it to the car hire place before we lost our booking as we had less than an hour and our collection instructions weren’t clear, but we got there and happily accepted the keys to a Polo, which was better than the VW Up that we’d booked.

7am airport beers
The Shallot

Unfortunately all we saw of Geneva was tarmac, concrete and industrial / “functional” residential buildings. Driving on the wrong side of the road was fine – the hardest thing was adjusting to sitting on the wrong side of the car. It took a little while before Ryan stopped wincing in anticipation of scraping the curb, but it was otherwise surprisingly easy to pick up. We drove down to the French Alps, watching excitedly as increasingly large, jagged mountains emerged from either side of the autoroute, and arrived in a pretty town called Les Houches. We picked up some groceries from Carrefour and headed to our AirBnB cabin, half an hour down the road in a tiny village near Saint Gervais Les Bains.

Les Houches
The beautifully neat French shops put the English to shame

The cabin was dreamy. Tiny, cosy and well-equipped, with an easy to use (even drunk) pull-out sofa bed, small kitchen area and a bathroom so little that Ry had to sit diagonally on the toilet to fit his gangly limbs in. My only qualm was the coffee machine, which I just couldn’t get the hang of. Ryan made all kinds of hot drinks with ease and admittedly it did only have one button to contend with, but every drink I made was too small, too weak, too cold or served in a wet cup because I nailed the volcano effect – where the water exploded out the top of the machine, rather than the bottom.

He cooked a lovely sausage and prawn stir fry that evening, with an unknown orange fishy-smelling sauce which was horrible on its own but lovely in the stir fry, and we spent the first night drinking a €6.50 3l box of heinous wine mixed with grenadine syrup, working out how (not?) to vlog, climbing around the little wooden cabin and planning the next day.

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This photo summarises our first attempt at vlogging. At least we can laugh about it

2020

New Year, the Dorset coast

2020 is a satisfyingly round number so I like this year already. It started well – I spent New Year’s Eve making burgers, drinking cider and talking rubbish in the van on the Dorset coast. Our parking spot overlooked Weymouth Bay and the night was warm enough that we kept the side door open to watch the fireworks across the water and breathe in the sea air. I think going out for NYE is overrated – too busy, too expensive and always anticlimactic.

We had a chilled morning in the van on New Year’s Day, then walked around the deserted village of Tyneham. The village is situated on a military range and was cleared out for WW2 training purposes, so all that remains are empty cottages, a pretty church and a very cute school.

After a quick wander we took the donkey track down to Worbarrow Bay, a lovely self-contained curve of the Dorset coastline, which was picturesque but far too peopley. To make the walk circular we climbed the steep cliff and took the much less busy, much more scenic route back along the SW Coast path, and before we knew it we found ourselves in a Wareham pub.

Van nights 10/10
Van mornings 10/10
Tyneham school
Worbarrow Bay

Other news

I didn’t take any time off over Christmas as I’d rather save my leave for adventuring, so I don’t have anything particularly notable to share. So far this year I’ve ran around the rolling valleys of Wiltshire, got back in the bouldering centre, done some much-needed admin and caught up with some unforgivably neglected friends.

I would have done more but my usual style of living fast while trying not to die young were abated by a rugby-induced hospital visit in Guernsey on Saturday 4th Jan. Fortunately I hobbled away with just (annoyingly lingering) whiplash and fond but blurry memories of gas and air. Guernsey was cool, though – rocky, quirky and pretty similar to Jersey.

In other other news, I object to “new year’s resolutions” because I’m always unrealistic and inevitably disappoint myself, but the one thing I’ve thought about lately (the fact it just so happens to be the turn of the decade is coincidental) is how I’d like to write more on my blog. So I suppose writing about writing on my blog is a start – great success.

The Chalk Valley
Ostrich steak, mind-blowing
Saints RFC international
New Forest walkies
One clean van…
Pretty Wiltshire
Tom playing
Bournemouth walkies

Upcoming excitement: The Alps

The real breaking news of January 2020 is that Ryan and I have booked flights to Geneva with the intention of exploring the Alps at the end of the month. We’ve even been organised enough to have booked four out of seven nights’ accommodation (near Chamonix) and a hire car. This might be more advance planning than I’ve ever done before, so smug is an understatement. (I only realised today that we’re off next Friday – I thought we still had about 3 weeks to wait – but that’s by-the-by).

Beyond that we don’t have a plan, which is cool. Activities on the cards are skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, hiking, rock climbing, ice climbing, summiting a summit or two and kayaking on Lake Geneva. We’ll think about it soon, but I’d love recommendations if anyone has been in or knows about the area, especially in winter. Would also accept charitable donations and/or winter kit, as it turns out the lifestyle I’d like is more expensive that the lifestyle I can afford.*

 

Thanks for reading this far, more to come soon as per my strictly non-new year’s resolution.

Love, a (very) Curious Gnome x

 

*Obviously tongue-in-cheek, the world is in turmoil so please redirect all charitable donations to the Australian bush fire effort or similar

Portland Climb/Camp, Nov/Dec’19

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Apparently Portland is “the” place to go climbing on the central-south coast of England. Connected to Dorset by only a skinny finger of land, it offers long stretches of walk-in limestone cliffs with easy parking and lovely sea views.

We made a last-minute decision to join my brother’s climbing club trip, inhaled some bacon at Hill HQ, threw our gear into the car and headed to Portland. It was a fine day and we arrived at the Battleship Back Cliff area on the west side of the island late morning. After missing the concealed approach down the cliff, we found a fixed rope and scrambled down. On the way down we saw what looked like a red climbing helmet by the base of a rock near sea level. I scrabbled off to look for it/its owner but couldn’t see it again, and we carried on along the cliff to find Angus’s group.

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They were climbing at The Block and The Veranda, two opposing walls which form a kind of open-roofed, wind-sheltered corridor. The routes on the landward-facing Block side were short and grades ranged from 4 to 6b+. The group had left a few ropes in the wall which, although annoying at a busy crag (which it wasn’t), was good as it meant we could fly up and down quickly. It was nice and chilled as Angus’s friends had mixed climbing experience, so there was lots of milling about/chatting/coaching/milling about. Ryan might like me to mention that he led a tricky 6a+ (hope you’re reading); I climbed four Block routes and a nice, high one on the Veranda side, then helped the club clean some gear before we lost daylight.

 

We scrabbled back to the car via a near via-ferrata type scramble/staircase, shoes slipping and clagging with clayey mud, said bye to the group (who were staying in Weymouth) and headed off to scout out a camping spot. We found a perfect place tucked between two bolted rock faces on Portland’s southeast side, went to a shop for cider and snacks, then found ourselves in the lovely and cosy Eight Kings pub in Southwell.

Well fed and watered*, we carried our gear into the cold and very windy dark, through brambles, over a gaping crevasse, down a steep, loose slope and round an awkward tight corner to the camping spot. We had the tent pitched and occupied in less than 15 minutes and spent the evening talking rubbish, drinking Old Rosie and feeling happily isolated from the world. Cold November nights spent confined under a thin bit of fabric are tragically underrated.

We laid in on Sunday morning, which I could cope with (I’m not a lay-in kind of person) because camping is worthwhile in its own right. The weather was finer than the previous day – clear and dry, but still windy. It was a lovely spot, a mini gorge tucked away from view and enclosed on all sides, accessible only by a narrow scramble around a corner and wild with brambles. The coastal path runs along the top of the seaward wall, but is just far enough back from the scrubby edge that the gorge is hidden. The view from that path was magnificent – colourful vegetation and scattered rocks covered the gradual slope down to the clear blue sea, and the pale cliffs of the Jurassic coast shone to the east in the low winter sun.

There was no need to look for climbs as the two opposing limestone walls of the gorge were bolted and climbable, so we harnessed up. We rattled through six short bolted routes in a couple of hours, swapping leads. We didn’t climb particularly hard but it was good to get through a handful of climbs. The only really memorable bit was the awkward position I managed to get myself into when I jammed both knees into a big, overhanging horizontal crack, leant back and practically dislocated a shoulder to clip a bolt above.

We finished with a fun, flakey route, which Ryan led and belayed from a top anchor, and were lured home by talk of a fire and Raclette at Hill HQ (thanks to lovely Cam). We returned with rosy cheeks and rock-battered hands, bitter at Monday’s imminence but pleased to have got back on real rock. Portland had shown us its climbing potential and needless to say we’ll be back.

 

*cidered

Lazy weekend (feat. a 20mile bike ride, a scrapbook and a climb)

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Deviating from my usual trip-away-type post, I thought I’d scribble a few words about a weekend spent making the most of a lack of plans, no van and a poorly man.

There were seven of us drinking at Hill HQ on Friday night, which was spent talking happy nonsense about nobody knows what. Ryan was due to play rugby on Saturday but he’d been ill the previous day and still wasn’t in great shape, so after cooking breakfast he spent the morning dying on the sofa while I cleaned up the night’s wreckage, painted a mountain and read a book.

By early afternoon I was twitching with restlessness, so I announced my plan to go out walking in the New Forest. Sicknote gallantly objected and insisted that he accompany me on a bike ride, so we cycled out into the drizzle. We stopped under a graffiti-covered concrete bridge over the wide river Avon, squawked and whistled like little kids in return for an echo, then rode past flooded fields, pretty villages, damp ponies and striking amber beeches, birches and oaks to the Red Shoot pub.

I realised the severity of his condition when he ordered a Coke instead of a beer, so although the pub was lovely we didn’t hang about long. On the way back we passed through (and nearly brought home) a herd of inquisitive pigs, and watched in amusement as they were shooed out of a garden by a boy with a broom. Ryan kept adding bits to the route, either to show me more of the area or to tire me out, and after flying down a long, muddy track we returned as the light dwindled.

The evening was unusually quiet and alcohol-free, but lovely and chilled. We de-mudded, he cooked and I made an adventure scrapbook, sprawled on the floor with a Pritt stick, a wodge of photos and Red Bull TV in the background.

Sunday threatened to be a quiet one and I couldn’t get to rugby because a) I’d made New Forest plans and b) was vanless, so after a morning of cooking, painting and last minute dashing to the shop for Cam’s birthday card, we headed down to Calshot indoor climbing centre to do the first bit of roped climbing I’d done in way too long.

I hadn’t been there for about 18 months, and since then they’ve added a “twiglet” feature, new bouldering cave and more autobelays. We did some toproping, leading and autobelaying, and I messily attempted the twiglet’s crack climb. Having borrowed a mixture of Tom, Adam and Millie’s climbing stuff, we were done fairly quickly due to too-tight shoes and Ryan’s lingering illness, but it was good to get down there and I promised myself I’ll go more often.

The weekend finished as it had started – around the table at Hill HQ, this time over a Sunday roast. To conclude – lovely, relaxing and over-too-soon.

Dartmoor, October ’19

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We left for Devon on Friday evening, undeterred by the miserable forecast and keen to escape the week. After a drink in the Ring O’Bells at Chagford and a sketchy drive along some flooded back roads (sketchy because of the flooding, not the drink), we spent the night in an empty roadside car park on the moors near the Warren House Inn. The wind howled outside and sideways-rain thrashed relentlessly at the windows, making the van extra cosy and the thought of a Saturday hike extra unappealing.

Fortunately the 9am England vs New Zealand World Cup semi-final provided a watertight excuse to chill out in the van. That morning I discovered the best way to watch rugby: tucked in bed, coffee in hand, storm raging outside, on a phone held by two karabiners onto a bungee cord strung across the ceiling of the van. For those 80 minutes the world was perfect, and England’s 19-7 victory topped it off with icing and a cherry.

Reluctant to waste the day, we drove across the bleak, blustery moor. I’d hoped to wander over the old clapper bridge at Postbridge but it was flooded, so we went on to Princetown and went round Dartmoor Prison museum. The prison itself is a foreboding, horror film-esque building, but that morning it was swallowed and obscured by oppressive, thick grey fog. The museum was really interesting; highlights included escape stories, improvised weapons, cleverly concealed contraband and all sorts of prison-made matchstick models.

The weather was still grim so we wandered round the National Park visitor centre, turned down a (strangely?) friendly shopkeeper’s invite to a Halloween party, found a good overnight spot in Princetown, chilled out in the van for a while, planned Sunday’s hike and spent the evening eating and drinking in the cosy Plume of Feathers pub. I assume we had a good time as I don’t remember returning to the van.

We were up quite early on Sunday morning, thanks in part to the clocks going back. We watched South Africa beat Wales during breakfast at the Fox Tor café, a buzzing little outdoorsey hostel/café in Princetown, and plodded (mild hangovers prevented exuberant movement) out onto the moors to make the most of the dry weather.

I’d plotted a rough route by circling tors on the map and joining them up. We walked past the towering Princetown TV mast along a long stretch of bridleway, then scrambled down a rocky edge into disused Foggintor quarry. This is a big granite playground containing a lake, lots of bouldering/climbing/scrambling/camping potential and a few sheep bones. After messing around like children we carried on to King’s Tor as the crow flies, which involved scrambling down a huge pile of boulders and wading through knee-high tufts of boggy grass.

It was pleasantly dry at the top of the hill and we scrambled over the tor, admiring the view. Rugged moorland surrounded us on three sides, punctuated by granite tors which towered like huge stacks of elephant poo, and in front rolling countryside marked the edge of the National Park. We climbed down and carried on, following a curved track once used by quarry carts round to Ingra Tor. After a bit more scrambling we bore east and headed uphill past a group of hardy-looking Dartmoor ponies towards the scree-sided Sharpitor, but it was a little out the way and looked pretty similar to the other elephant poos so we turned left at the B3212 and headed back towards Princetown.

This section took us parallel to a slab-lined stream which we’ve decided to revisit in summer – it’s practically wasted as a water supply as it’d make a perfect lazy river. We walked along this low-lying bit of moor, past dark fir forest, reddish ferns and scrubby bushes, found a tucked-away spot by a waterfall for next time’s pre-lazy river camping, and climbed the gradual slope up to Hart Tor. Here the surrounding moorland is covered by rippling golden grass which touches the horizon on three sides, broken only by the blue haze silhouette of Sharpitor and Tryfan-shaped Leather Tor to the southwest. View admired and Hart Tor being our last circle on the map, we descended across the wild, yellowey moor and followed the road back into Princetown.

So far I’ve failed to mention my idiocy the previous afternoon, perhaps in the hope that anyone reading has got bored by now. I had been enjoying van’n’chill so much that time spent listening to music with the ignition on had flown by and drained the battery. We realised this on Saturday but prioritised the pub (which I do not regret), so we were left with the job of organising a jump start post-hike. I was devastated to find out that a) we couldn’t jump the main battery with the leisure one, and b) my breakdown cover doesn’t cover campervans, but found an alternative service (Kev from Plymouth) which arrived quickly and sorted the problem.*

And so we left Dartmoor, half ashamed, half amused, fully satisfied with a lovely weekend (despite the weather) and fully disappointed that it was over.

*NB – I’ve since written to the insurance provider and received a full refund plus the cost of Kev’s callout, so you can sleep tonight knowing that justice was served.

Cheddar Gorge, October ’19

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After a sedentary couple of weeks due to the complicated removal of two awkward wisdom teeth, I was twitchy-restless. The weather looked grim so we decided to have a gentle weekend away and travelled the shortish distance to Cheddar Gorge, part of Somerset’s Mendip Hills AONB, on Friday evening.

We found a perfect roadside camping spot between the high walls of the gorge and graced a couple of lovely little pubs with our presence: the Gardeners Arms, a cosy old bar, and the White Hart, which did really good food at really, really good prices.

It rained heavily overnight but was okay by the time we were awake, caffeinated and stocked up with painkillers for my still-chubby cheeks. After a brief wander round Cheddar we set off on a 4-mile hike around the gorge. Starting from the town, we walked up a steep, muddy wooded section to gain the high north edge, then through rugged goat fields along the West Mendip Way.

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I laughed at Ryan when he saw a “budgie” fly up from the forest across the gorge, which I suspected was some pale brown bird lit up by the sun but later turned out to be (maybe, I’m 50/50 convinced) a yellowhammer. We descended into a wood crammed with hazelnuts, crossed the road at Black Rock and climbed up the steep wood to the gorge’s long, scrubby, mushroom-scattered south edge.

The vertical limestone faces on this side are without doubt the most impressive part of the gorge, towering over the tiny road that winds through the middle. We wandered onto the huge grass-covered fingers of rock jutting into the shadowy valley, regretting that it was too wet to climb – nice looking, partly bolted rock stretches down for several pitches. There’s something exhilarating and unsettling about how the suddenly the ground drops away here, and I was fixated by the ant-like cars snaking along the pass hundreds of feet below.

This south edge offers the best view of the gorge, which abounds in three things – lush vegetation, rocky outcrops and goats. Funny little coarse-haired faces pop up all over the place, from high up sheer rock faces to roads down in the town. Looking across the valley over the crevasse-like edge, the north bank slopes comparatively gently and is carpeted with scrubby, hardy grass, punctuated by smaller rock faces and wind-beaten bushes. A mixed forest thrives at the shallower top end of the gorge until its arrest on the south side by the huge grey rock faces, too sheer to be penetrated by roots.

The landscape around the gorge is strikingly flat in comparison. Miles of green fields stretch out in all directions, lined by straight hedges and interspersed with clusters of reddish rooves. The perfectly round Cheddar Reservoir and Brent Knoll stand out from the otherwise uninterrupted flatness, and the rough, rugged edges of Cheddar Gorge contrast starkly with its cultivated, inhabited, carefully constructed surroundings.

We climbed down the steps of Jacob’s ladder back to Cheddar town and spent the afternoon/evening buying cheese, drinking cider and playing pub games. Cheddar has a decent variety of shops and (more importantly) drinking establishments – we went from a sports bar to a wild west style saloon to a traditional, cosy pub. Choosing to bypass the hairdressers-by-day, nightclub-by-night, we stumbled back clutching kebabs and chasing goats.

Come Sunday the weather was less agreeable and my chubby, partly toothless face was hurting, so we loitered in the Costa tucked into the side of the gorge before heading to Wells, England’s smallest city. I was keen to see the cathedral and wasn’t disappointed – it’s a vast, beautifully detailed and satisfyingly symmetrical building situated in lovely grounds next to a moated bishop’s palace. There was a food festival thing on so the town was swarming with people, but otherwise it looked old and very pretty. We found a quirky old gaolhouse pub, rehydrated and headed reluctantly home.

NB: we didn’t do any caving due to very wet weather (so much so that some of the commercial caves were shut), one sore face and less disposable income than we’d like, but it’s definitely on the to do list for next time.

Brecon Beacons, September ’19

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Usk Valley camping

One of my favourite camping spots is halfway up the Sugar Loaf side of the Usk Valley, accessible only by narrow, winding roads often blocked by sheep. We arrived about 9pm and spent the rest of the evening doing my favourite kind of relaxing – under a starry sky, cider in hand, van door open, Dire Straits playing and overlooking the streetlight-spangled valley.

The Big Four horseshoe hike

After cooked breakfast and admin (feat. both hobs and a gas burner), we drove to Blaen-y-Glyn and parked at a jaunty angle on a bank. We planned to do the Big Four horseshoe hike, an 8-mile loop which includes the summits of Fan y Big, Cribyn, Pen y Fan and Corn Du.

After an accidental detour into a forest, we set off past a waterfall and up an alarmingly long, steep hill. The path was rocky but well-kept and the view became increasingly impressive as we climbed, with the sweeping ridges stretching in long layers out to the horizon, carpeted by that hardy kind of grass that lives stubbornly on bleak, rugged hills. Eventually the ground levelled out and we followed the path around three sheer sides of a rectangular plateau which forms the easternmost edge of the four horseshoe-shaped ridges.

We walked along the curved ridge of the first horseshoe to Fan y Big (heehee) and decided to skip a photo on the diving board shaped slab of rock. People were congregating with sandwiches and elaborate camera setups, and ain’t nobody got time for queuing when post-hike pub plans have been made. I stopped to tend to a potential blister, then we descended the steep ridge to the base of the ominously steep first section of Cribyn.

We pushed on up the slope, heads down and toes jamming into the soily steps kicked into the hillside by hundreds of stubborn, stampey walkers. I hate stopping for breaks on tough, steep sections, so I ignored my protesting legs and let the pull of a promised pint power me up. The gradient eased as we followed the curve of the second horseshoe to the summit, then plummeted down as we turned towards the distinctive twin tabletop peaks of Pen y Fan and Corn Du.

The section between Cribyn and Pen y Fan is distinctly V-shaped, with a boggy bit in the middle and a long set of steps up to the summit. As expected this was swarming with people and there was a cringe-ily British queue for the 886m sign, which we pointedly ignored. The wind had got up since Cribyn and we hurried along the short, busy ridge to the cairn at the top of Corn Du, past the throng from the Storey Arms “donkey track”, and wasted no time in moving south along the long, straight ridge that runs parallel to the curved ridges of Cribyn and Fan y Big.

The long valley created by the smooth, curved sides of the two parallel ridges contains the now drained Neuadd reservoirs, walled on one side by an imposing, slate-grey gothic dam and encircled by trees. To the south, dark pine forests cover vast sections of the hillsides like creeping shadows. After a long stretch along the Graig Fan Ddu path, we bore left down the steep slope into the belly of the valley, came to the lower Neuadd reservoir, and followed the works diversion across the Taf Fechan river to the edge of Taf Fechan forest.

The path curved round along the edge of the dark treeline, which now revealed an abundant variety of evergreens, conifers, shrubs and flowers. Sheep bumbled around scrubby fields, and although pleasant (-ly flat) the last section along dirt track and road dragged a little – we were well into pub o’clock.

4hours 45mins and 8 miles later, we got back to the van, changed and rushed off to the pretty town of Brecon, where we found a spot to stay overnight. Somehow we ended up in Wetherspoons* and spent the evening quelling hunger and sobriety.

*somehow = £3.60 a pint

MTBing, Forest of Dean

It was too wet to climb on Sunday, so after a quick detour to the National Park visitor centre and a walk round the quaint village of Crickhowell, we headed to the Forest of Dean for a spin on the mountain bikes.

We managed to get lost before we even started and ended up joining the Verderer’s trail (graded blue, intermediate), a 7 mile cross country loop, a few waymarkers past the start. It was mostly well-kept singletrack, with mainly sustained uphill sections to begin with and flowing downhill runs towards the end. It wasn’t too technical, but on a downhill bit with an “adverse” camber my fairly bald front tyre slid out and sent me flying down the bank. I was more concerned for my bike than my scraped left shoulder, arm and leg, but it was fine.

I wasn’t going to mention Ryan’s achey legs but I will, purely for the fact that he was being a fanny and – once we reached the car park where we should have started – decided that he was too tired to complete the loop and ride the couple of hundred metres to where we actually started. Sorry not sorry – the map on my Garmin app has a gap in. But we agreed to come back for longer and complete it next time, along with the Freeminers trail (graded red, experienced), so he was forgiven.

Verdict: 9.5/10, great weekend (-0.5 for the incomplete bike trail)

Three Peaks Challenge – Write up

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Last weekend I experienced a new type of euphoria. There’s no feeling like standing on top of the highest pinnacle of an entire country (or three) with a group of wonderful, strong, determined friends. It took months of organising, training and fundraising, hours of sleepless contortionism in a sardine tin of a minibus, blood, sweat, tears, countless injuries and a copious amount of tape, but the team summited all three mountains and returned home with stupid grins and lovely memories.

We didn’t quite make the 24-hour goal, but that’s not the point. I’ve never seen such incredible determination, selflessness, teamwork, positivity and inexhaustible humour in a group of people. Several of the team had never climbed a mountain before but didn’t think twice about taking on the brutal ascents (and arguably more brutal descents) of Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon.

Injuries included but were not limited to a slipped spinal disc, an immovable leg (Charley wins already), a post-stag do knee injury, an agitated previously broken foot, a sprained/stress fractured toe and Lee’s mangled feet.

Pre-Challenge

We quickly realised that the child-sized minibus seats were not conducive to sleeping or being even close to comfortable, but the bus banter was excellent. We left Winchester about 10.30am and arrived at our Fort William hostel around midnight, via a handful of service stations and a pub.

I was up and exploring by 7am on Saturday; I went down to Loch Linnhe and read all the history boards, then headed up the hill that stands over Fort William. I found a wild moor area overlooking the loch and its mountainy backdrop, which was full of birds and wildflowers, bright with yellow gorse and deep purple wild orchids. I explored this impossibly peaceful hillside, then headed back and met the others for breakfast in town before leaving for Glen Nevis.

Ben Nevis

We set off from the youth hostel at 3pm and the mountain hit us at approximately 3:02pm. It was a steep, uneven, rocky start, and as we puffed our way along the busy mountain track we soon realised the scale of the challenge. The group became strung out fairly quickly and I was amazed by the hordes of people on the path, most of whom also seemed to be doing the Three Peaks.

We strode, heaved and shuffled ourselves up the long mountain track, which took us along the monstrous side of a wide, green valley. I flitted between the group at the back and the front, passing messages about various injuries, and we realised fairly early on that we’d struggle to complete the challenge in 24 hours. The decision was made to focus on getting as many of the team up as many of the mountains as possible, taking decent group pictures at the summits and not getting hung up over the time taken.

The zigzag near the top was relentless, but not as bad as when I last climbed Nevis in thick, wet fog. The widening view of the surrounding mountains made up for the loose, rocky path and seemingly never-ending switchback turns, and the group’s pace picked up as injuries were numbed by painkillers, willpower and the pull of the summit.

The cairns began, the zigzag ended and we followed the path through a barren, grey rock-field towards the top, past sheets of snow and the deadly drop of five-finger gulley. This section was also long, and when the observatory came into view I felt the unmistakable spike of elation that always coincides with the sudden appearance of a summit.

All twelve of the group congregated by the trig point for a photo, glad that the time pressure had eased as it meant we could mull around for a few minutes. We enjoyed the panoramic views, taking in layer upon layer of hazy blue mountains, and I nosed around the little sticker-covered shelter (which would have been lovely if it didn’t smell of wee).

Delighted to have made the summit as a team and in clear, sunny weather, we headed back down and made it back to the bus just half an hour or so off schedule.

Scafell Pike

Pain, adrenaline and the miniscule, hard and immovably upright minibus seats meant that the drive to the Lake District was sleepless, and the windy roads leading to Wasdale left us queasy (and Bertie actually sick out the window). Riyad did a great job of driving, and despite the 60mph limiter, accidental turn down one of the narrowest roads on Earth and bus full of sweaty, whiney, grumpy people, got us to Wasdale Head in enough time to set off about 3am.

A few of the boys stayed behind due to actual and/or very likely injuries while the rest of us shuffled off towards the imposing black silhouette of a mountain, following the light of our headtorches and the rustle of sweet packets. Charley’s body was falling apart but she refused to stop and some of the group were keen to power on, so once again we strung out fairly quickly. I hung around at the back for a while, then realised that I might catch the sunrise if I picked the pace up. I left the group at the back, joined the three at the front, then puffed my way up to the summit alone.

Scafell Pike isn’t as high as the other two but a lot of people consider it the most difficult. I see why – the route feels very long and the climb is sustained, without any flat sections for relief. Eventually the uneven, rocky path forks off to the left (on a previous ascent I turned right and ended up scrambling up a loose, precipitous ridge, then had to blind-navigate the featureless top section), then turns right towards the summit; it’s one of those where you think you’re there, then another exasperating brow of grey shingle appears from nowhere.

Unfortunately the spectacular sunrise I’d hoped for was mostly obscured by blue-grey haze, but the view was breath-taking nonetheless. Again I was on a barren, rocky plateau surrounded by layers of mountains. I swapped my sweaty t-shirt for warm clothes and nestled down for a nap on the sheltered side of the summit memorial.

I’d just managed to drift off when I was woken by my 5.30 alarm, 40 minutes after reaching the top. Five of the others had joined me in 10-20 minute intervals so we took a photo and headed back down, passing Dave and Siobhan shortly afterwards. We strung out again and collected Charley on the way back, who had to turn around after pushing her injured leg so far that she couldn’t lift it over even the smallest rocks. (Somehow she later attempted Snowdon too…)

We traipsed back along the path along the side of the lush, green valley, now visible in the early morning light, enjoying the view over Wast Water. Eventually it curved round to the right and took us back down to the car park. Reunited and tired, we had some hot food in the car park, looking like we hadn’t slept for weeks. Matt had sourced some self-heating packet meals which looked a bit suspect but went down well – I had my jetboil so stuck to porridge and tinned fruit. Fed and watered, we flopped back into the bus and semi-slept our way to Snowdon.

Snowdon

We arrived at Pen y Pass after a couple of stop offs to wee (mainly Mia) and organise kit. We bundled out the bus and watched the cloud come in over the mountain as we plodded along the easy-going Miner’s track, past the still, black lakes. After the long, flat stretch we reached the steep, scrambley bit where the “path” ascends up the side of the ridge to meet the Pyg track.

Once again the group had spread out, and as the fog thickened I stayed at the back to supply sweets and make sure we didn’t lose anyone. It was cold, wet and miserable but spirits remained high. Eventually we pulled up over the last steep bit and joined the track along the ridge to the summit, which runs parallel to the train. This section is always deceptively long. At last we joined the rest of the group for a wet, windy summit photo, then Matt and Mia charmed their way onto the train down to Llanberis and I ran off to rejoin the others. The people in the café looked at me like I was a lunatic.

By that point we were practically hallucinating about pub food. We made it down the steep bit much quicker than I expected despite the slipperiness, then when Dave and I – the only non-limping ones left – were satisfied that the last three wouldn’t get lost or injured on a steep bit, we went ahead. Cold and wet through, we semi-jogged our way back along the level path, which was much longer than it seemed on the way out as new bends (and even a lake) materialised from nowhere.

The gates of the Pen y Pass car park came into view and as we ran to them I felt a pang of sadness that the challenge was nearly over. It could have been madness induced by hunger, exhaustion and/or sleep deprivation, but it crossed my mind that I could just turn around and happily disappear back into the mountains. But I didn’t, and lured by the pull of the pub, I joined the group in the youth hostel across the road.

Post-challenge

We had a beer, changed into dry clothes (in that order) and waited for the last three to join us. They limped in, Lee’s feet nearly worn down to stumps, and we collapsed into the bus. It had gotten quite late so Lottie grabbed us a table at Y Stabblau in Betws y Coed and we went straight there for food – I inhaled a curry, then set to work on leftover pasta and “three peaks” burgers. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

The most telling sign of utter exhaustion is when this particular group of friends doesn’t fancy more than one beer. This is something I’ve never experienced before and I wasn’t sure how to deal with it, but fortunately I was too excited at the thought of being horizontal that I didn’t care. We bundled back to the bus for the two-minute drive to the hostel and practically fell into our bunks.

The next morning I hoovered up half-eaten breakfasts, then we stumbled round the hostel, losing and finding various belongings, attempting to conquer stairs and watching bemused as someone else attempted to conquer stairs. A few of us wandered round Betwys y Coed, admiring the pretty buildings and eating ice cream, before dragging our reluctant selves back to the lovingly despised minibus to head home.

To conclude

Undertaking this challenge made us realise that it was never really about finishing in 24 hours. Our goal was to make £2,500 for Friends of PICU (read the story here) by climbing some mountains. In the process we actually raised over £3,000, got the entire group up the highest mountain and a majority up the other two, strengthened twelve friendships each and just generally had an amazing time. I feel extremely lucky to have experienced some of my favourite places with some of my favourite people and seen faces light up at the landscapes I love. Until next time…

Endnote – our group chat name has been changed to “K2 2022”, so watch this space 😉

A massive thank you to the mountain team, Charley, Dave, Matt, Lee, Mia, Tom, Chris, Dan, Siobhan, Mark and Bertie…

The hero designated driver, Riyad…

The we’ll-do-it-next-timers, Lottie and Theresa…

And everyone who supported us by donating to our worthy cause.

Aberdeen

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May 2019

I missed Scotland and as I was working up north anyway, I took advantage of cheap flights from Manchester to Aberdeen. I fell in love with the country a couple of years ago and as a climbing friend recently moved there, I hoped to squeeze a climb in.

I spent Friday exploring all the corners of Aberdeen on foot, running (a very slow) 20km round the city. The buildings are made of dark grey granite blocks, which make everything seem very dull on a cloudy day but glisten prettily in the sun. Shiny new cars sit outside rows of houses lining the leafy streets, which have a clean, homely feel, and regular shops and eateries give the place a pleasant, quiet bustle.

One long, wide street seems to form the heart of the city, lined with everything from posh Thai restaurants to Wetherspoons to high street stores to haberdashers. Four lanes of cars and a constant stream of pedestrians give it a buzzing atmosphere, livelier than that of the suburbs, but somehow it doesn’t really feel like a city. Grand old buildings shoulder smart, modern ones, there are lots of churches, and I was never worryingly far from a pub.

Just a few minutes from the centre are the docks, boasting a rich history and filled with all sorts of boats. A long (extremely long if you’re running) sandy beach stretches along the east coast, punctuated by groynes, seabirds and the occasional surfer. I stopped at an estuary nature reserve at the northern end in the hope of seeing gannets or skuas, then headed back via Old Aberdeen through the pretty, cobbled streets of the university.

I ran back through the bustling streets looking the most Scottish I’ve ever looked – wearing black, white and blue, with a box of oats (staple snack) from Aldi tucked under one arm. Aberdeen successfully explored, I ended that day rigorously assessing a selection of the city’s pubs (variable types, would recommend most), making pub friends and as far as I can remember, having a lovely time.

Favourite fact: “Aberdeen” comes from the Gaelic “Aber”, meaning river confluence, and an amalgamation of “Dee” and “Don”, the two rivers that meet the sea there. Thanks to my geeky habit of reading all the info boards.

Verdict on Aberdeen: 9/10. Would have been 10/10 if I’d seen gannets and skuas.