It's been a long time since we had a Cheeseboard weekend, with our nearest and dearest buddies descending, partners in tow, for food, wine and song.
First to arrive was Koios, availing herself of GNERs finest service and picked up from the station by Fisher. We had barely a few moments of chatting and chopping food before the entrance of Janus, Badger, Phid and Wheeler, all of whom had come up from Edinburgh in Wheeler's new VW van (Norman). We ate Normandy chicken fricassé and got down to the serious business of consuming vats of wine - something I have been telling myself for some time now that I simply can't do. Alas, my brain switched off for the night, I glugged a bottle of white wine followed by a couple of A'bunadhs from Aberlour's distillery (60.5%) and retired to bed with spinning head.
Unfortunately, at around 3am I awoke in excruciating pain. The mild wry neck I'd been suffering had completely engulfed what felt like my entire back, making any kind of movement breathtakingly painful. I slept fitfully, woken every time I moved by sword-thrusts in my neck, shoulders and back - and was not, in any way, helped by the deeply unpleasant hangover hitting in the early hours of the morning.
I'd planned on getting up to make breakfast of bacon and eggs for everyone, but considering I was totally bed-bound, Fisher willingly took over the task and from the merry laughter drifting up the stairs I was pretty sure everyone else was hale and hearty. Spartan and Blarney arrived in time to share the bacon and eggs. Hearing them, I attempted to get up, which would have been amusing to viewers as my legs flailed and my body refused to lift.
Further plans for the day involved heading up to Lunan Bay to check out the surf, walk the dogs and play on the beach. Naturally this was now out of the question as far as I was concerned, but everyone else set off with a will. I suppose I could have gone along and sat in the car, or even found a place to perch on a sand dune - but there's really nothing worse than the spectre at the feast. I was reminded of that scene in The Beach where two of the men are attacked by a shark. One of them dies, and they have a funeral and mourn. The other one is inconsiderate enough to go on living, in excruciating pain - and because his distress upsets the colony so much, they move him into the jungle so they can't hear him any more. Once this is done, life returns to normal and they go back to playing volley ball on the beach.
Obviously this case wasn't quite so severe, but nothing is more likely to put a dampener on a party than a morose, sickly figure moping in the background - so I merrily stayed at home with Arsenal v Man U and made supper of game pie.
For those interested in my recipe, this is what I did:
Game Pie for 1o
2 x whole partridge (deboned),
250g diced pheasant breast
500g diced venison
250g diced pork belly
3x smoked bacon rashers
400g mushrooms
Onions
3-4 tbsp flour, seasoned
1 tbsp honey
1/2 pint chicken stock
3/4 pint red wine
4-5 sprigs rosemary
Juniper berries
Salt & pepper
Puff pastry
First I preheated the oven to 150ºC. Then I fried up the onions and pork belly in a casserole dish and set them aside. I tossed the meat in the seasoned flour, then browned it in the casserole dish before adding the onions and pork. Then I added the stock and red wine, honey, rosemary, juniper berries and seasoned to taste. The stock should cover the meat but not drown it.
Then I popped it in the oven and let it cook for 4 hours.
To make it a pie, I just put a rolled layer of packet puff pastry in the oven and cut it into requisite chunks - but if you wanted to make it a proper pie, I'd recommend thickening the sauce a little, with cornflour. You could do a shortcrust pastry bottom and puff pastry top, or just go shortcrust all the way. Whatever. Your choice.
During this time, Arsenal and Man U drew 2-2, Protagoras arrived and helped me watch Top Gear on Dave - a new channel that shows repeats of pretty much every show I watch, the wanderers returned with pink cheeks from beach fun - and we headed out to Ceres to watch the fireworks.
Being raised on Maltese fireworks, which light the sky for miles around and culminate in a desperately unsafe Catherine Wheel display of visual splendour, I was prepared to be uninspired and mocked for dragging us all out on a cold night to watch a literal damp squib.
Not so.
While the fireworks lacked the power and glory of their Maltese cousins, they were much better than I'd anticipated, and while my cricked neck wasn't all that pleased to be forced into an upwardly tilted position I couldn't care less. They were very pretty, while the beacon fires glowed merrily in braziers at the edge of the green. Blarney had to be bought a luminous spinning wheel to wave, which made Fisher jealous, while the smell of frying burgers 'n' onions made me very glad there was pie waiting at home.
Back at HC, I got supper ready - ably and willingly assisted by helpers. Phid and Blarney peeled spuds, Wheeler and Spartan flirted over the pastry in a very homoerotic fashion (flicky-flicky went the flour, giggle giggle went the boys - it was heart warming), Janus helped set the table, Pro chopped tomatoes and poured wine - it was a cosy hive of activity.
Pro being a lovely, lovely man, he'd bought me some delicious salami from Luvians - so I whacked up a quick salad with lemon mayonnaise, doled out two slices each, and we had a starter! Marvellous! Well done Pro.
Supper was jovial - if a little squashed with 10 people around the kitchen table (my buttocks were half on half off the bench, but that's my own lardy fault), and we went through to the sitting room for the only real reason people were up. Namely:
GIVING ME PRESENTS!!!! Ha haaaa ha ha ...
Not really. Seeing as I'd fled the country in order to avoid making a big deal of my 31st (I felt it was a bit rich to do so, considering I'd forced everyone to pay to go to Spain last year!), I was astonished and touched that people went to such effort. Koios gave me a beautiful pair of silver buttoned, deerskin gloves - hopefully the skin of the deer we'd just eaten for supper! Janus gave me a lovely red running top and some much needed blister-proof socks. Badger - bless - remembered I'd been intrigued by his Book of Surrealist Games and bought me my own copy. Pro yet again managed to provide me with cracking books just as I'd run out of decent material: The Lodger - Shakespeare on Silver Street, by Charles Nicholl, and The Stuff of Thought, by Steven Pinker. I'm already dipping into both, but I think Pinker has my attention more securely at present.
Phid and Wheeler are both going to treat me to days of climbing - Phid at Ratho, with its scary death slide or whatever it's called, Wheeler at an outdoor place in ... er ... Aberlour? Aberfeldy? Aberration? Somewhere Aberish, anyway. And as if that weren't enough, Phid also got me the new Countdown game - luxury edition - with a clock that makes the noise the real clock makes! Squeeeeeeeal!
Last, but by no earthly means least, in a fit of naughty extravagance, Spartan and Blarney have decided to pay for my motorbike lesson (tomorrow ... gaaaaaaaaahhh!) and also bought me the much-coveted but always discarded due to unjustifiable extravagance, Larousse's Gastronomique! Fabulous! It's just the best cookery encyclopaedia out there - and now I have it! I can cook anything! The world is my oyster stew!
After this orgy of attention, feeling no small amount of affection for my chosen family, I was able to turn attention to the serious business of playing games. Alas, Countdown was out because the maximum number of players is six - and so was Who's In The Bag because Spar would have slapped me in the face if I'd chosen it (he's a bully like that). We decided instead on Pass the Bomb, followed by Articulate - and I won both! Ha haaaaaa ha ha! Am a genius. Clearly the best games player that ever lived.
Also, the bomb never went off anywhere near me, which is pure luck - and for Articulate I was on a team with Phid and Wheeler, and Phid and I think in similar ways so I can generally get what she's describing pretty quickly and vice versa. Also we were losing all the way round and only the fact that Blarney managed to screw up by reading the wrong clues to Pro, Fisher and Koios. They were on Object (piss easy) and for reasons best known only to Blarney she decided to read clues for World (piss hard), thus giving them only 2 points. They then landed at the end, Janus pinched the all-play they had to get to win, and moved them back 2 places. This enabled us to grab a sneaky 7 from the piss easy Object category, finish - and get the all play to finish victorious and extraordinarily smug!
What was most amusing was Blarney's furious:
"I'm not happy about that at all!" and bright pink cheeks. And the girl has the audacity to consider herself the least competitive member of the Cheeseboard! But more on that later ...
With games exhausted, we watched QI on telly and then - oh shame - went to bed. Pro was first to succumb to exhaustion, falling asleep on the floor before sensibly hitting the hay, and I was next. I imagined that the others might stay up into the wee hours, but they let me down as well.
Next day we had a light breakfast and I started preparing the Sunday roast with help from contract whist players Janus, Koios, Blarney and Badger. Fisher, Spartan and Wheeler went for a run with the dogs, and as I stuffed the leg of lamb with leeks, mushrooms, garlic and rosemary, we struck up a conversation about who was the most competitive member of the Cheeseboard.
Now, I think there's some misguided attitudes to our desire to grade this. When Pro found himself almost roped into the conversation, he turned and fled the room like a frightened rabbit. Phid, on the other hand, was very keen to stress that "I just don't care."
The thing is, naturally, we none of us really care. What's fun is the conversation - and it's the sort of chat Koios and I used to bind ourselves unbreakably together at Uni. It's not about the conclusions we reach, it's about the analysis along the way. We like talking about people, about what makes them tick and why, and we're equally - if not more - self analytical. It's not about judgement, it's about a fascination with character. Who cares who's the most competitive? But figuring it out raising truly fascinating insights into not only that aspect of personality, but a great many others - like how your friends see you, how you see yourself, how introspective you are and how self aware - or self-deluded - you might be. The beauty is that nobody can be sure who's right or wrong, as there really isn't any definitive answer. If Blarney thinks she's the least competetive member of the Cheeseboard then, despite the fact we all think she's deeply deluded and a lunatic at that, she might be right from a different perspective.
Like the perspective of a deeply deluded lunatic.
Anyway, if anyone's interested we all (apart from Blarney) came to similar conclusions.
1) On a scale of 1-10, with an ordinary person being a 5 and a professional athlete being a 10, we all sit somewhere around 8 or 9.
2) The three most competitive Cheeseboarders are: Fisher, Blarney and Janus. The three least are: Koios, Phid and me.
The fact I'm in the bottom 3 should go some way to proving just how competitive we all are. Marvellous.
Anway, we sat down to roast lamb at a little after 2, and had a long, leisurely lunch with a few choice bottles of red and much interesting chat. If anyone wants the recipe for the roast lamb, this is what I did:
Roast Lamb for 10 +
1 x leg of lamb, approx 6 1/2 lbs (3.5kg), boned and rolled
2-3 leeks, finely chopped
400g (?ish) mushrooms, finely chopped
3 cloves garlic, crushed
3 sprigs fresh rosemary
Medium sherry, reduced to approx. 3 tbsp
1 tbsp redcurrant jelly
splash vodka
Easy as pie. Preheat the oven to 180ºC.
Reduce the sherry, cook the leeks, mushrooms and garlic and add the sherry. If you want it to be less wet, drain the mushrooms before adding the sherry, but you might lose some of the flavour.
Stuff the lamb leg with this mixture, tie it securely, and pop it in the oven.
Roughly 20 minutes before it's due to come out, burn off the alcohol in the vodka and add the redcurrant jelly. Stir to a sauce and thoroughly baste the lamb with it.
Serve with roast spuds, honeyed carrots, parnsips, and a bunch of hungry mates - who will also willingly help you prepare it all!
Tip top tastic.
After our long lunch, we all went outside for apple and berry picking or footie (quite a difficult game when played on a massive slope). Wheeler climbed the tree and shook as many apples down as the gannets beneath desired, while Janus headed into the raspberry patch to gather some astonishingly ripe fruits that really have no business being there in November. Spartan and Pro attempted to knock more apples down by throwing apples into the tree, but Wheeler remarked at how astonishing it was how many apples appeared to be hanging on his arse. Luckily he remained in the tree and survived to play some kickabout footie until we decided enough was enough and returned inside - where a hive of baking activity had begun. Pastry was being rolled, flour thrown around, fruit chopped, juiced, and mixed, and delicious smells wafting from everywhere. Having had enough cooking for one weekend, I retired to the sitting room to watch Match of the Day.
The pies were baked just in time. As the timer pinged, it was time for us all to head out to the Craigsanquhar Hotel, where I'd booked us in for a late afternoon tea. All the cars were loaded with pies, fruit and bags, and off we went for our final hurrah.
The Craigsanquhar's bargain tea is now not quite so bargainous, being a tenner where it was once £6.50 - but it's still pretty good value. For your money you get all the tea and coffee you can drink, shortbread biscuits, a selection of little sandwiches, cake (black bun in this case) and little scones, cream and jam.
Fab.
Couple this with a large sitting room, open fire in the next room, squashy armchairs, and tranquility, and you couldn't ask for more.
It was a lovely way to wind up the weekend, and once we'd all eaten and drunk our fill, prized Koios's arse from the lovely sofa ("I could sit here all night" she sighed) and paid up, it was time to go our separate ways. Fond farewells were made, future plans promised, and off we went, waving each other off into the darkness.
If everyone enjoyed themselves as much as I, then it was a fabulous weekend all round.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to drool, Smaug-like over my pile of loot ... and read the new Highway Code from cover to cover in preparation for my ... shudder ... 8am CBT tomorrow.
Ooh. Feel sick.
Monday, 5 November 2007
Wednesday, 31 October 2007
More Climbing
Today was supposed to be a quiet day of rest and relaxation, but Fisher decided she really wanted to go climbing and gave me the big eyes, so off we went.
This time we had a nice young man who showed us the ropes - ha ha - and was very cheery about it. We had a 2 hour session, and I conquered my previous nemesis with ease, proving my biggest obstacle is stamina. Fisher can dangle off walls and actually recharge her batteries, but when my fingers have gone, they've gone.
Anyhoo - we had a lovely time conquering the walls, did a spot of bouldering at the end, and went home satisfied members of A Vertical World. Tip top tastic. We can now rock up and pay £4.50 for a session, bring 2 guests with us, and hopefully improve our strength and fitness.
Good stuff.
Of course, I'm utterly knackered now, and disheartened by the fact that Fisher is blonde and therefore gets all the praise and fawning from all instructors, while I get totally ignored (save for when I'm being told I 'wander' or to keep the rope tighter). Hey ho. At least I can console myself that I don't actually care.
This time we had a nice young man who showed us the ropes - ha ha - and was very cheery about it. We had a 2 hour session, and I conquered my previous nemesis with ease, proving my biggest obstacle is stamina. Fisher can dangle off walls and actually recharge her batteries, but when my fingers have gone, they've gone.
Anyhoo - we had a lovely time conquering the walls, did a spot of bouldering at the end, and went home satisfied members of A Vertical World. Tip top tastic. We can now rock up and pay £4.50 for a session, bring 2 guests with us, and hopefully improve our strength and fitness.
Good stuff.
Of course, I'm utterly knackered now, and disheartened by the fact that Fisher is blonde and therefore gets all the praise and fawning from all instructors, while I get totally ignored (save for when I'm being told I 'wander' or to keep the rope tighter). Hey ho. At least I can console myself that I don't actually care.
Knackered!
By gum, I feel really quite pooped. Yesterday was supposed to involve gentle exercise and a nosebag with Fonda. Instead, Fisher decided she wanted to go for a run and guilted me into doing some exercise as well. I haven't been for a bike ride in ages, but also recognised I ought to run - so I drove to St Andrews, parked at the Old Course, and ran to the gym which is just over 1.5 miles - I could only measure it roughly, and I think it's about 1.7. I set a good pace for me, and finished in 18 minutes. I then did 20 minutes on the gym bike, on 'hill' setting (killer - starts on 4, goes gradually up to 20, then 18, 14 and 9 before finishing on 4 again) and covered just under 5 miles.
I was quite tired after this. Back home we wolfed baguettes from Cherries and gave ourselves indigestion, watched Countdown and the awful champion pulverise another poor sap (I'm terrible at the moment - can't get over a 7 letter word and mostly struggling for 6s), and tried to chill out before aquafit.
We picked Fonda up at 6.30 and headed into Dundee. Aquafit felt more strenuous this time round, but probably only because of the exercise we'd already done. Looking around the class I realised they'd probably sorted the wheat from the chaff because I couldn't find a single person not putting effort in. There was only one woman younger than us - and boy can those older women work out! There was a granny behind me with her shoulders so far out of the water you could almost see her waist.
Impressive.
I must say, I find aquafit a little dull and was clock watching from about 15 minutes from the end - but it is a nice change from the usual routine. It was also lovely to go out to the DCA for supper with Fonda, whom we haven't seen for months and who's back together with her flakey boyfriend (well, he sounds flakey anyway) and hating her boring job. Still, she was cheerful and chatty as ever, so it was great. We had a very pleasant night - and now it's the next day and I feel like I was run over by a bus.
Fisher is off getting milk for coffee, so I'm really hoping a caffeine jolt will make everything rosier.
I was quite tired after this. Back home we wolfed baguettes from Cherries and gave ourselves indigestion, watched Countdown and the awful champion pulverise another poor sap (I'm terrible at the moment - can't get over a 7 letter word and mostly struggling for 6s), and tried to chill out before aquafit.
We picked Fonda up at 6.30 and headed into Dundee. Aquafit felt more strenuous this time round, but probably only because of the exercise we'd already done. Looking around the class I realised they'd probably sorted the wheat from the chaff because I couldn't find a single person not putting effort in. There was only one woman younger than us - and boy can those older women work out! There was a granny behind me with her shoulders so far out of the water you could almost see her waist.
Impressive.
I must say, I find aquafit a little dull and was clock watching from about 15 minutes from the end - but it is a nice change from the usual routine. It was also lovely to go out to the DCA for supper with Fonda, whom we haven't seen for months and who's back together with her flakey boyfriend (well, he sounds flakey anyway) and hating her boring job. Still, she was cheerful and chatty as ever, so it was great. We had a very pleasant night - and now it's the next day and I feel like I was run over by a bus.
Fisher is off getting milk for coffee, so I'm really hoping a caffeine jolt will make everything rosier.
Monday, 29 October 2007
Fires and Frustration
Yesterday was excellent! While feeling the effects of my mammoth mug of coffee, I declared myself eager to get out and do something, rather than just park myself in front of the telly and wait for decent footie. After all, what's the point of Sky+ if not to whip TV into a corner and force it to mould itself around your life, rather than vice versa?
The trouble was, I didn't really know what I wanted to do. I was quite keen on the idea of popping into Auld Reekie to catch the Warhol exhibition - but discovered, to my chagrin, that it was the end of October and the Warhol was long over. We hit t'internet and scoured What's On in Fife (absolutely bugger all), then searched Dundee. Turns out the McManus is closed for major refurbishment, the DCA is showing sweet FA of interest, and the only other thing to do in Dundee is watch movies (according to The List, anyway) for which neither of us were in the mood. So we turned our attention to the whole of Scotland, and discovered some archaeological park was burning a Wicker Man in a place called Oyne. Thrilled at the thought of watching something - maybe even someone?? - get set on fire, I called the
Archaeolink Prehistory Park and quizzed them about it. Would it just be the burning of a big old bunch of man-shaped twigs, or would there be other stuff as well?
"Ooh, no, we've got everything!" said the cheerful lassie on the other end. "As well as the burning, there's pagan chanting, the dedication of animals to the gods, human sacrifice - oo, and a tombola!"
I agreed that the chance to win a large Celtic sword was too good an opportunity to miss and put the phone down. Turning to Fisher with a look of pleading in my eyes, I found her regarding me with the dubious affection I've come to know and love.
"Can we, can we?" I'm afraid I squealed. When she hesitated I prepared for a small tantrum - then a thought struck me. "Where is Oyne, anyway?"
"Further north than Aberdeen," came the response. "It'll be a two and a half hour drive."
"Oh," I said, relieved, "that's all right then. Can we, can we?"
"Of course dear," she sighed, "I'll get my coat."
So we packed the dogs into the car and headed north.
It was a long drive, only made unpleasant by the discovery that once you get further north than Dundee there isn't a public loo to be found for love nor money. We stopped at a petrol station: loos out of order. We stopped at another: no loo. We turned off in glee when we saw a sign for WC, and groaned in horror as we passed through the entire village without spotting a single one. With more hope than confidence we stopped at a Somerfield, and while Fisher got cash from the machine I asked if they knew where there was a public loo.
"Dinnae ken," came the response, "but ye can use ours."
"Really?" I breathed, and hurried behind the young man as he led me through eons of corridors, up some stairs, and into the staff loos. Callously, I'd abandoned Fisher to her fate, like a soldier bolting from the trenches. I was then embarrassed by the fact I spent ages sampling their rather lovely soaps, only to emerge eventually and discover the young man waiting to guide me back. He must have thought I had the largest bladder in the world.
Come to think of it, he probably wouldn't have been far wrong.
Anyway, I was relieved but Fisher remained in distress, so we had to stop yet again - this time at a large BP garage where - no joke - the ladies was out of order. Luckily Fisher had the common sense to use the gents instead. Considering we were now a mere 6 miles from our destination, you can see how long this search had gone on.
When we arrived at the Archaeolink Park we were disappointed to discover we couldn't take the dogs in, so they had to be content with a short wander around the car park. We then paid £5.50 each and entered the field.
It's quite a lark, actually. There are several reconstructed Iron Age huts, some of which you can go into. We had a peek round these, avoiding the crowd of people being made to sing Bohemian Rhapsody by a man in a robe clutching a shield, as they waited for the torchlight procession to begin. We then made our way to stand beside the very impressive Wicker Man, choosing as our vantage point a small hillock beside a pond, where two press photographers had set up.
Because British people are shy of getting near people wh
o look official, we were the only ones to claim the hillock, and had quite the best view of events.
We hadn't too long to wait before we saw the torchlight procession emerging from the standing stones and wandering around the field towards us. Someone was banging a drum, the torches dripped flame in an impressive manner, threatening to set fire to the ground and - more worryingly - the actors' robes, and it was all suitable atmospheric.
When they entered the field, I thought they'd faff about a bit - maybe get us all singing This Thing Called Love, or maybe just work us all the way through Queen's greatest hits - but it was gratifyingly quick. To shrieks, ululations and pagan roars, the torches were set to the Wicker Man and he was ablaze!
"Oh God!" I cried, in best Edward Woodward style, "Oh God, no! Oh Jesus Christ ..."
Torchlight Procession
"Oh shut up!" Fisher muttered, quashing my pretense to humour. And rightly so. It was a true spectacle, and one best appreciated in silence.
We watched the flames consume Eddie, as I'd affectionately named our wicker pal, and away to our left a vast orange moon rose slowly above the hills. To our right, a man with a beard told his son, Brian, that his camera wouldn't work properly because of the light, and then gave a detailed explanation as to why - including a formula. I was about to mock the spod to Fisher, when she turned to me and made pretty much exactly the same speech regarding her own camera troubles. Thankfully she left out the formula, or our July plans would be seriously altered right now.
Anyway, it was lovely and we held hands as the great man blazed itself into oblivion, warming ourselves in his demise. Then we had a final wander round the field before returning to the car for the long trek home, well pleased.
So that was how we spent Sunday.
Today we abandoned the house to our slightly scary cleaners and took the dogs for a 2.5mile walk at Tentsmuir, enjoying the beautifully crisp sunshine and the quietness of the woods (apart from the poxy RAF). We then went into St Andrews to buy a decent air bed. We had lunch at the West Port and discovered it's become rather pleasant - albeit a far cry from the open fired, wood-floored loveliness it was all those years ago. We chatted about this and that, including the fact I've booked myself in to take my CBT on the 7th November and am now bricking it.
We'd planned on going climbing this evening, but I woke this morning with a recurrence of my cricked neck/back - probably brought on by standing in the cold for a couple of hours yesterday, followed by a long drive and finishing Jak 3 on PS2 (very tense). I was very sorry to have to disappoint Fisher, but even though I really wanted to, I wouldn't be doing myself any favours by dangling from walls. I called the centre and cancelled.
BOOOOOOOOOO.
Tomorrow is aquafit with Fonda, followed by supper in Dundee. I'm looking forward to hearing all about her travels, her love life, and why her job sucks so badly (well, not 'looking forward' to the latter, but keen to lend an sympathetic ear, anyway). It's been ages since we last saw her, so there's a lot of catching up to do. She wants to join Holly Commune. Hell, maybe she should!
Maybe everybody should.
The trouble was, I didn't really know what I wanted to do. I was quite keen on the idea of popping into Auld Reekie to catch the Warhol exhibition - but discovered, to my chagrin, that it was the end of October and the Warhol was long over. We hit t'internet and scoured What's On in Fife (absolutely bugger all), then searched Dundee. Turns out the McManus is closed for major refurbishment, the DCA is showing sweet FA of interest, and the only other thing to do in Dundee is watch movies (according to The List, anyway) for which neither of us were in the mood. So we turned our attention to the whole of Scotland, and discovered some archaeological park was burning a Wicker Man in a place called Oyne. Thrilled at the thought of watching something - maybe even someone?? - get set on fire, I called the
Archaeolink Prehistory Park and quizzed them about it. Would it just be the burning of a big old bunch of man-shaped twigs, or would there be other stuff as well?
"Ooh, no, we've got everything!" said the cheerful lassie on the other end. "As well as the burning, there's pagan chanting, the dedication of animals to the gods, human sacrifice - oo, and a tombola!"
I agreed that the chance to win a large Celtic sword was too good an opportunity to miss and put the phone down. Turning to Fisher with a look of pleading in my eyes, I found her regarding me with the dubious affection I've come to know and love.
"Can we, can we?" I'm afraid I squealed. When she hesitated I prepared for a small tantrum - then a thought struck me. "Where is Oyne, anyway?"
"Further north than Aberdeen," came the response. "It'll be a two and a half hour drive."
"Oh," I said, relieved, "that's all right then. Can we, can we?"
"Of course dear," she sighed, "I'll get my coat."
So we packed the dogs into the car and headed north.
It was a long drive, only made unpleasant by the discovery that once you get further north than Dundee there isn't a public loo to be found for love nor money. We stopped at a petrol station: loos out of order. We stopped at another: no loo. We turned off in glee when we saw a sign for WC, and groaned in horror as we passed through the entire village without spotting a single one. With more hope than confidence we stopped at a Somerfield, and while Fisher got cash from the machine I asked if they knew where there was a public loo.
"Dinnae ken," came the response, "but ye can use ours."
"Really?" I breathed, and hurried behind the young man as he led me through eons of corridors, up some stairs, and into the staff loos. Callously, I'd abandoned Fisher to her fate, like a soldier bolting from the trenches. I was then embarrassed by the fact I spent ages sampling their rather lovely soaps, only to emerge eventually and discover the young man waiting to guide me back. He must have thought I had the largest bladder in the world.
Come to think of it, he probably wouldn't have been far wrong.
Anyway, I was relieved but Fisher remained in distress, so we had to stop yet again - this time at a large BP garage where - no joke - the ladies was out of order. Luckily Fisher had the common sense to use the gents instead. Considering we were now a mere 6 miles from our destination, you can see how long this search had gone on.
When we arrived at the Archaeolink Park we were disappointed to discover we couldn't take the dogs in, so they had to be content with a short wander around the car park. We then paid £5.50 each and entered the field.
It's quite a lark, actually. There are several reconstructed Iron Age huts, some of which you can go into. We had a peek round these, avoiding the crowd of people being made to sing Bohemian Rhapsody by a man in a robe clutching a shield, as they waited for the torchlight procession to begin. We then made our way to stand beside the very impressive Wicker Man, choosing as our vantage point a small hillock beside a pond, where two press photographers had set up.
Because British people are shy of getting near people wh
o look official, we were the only ones to claim the hillock, and had quite the best view of events.We hadn't too long to wait before we saw the torchlight procession emerging from the standing stones and wandering around the field towards us. Someone was banging a drum, the torches dripped flame in an impressive manner, threatening to set fire to the ground and - more worryingly - the actors' robes, and it was all suitable atmospheric.
When they entered the field, I thought they'd faff about a bit - maybe get us all singing This Thing Called Love, or maybe just work us all the way through Queen's greatest hits - but it was gratifyingly quick. To shrieks, ululations and pagan roars, the torches were set to the Wicker Man and he was ablaze!
"Oh God!" I cried, in best Edward Woodward style, "Oh God, no! Oh Jesus Christ ..."
Torchlight Procession
"Oh shut up!" Fisher muttered, quashing my pretense to humour. And rightly so. It was a true spectacle, and one best appreciated in silence.
We watched the flames consume Eddie, as I'd affectionately named our wicker pal, and away to our left a vast orange moon rose slowly above the hills. To our right, a man with a beard told his son, Brian, that his camera wouldn't work properly because of the light, and then gave a detailed explanation as to why - including a formula. I was about to mock the spod to Fisher, when she turned to me and made pretty much exactly the same speech regarding her own camera troubles. Thankfully she left out the formula, or our July plans would be seriously altered right now.
Anyway, it was lovely and we held hands as the great man blazed itself into oblivion, warming ourselves in his demise. Then we had a final wander round the field before returning to the car for the long trek home, well pleased.
So that was how we spent Sunday.
Today we abandoned the house to our slightly scary cleaners and took the dogs for a 2.5mile walk at Tentsmuir, enjoying the beautifully crisp sunshine and the quietness of the woods (apart from the poxy RAF). We then went into St Andrews to buy a decent air bed. We had lunch at the West Port and discovered it's become rather pleasant - albeit a far cry from the open fired, wood-floored loveliness it was all those years ago. We chatted about this and that, including the fact I've booked myself in to take my CBT on the 7th November and am now bricking it.
We'd planned on going climbing this evening, but I woke this morning with a recurrence of my cricked neck/back - probably brought on by standing in the cold for a couple of hours yesterday, followed by a long drive and finishing Jak 3 on PS2 (very tense). I was very sorry to have to disappoint Fisher, but even though I really wanted to, I wouldn't be doing myself any favours by dangling from walls. I called the centre and cancelled.
BOOOOOOOOOO.
Tomorrow is aquafit with Fonda, followed by supper in Dundee. I'm looking forward to hearing all about her travels, her love life, and why her job sucks so badly (well, not 'looking forward' to the latter, but keen to lend an sympathetic ear, anyway). It's been ages since we last saw her, so there's a lot of catching up to do. She wants to join Holly Commune. Hell, maybe she should!
Maybe everybody should.
Sunday, 28 October 2007
Good Day
Today has been rather lovely. I awoke feeling the antsiness of wanderlust and, as Fisher and I sat reading terrible, awful books by Erich Segal (why Lord, why?) I suddenly said:
"Let's go away! Let's just pack up the pooches and go!"
Fisher dragged her eyes up from Doctors and her expression was one I know of old: a fixed, brittle smile with accompanying look of desperation.
"Ok," she agreed, barely concealing a whimper. "Where?"
"I don't know!" I beamed, pretending I couldn't see the horror in her heart. "North, south, west ... anywhere you like! Not east, though," I added, as an afterthought, "'cos we'd get awfully wet." I think I was hoping this pathetic attempt at winsome charm would bring her round.
"For how long?" she chirrupped, her smile now becoming even more frantic. "Only, I have to be back for..."
"Just a few days," I promised. "Back on Monday?"
"Ok," she agreed, silently sobbing as her soul collapsed. Bless. I couldn't stand the pretense any more.
"You really, really don't want to, do you?" I sighed.
"We've only just got back!" she burst out, her pent-up, force 9 wail freed at last, "and we're so HAPPY at home!"
And so, because we're a tried and tested couple who've long known how to go about maintaining our equanimity, we compromised.
Instead of going away for 3 days, we went out for 3 hours.
It was lovely. We scanned my Pathfinder Guide for Perthshire, Angus and Fife walks and chose the Den of Alyth for what professed itself to be a 7 mile walk, taking 3 1/2 hours.
Off we headed, and drove through Dundee and beyond for about 45 minutes. Alyth is the next town over (eastwards) from Coupar Angus, and the circular Den of Alyth walk begins in a carpark at the far west end of the town. After a bit of a detour as the guide was distinctly unclear about the starting point, taking us through a picnic site when we should have skirted it (this would become a bit of a familiar theme throughout the walk), we were on our way.
To begin with, it was divine. We walked through woods, beside a merrily tumbling burn, in a bonfire of red and gold. The dogs could be let off their lead, and splashed joyfully in the water or disappeared up the wooded braes until enticed back with biscuits. It was gorgeous - but after a mile or two we came out at a road. The dogs went back on leads and we followed the B - somethingorother for a mile and a half of pretty but ultimately uninspiring countryside, before missing our turn-off due to the murkiness of our guide. Retracing our steps, we found the fingerpost we'd originally ignored because it was labelled 'Cateran Trail' while the book promised the 'Alyth Hill walk'. Luckily we hadn't gone far before realising our mistake, but it still annoyed me. I could feel some of my euphoria threatened by grumpiness and resolutely banished irritation.
Up Alyth Hill we went, until the guide became extremelt murky - basically guiding us down an 'old drover's road' which just involved launching yourself onto an open brae, owing to the fact the drover's road was old, and therefore non existent. In fact, we'd already walked to the top of Alyth Hill and had to come down again (this was sheer stupidity on our part and had a lot to do, I'm convinced, with Fisher's manic desire for heart-pounding exercise).
Crossing the hill turned out to require a lot of stopping, starting, looking at the book, cursing, bickering and cursing again. Couple this with the fact it was now grey, misty and wet and some of the delights of the walk were palling. I'm not saying I was no longer enjoying myself, but not knowing where I'm going is something that always puts me on edge - at least, when I'm walking. Purposefully getting lost in a car is quite different.
Eventually we found our way back into the village of Alyth (we had yet another minor argument about the pronounciation of this, with me thinking it was Al-ithe like Forsythe, or Rosyth - and Fisher thinking it was Alith, like Alice with a lisp), and were rather surprised to find the car-park a mere step from where we emerged. Because Fisher had her sat. nav. with her, we were able to measure our route and discovered it to be 5.8 miles.
Pathfinder is utter crap. 7 miles, it claimed. Considering we probably did a half mile detour of faff and backtracking, that's a considerable error. Still, it was a good 2 1/2 hour walk and we felt pink-cheeked and healthy, while the sodden dogs couldn't have been happier.
On the way home we stopped at the Belmont Arms pubs for a drink, and found it quite charming. They were serving High Tea so we peeked at a menu. Not cheap, but not bad: £12 for a main meal (chicken dishes, fish n chips, lasagne, that sort of thing - or hearty sounding salads. It was more like £19 if you wanted a steak), vegetables, chips, cake/scones, tea and coffee. If we're passing that way again we'll definitely give it a go. The coffee was very nice, anyway.
Back at home we found the whole house freezing, and almost all the logs gone. There was one left, and with that, the 1 1/2 left in the grate and a couple of scoops of coal, I made a fire. I whacked the storage heating up and grizzled about the clock change. Then we settled down to read, listen to the wind pick up outside, eat fish and chips and watch Match of the Day. Baffie passed out next to me and refused to move, even when I lifted her bodily out of my lap and laid her down on the sofa. She's taken on a new lease of life since being put on arthritis pills, but I think any walk over 3 miles really takes it out of her.
She loves it, though, and no sign of a limp, so Fisher and I have vowed to do more long walks - especially while the leaves are so wonderful.
That's all for tonight.
All in all, a very satisfactory day.
"Let's go away! Let's just pack up the pooches and go!"
Fisher dragged her eyes up from Doctors and her expression was one I know of old: a fixed, brittle smile with accompanying look of desperation.
"Ok," she agreed, barely concealing a whimper. "Where?"
"I don't know!" I beamed, pretending I couldn't see the horror in her heart. "North, south, west ... anywhere you like! Not east, though," I added, as an afterthought, "'cos we'd get awfully wet." I think I was hoping this pathetic attempt at winsome charm would bring her round.
"For how long?" she chirrupped, her smile now becoming even more frantic. "Only, I have to be back for..."
"Just a few days," I promised. "Back on Monday?"
"Ok," she agreed, silently sobbing as her soul collapsed. Bless. I couldn't stand the pretense any more.
"You really, really don't want to, do you?" I sighed.
"We've only just got back!" she burst out, her pent-up, force 9 wail freed at last, "and we're so HAPPY at home!"
And so, because we're a tried and tested couple who've long known how to go about maintaining our equanimity, we compromised.
Instead of going away for 3 days, we went out for 3 hours.
It was lovely. We scanned my Pathfinder Guide for Perthshire, Angus and Fife walks and chose the Den of Alyth for what professed itself to be a 7 mile walk, taking 3 1/2 hours.
Off we headed, and drove through Dundee and beyond for about 45 minutes. Alyth is the next town over (eastwards) from Coupar Angus, and the circular Den of Alyth walk begins in a carpark at the far west end of the town. After a bit of a detour as the guide was distinctly unclear about the starting point, taking us through a picnic site when we should have skirted it (this would become a bit of a familiar theme throughout the walk), we were on our way.
To begin with, it was divine. We walked through woods, beside a merrily tumbling burn, in a bonfire of red and gold. The dogs could be let off their lead, and splashed joyfully in the water or disappeared up the wooded braes until enticed back with biscuits. It was gorgeous - but after a mile or two we came out at a road. The dogs went back on leads and we followed the B - somethingorother for a mile and a half of pretty but ultimately uninspiring countryside, before missing our turn-off due to the murkiness of our guide. Retracing our steps, we found the fingerpost we'd originally ignored because it was labelled 'Cateran Trail' while the book promised the 'Alyth Hill walk'. Luckily we hadn't gone far before realising our mistake, but it still annoyed me. I could feel some of my euphoria threatened by grumpiness and resolutely banished irritation.
Up Alyth Hill we went, until the guide became extremelt murky - basically guiding us down an 'old drover's road' which just involved launching yourself onto an open brae, owing to the fact the drover's road was old, and therefore non existent. In fact, we'd already walked to the top of Alyth Hill and had to come down again (this was sheer stupidity on our part and had a lot to do, I'm convinced, with Fisher's manic desire for heart-pounding exercise).
Crossing the hill turned out to require a lot of stopping, starting, looking at the book, cursing, bickering and cursing again. Couple this with the fact it was now grey, misty and wet and some of the delights of the walk were palling. I'm not saying I was no longer enjoying myself, but not knowing where I'm going is something that always puts me on edge - at least, when I'm walking. Purposefully getting lost in a car is quite different.
Eventually we found our way back into the village of Alyth (we had yet another minor argument about the pronounciation of this, with me thinking it was Al-ithe like Forsythe, or Rosyth - and Fisher thinking it was Alith, like Alice with a lisp), and were rather surprised to find the car-park a mere step from where we emerged. Because Fisher had her sat. nav. with her, we were able to measure our route and discovered it to be 5.8 miles.
Pathfinder is utter crap. 7 miles, it claimed. Considering we probably did a half mile detour of faff and backtracking, that's a considerable error. Still, it was a good 2 1/2 hour walk and we felt pink-cheeked and healthy, while the sodden dogs couldn't have been happier.
On the way home we stopped at the Belmont Arms pubs for a drink, and found it quite charming. They were serving High Tea so we peeked at a menu. Not cheap, but not bad: £12 for a main meal (chicken dishes, fish n chips, lasagne, that sort of thing - or hearty sounding salads. It was more like £19 if you wanted a steak), vegetables, chips, cake/scones, tea and coffee. If we're passing that way again we'll definitely give it a go. The coffee was very nice, anyway.
Back at home we found the whole house freezing, and almost all the logs gone. There was one left, and with that, the 1 1/2 left in the grate and a couple of scoops of coal, I made a fire. I whacked the storage heating up and grizzled about the clock change. Then we settled down to read, listen to the wind pick up outside, eat fish and chips and watch Match of the Day. Baffie passed out next to me and refused to move, even when I lifted her bodily out of my lap and laid her down on the sofa. She's taken on a new lease of life since being put on arthritis pills, but I think any walk over 3 miles really takes it out of her.
She loves it, though, and no sign of a limp, so Fisher and I have vowed to do more long walks - especially while the leaves are so wonderful.
That's all for tonight.
All in all, a very satisfactory day.
Thursday, 25 October 2007
First Run in Ages (and a rant from nowhere)
Yesterday I allowed Fisher to persuade me into a proper run, the like of which I haven't done since ... well, before I can remember, really. Granted, my memory is so poor I can barely remember last week (seriously - what happened last week?) but I'm pretty sure I haven't done more than a cursorary mile or so in the gym for far too long. I told myself I'd do 5k, taking it easy and just getting back into the swing of things. I thought we'd head to Tentsmuir with the dogs, but Fisher had other ideas.
Thus it was I found myself uneasily setting off, cold tendrils of fog curling about my ankles, to run up Quarry Road and back. Fisher wanted to go further, only turning back once we'd reached the little village on the other side of the hill, but I firmly announced my intention of only doing 5k. I agreed to see how it went and go further if I could, but I so no sense in setting myself too much of a challenge after such a long break.
It was horribly cold to being with. Fisher has been waiting a long time for the weather to turn like this, as she hates running in the sun, but even she was meeping about not having enough clothing. I was too agreeably surprised by not wanting to collapse immediately to really mind the temperature that much, and the world was astonishingly beautiful under a white layer of mist. As we jogged steadily up the long hill, we saw cobwebs glistening like silver in the hedgerows, which detracted slightly from the horror that is the last ten yards of that goddam' rise. What's even more depressing is that you know it's only the first of many. Running up that hill isn't as bad as Arthur's Seat, but it's a close call.
Once you've reached the top of the long hill, you then have the chance to catch your breath a little with a long, flat stretch. Then you turn a corner and, without fail, the next hill catches you by surprise. It's always steeper and longer than you expect. Then it's downhill for about 20 yards, finishing Quarry Road on just over 1.5 miles - meaning you have to turn and go straight back uphill if you want to do 5k. Partly because I simply couldn't face another uphill so soon, and partly because the slow pace I'd set meant I still felt pretty good, stamina wise, I agreed to go into the village with Fisher.
Unfortunately, this means yet another couple of hills - culminating with one of the steepest, albeit shortest, at the very end. My lungs burning, stomach churning, I was once again wondering what in the name of living arse possessed me to go out running? It's, without a doubt, the stupidest thing in the world.
Thankfully, once we'd turned it was pretty much all downhill, save for one long stretch of unpleasant uphill which takes you back onto Quarry Road.
My knees started to object as I hit Quarry Road again, no doubt still reeling from the climbing of t'other day, but on the whole I felt ok. We had to pause a couple of times due to traffic blocking the way, and then warning other traffic of the blockage, which leads me to take a conservative 15 seconds off the end time. When we finished I was seriously knackered but very, very pleased with myself. After a long break, to still be able to do 4 miles in the not truly humiliating time (for me) of 47.53 was an immense boost.
I've learned somthing interesting - and not particularly flattering - about myself since taking up running, and that is just how much justification I allow myself in times of failure. If I don't succeed in a run it's because, oh, I didn't eat the right food, or it's that time of the month, or the dog slowed me down. Sometimes these reasons might be true, but all too often they're just excuses. And it's not just in running, either. All too often I refuse to hold myself accountable for not doing something because I can think of several external reasons keeping me from my goal. In the end, I know perfectly well that if I want something I can combat almost anything in order to get it. There are very few obstacles in life that can't be surmounted with a little imagination and drive. I've no shortage of the former, but the latter needs some work.
First, make a decision. That's truly the hard part. It's commitment, and that's a little scary. But once the decision is made, there is no obstacle that need get in the way. Nothing is unbeatable (well, except the rock-hard cream I found in the fridge the other day). The only question that's relevant is "how much do I want it?" and what I'll suffer to get it.
In some ways, pride is a good thing - but I can't help but feel it's more of a hinderance than a help. I think pride restricts rather than liberates, keeping people bound to conventions that, in the grand scheme of things, are utterly irrelevant. You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, but I think it's more important to understand your own mores rather than just to accept the restrictions of society at face value.
Hm. Not sure where that came from, but it's been on my mind for a while, in a convoluted sort of way.
Anyway ... Fisher and I might go to aquafit tonight. We've been trying to get in touch with Fonda, but no response for weeks now. Hope all ok there, and she's off on some dirty getaway with the newly brought to heel boyfriend.
Thus it was I found myself uneasily setting off, cold tendrils of fog curling about my ankles, to run up Quarry Road and back. Fisher wanted to go further, only turning back once we'd reached the little village on the other side of the hill, but I firmly announced my intention of only doing 5k. I agreed to see how it went and go further if I could, but I so no sense in setting myself too much of a challenge after such a long break.
It was horribly cold to being with. Fisher has been waiting a long time for the weather to turn like this, as she hates running in the sun, but even she was meeping about not having enough clothing. I was too agreeably surprised by not wanting to collapse immediately to really mind the temperature that much, and the world was astonishingly beautiful under a white layer of mist. As we jogged steadily up the long hill, we saw cobwebs glistening like silver in the hedgerows, which detracted slightly from the horror that is the last ten yards of that goddam' rise. What's even more depressing is that you know it's only the first of many. Running up that hill isn't as bad as Arthur's Seat, but it's a close call.
Once you've reached the top of the long hill, you then have the chance to catch your breath a little with a long, flat stretch. Then you turn a corner and, without fail, the next hill catches you by surprise. It's always steeper and longer than you expect. Then it's downhill for about 20 yards, finishing Quarry Road on just over 1.5 miles - meaning you have to turn and go straight back uphill if you want to do 5k. Partly because I simply couldn't face another uphill so soon, and partly because the slow pace I'd set meant I still felt pretty good, stamina wise, I agreed to go into the village with Fisher.
Unfortunately, this means yet another couple of hills - culminating with one of the steepest, albeit shortest, at the very end. My lungs burning, stomach churning, I was once again wondering what in the name of living arse possessed me to go out running? It's, without a doubt, the stupidest thing in the world.
Thankfully, once we'd turned it was pretty much all downhill, save for one long stretch of unpleasant uphill which takes you back onto Quarry Road.
My knees started to object as I hit Quarry Road again, no doubt still reeling from the climbing of t'other day, but on the whole I felt ok. We had to pause a couple of times due to traffic blocking the way, and then warning other traffic of the blockage, which leads me to take a conservative 15 seconds off the end time. When we finished I was seriously knackered but very, very pleased with myself. After a long break, to still be able to do 4 miles in the not truly humiliating time (for me) of 47.53 was an immense boost.
I've learned somthing interesting - and not particularly flattering - about myself since taking up running, and that is just how much justification I allow myself in times of failure. If I don't succeed in a run it's because, oh, I didn't eat the right food, or it's that time of the month, or the dog slowed me down. Sometimes these reasons might be true, but all too often they're just excuses. And it's not just in running, either. All too often I refuse to hold myself accountable for not doing something because I can think of several external reasons keeping me from my goal. In the end, I know perfectly well that if I want something I can combat almost anything in order to get it. There are very few obstacles in life that can't be surmounted with a little imagination and drive. I've no shortage of the former, but the latter needs some work.
First, make a decision. That's truly the hard part. It's commitment, and that's a little scary. But once the decision is made, there is no obstacle that need get in the way. Nothing is unbeatable (well, except the rock-hard cream I found in the fridge the other day). The only question that's relevant is "how much do I want it?" and what I'll suffer to get it.
In some ways, pride is a good thing - but I can't help but feel it's more of a hinderance than a help. I think pride restricts rather than liberates, keeping people bound to conventions that, in the grand scheme of things, are utterly irrelevant. You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror in the morning, but I think it's more important to understand your own mores rather than just to accept the restrictions of society at face value.
Hm. Not sure where that came from, but it's been on my mind for a while, in a convoluted sort of way.
Anyway ... Fisher and I might go to aquafit tonight. We've been trying to get in touch with Fonda, but no response for weeks now. Hope all ok there, and she's off on some dirty getaway with the newly brought to heel boyfriend.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
Climbing
Yesterday (Monday), Fisher and I took advantage of an introductory deal at A Vertical World in Dundee, and headed off for our first ever climbing experience. We dithered over whether to go, because we've been meaning to go with Phid for ages and didn't want to leave her out - but then decided the offer was too good pass up, and recognised that with everyone's schedules being what they are, if we wait we may never get to go at all!
So off we pootled for a private lesson. I expected our instructor to be a 'rock on!' kind of guy, with long hair and a bandanna - or else a wiry Dundonian who took no crap from nobody and once killed a man in 'Nam. In 1995. I was rather pleased when I discovered our guide was, in fact, a very slight young woman - although I was a bit concerned about someone her size belaying someone mine. When, on the form we had to fill out, it asked if I had any medical conditions that might prevent me from climbing, I confessed that I was quite fat. Would that matter?
She assured me it would not. And, as a hurried afterthought, said she'd instructed - and belayed - people much bigger, fatter and hairier than me. Thus reassured, we got ourselves kitted out in hideously uncomfortable harnesses, and even more hideously uncomfortable shoes. Our first challenge was 'bouldering' - climbing small walls over crash mats to get our muscles 'warmed up.' After spidering my way to the top of two walls, my muscles were certainly warm! My fingers and forearms were already protesting a little, and I badly cricked my neck (an old, persistent problem I've wrestled with for many years) meaning my left shoulder was immediately sore. Not enough to trouble me, though, so on we went to the first proper wall.
Our instructor, whose name I have forgotten so will call - er - Instructor - showed us how to tie our ropes in a double figure of 8, and then it was Fisher's turn to battle the first 30 foot wall. This she did with aplomb, looking like she was born to the sport, and was back on the ground before you could say boo to a goose. (Why would anyone say boo to a goose? What would this achieve? Very strange.) My turn next, and what with my fear of heights and everything I was a little nervous. Not to worry, though. Once I was actually on the wall, there was too much to occupy my time to concern myself with plummetting to my death. I found the climb relatively problem free, but it was incredibly hard on my fingers and my forearms were pretty tired by the time I reached the top. Back to earth, we moved straight on to the next wall. This was slightly trickier, but we both managed tolerably well. I was lucky to find a good route, and climbed to the top quite quickly - according to Instructor. It didn't feel that quick to me, or my now trembling fingers.
Without a stop for a breather, we moved onto wall number three - and this time we were told to belay each other. Instructor showed us the 5 positions of belaying, which I will now attempt to remember. Ahem.
1. Pull rope UP with right hand, tightening slack.
2. Pull rope DOWN with right hand, putting 'brakes' on.
3. Move left hand to top of lower rope, above right hand.
4. Slide right hand up beneath left hand.
5. Replace left hand on top rope, as start position.
Easy. Except with the rate Fisher started bombing up the third wall, and my natural kack-handedness, I started quite poorly. Naturally Fisher was never in danger as Instructor had hold of the brake rope as well, and I quickly got the hang of it, so all was well. When Fisher reached the top, I lowered her none too gently to the ground. Being cautious, I took rather too long about it and didn't give her as much slack as she needed, which meant the harness cut uncomfortably into her tender regions!
Then it was my turn to climb. Fisher belayed without difficulty, but by this stage my fingers and arms were really suffering. I spent a long time battling this wall, and once we'd finished I didn't think I'd ever be able to grip anything again for as long as I live! Instructor suggested we take a break, reminding us that because we were having a private lesson it was much more full on than if we were there with a group, when you have a chance to rest for longer between each climb. This made me feel slightly less effete - until I attempted to open a can of coke and discovered my fingers didn't even have the strength to perform this paltry task!
After a ten minute breather we were back on the walls - this time tackling a corner wall, which we both found very tricky, and took a long time conquering. Nevertheless we both succeeded in making the top - Fisher making some remarkable noises in her exertion - and returned to earth well pleased. By this time our hour and a half was almost up, and we had one more wall to tackle. This one had an overhang you had to get over, and it was almost the beating of Fisher. It took her ages, but she persevered and reached the top, straining every muscle in order to do so. A fantastic effort! You were supposed only to use the black holds, and apart from a few 'cheats' she managed to stick to the route pretty well.
Then it was my turn. I set off with a will, reaching the overhang and getting over it without too much trouble. Then I simply couldn't go further. My fingers wouldn't hold me up, and my forearms had just had enough. I couldn't reach a decent hand-hold, or balance myself properly with my feet, and after slipping off the wall twice I just had to admit defeat. Fisher lowered a furious me to the ground - and then leaned too far forward and found herself being lifted off the ground by my greater weight. This did nothing to improve my mood as I dropped outwith her control, but luckily I was close enough to the ground for it not to be a problem (and Instructor was there also).
My failure on the last wall quite spoiled the whole thing for me. Silly, certainly, but seeing Fisher conquer it after such a monumental effort only made my failure all the greater. I was livid with myself, and utterly baffled to explain why my fingers and arms were all but unusable while hers were relatively unaffected. She says she doesn't really rely on them, barely using them at all in fact, save as supports. I pull myself up and cling on, using a great deal of upper body strength, which I suppose must be going about it the wrong way. However, I don't really see how else to go about it. I can't just use my legs - my balance doesn't allow it. Whenever I tried to push up using only my legs I found myself in danger of falling. I had to have something to pull myself up with by hand.
Hey ho. It was galling to feel so like a failure, and so shown up by Fisher, but in the cold light of day I don't think it was as bad as all that. I managed all the other walls fine, and enjoyed myself quite a lot - so I'll definitely be returning.
Watch this space.
So off we pootled for a private lesson. I expected our instructor to be a 'rock on!' kind of guy, with long hair and a bandanna - or else a wiry Dundonian who took no crap from nobody and once killed a man in 'Nam. In 1995. I was rather pleased when I discovered our guide was, in fact, a very slight young woman - although I was a bit concerned about someone her size belaying someone mine. When, on the form we had to fill out, it asked if I had any medical conditions that might prevent me from climbing, I confessed that I was quite fat. Would that matter?
She assured me it would not. And, as a hurried afterthought, said she'd instructed - and belayed - people much bigger, fatter and hairier than me. Thus reassured, we got ourselves kitted out in hideously uncomfortable harnesses, and even more hideously uncomfortable shoes. Our first challenge was 'bouldering' - climbing small walls over crash mats to get our muscles 'warmed up.' After spidering my way to the top of two walls, my muscles were certainly warm! My fingers and forearms were already protesting a little, and I badly cricked my neck (an old, persistent problem I've wrestled with for many years) meaning my left shoulder was immediately sore. Not enough to trouble me, though, so on we went to the first proper wall.
Our instructor, whose name I have forgotten so will call - er - Instructor - showed us how to tie our ropes in a double figure of 8, and then it was Fisher's turn to battle the first 30 foot wall. This she did with aplomb, looking like she was born to the sport, and was back on the ground before you could say boo to a goose. (Why would anyone say boo to a goose? What would this achieve? Very strange.) My turn next, and what with my fear of heights and everything I was a little nervous. Not to worry, though. Once I was actually on the wall, there was too much to occupy my time to concern myself with plummetting to my death. I found the climb relatively problem free, but it was incredibly hard on my fingers and my forearms were pretty tired by the time I reached the top. Back to earth, we moved straight on to the next wall. This was slightly trickier, but we both managed tolerably well. I was lucky to find a good route, and climbed to the top quite quickly - according to Instructor. It didn't feel that quick to me, or my now trembling fingers.
Without a stop for a breather, we moved onto wall number three - and this time we were told to belay each other. Instructor showed us the 5 positions of belaying, which I will now attempt to remember. Ahem.
1. Pull rope UP with right hand, tightening slack.
2. Pull rope DOWN with right hand, putting 'brakes' on.
3. Move left hand to top of lower rope, above right hand.
4. Slide right hand up beneath left hand.
5. Replace left hand on top rope, as start position.
Easy. Except with the rate Fisher started bombing up the third wall, and my natural kack-handedness, I started quite poorly. Naturally Fisher was never in danger as Instructor had hold of the brake rope as well, and I quickly got the hang of it, so all was well. When Fisher reached the top, I lowered her none too gently to the ground. Being cautious, I took rather too long about it and didn't give her as much slack as she needed, which meant the harness cut uncomfortably into her tender regions!
Then it was my turn to climb. Fisher belayed without difficulty, but by this stage my fingers and arms were really suffering. I spent a long time battling this wall, and once we'd finished I didn't think I'd ever be able to grip anything again for as long as I live! Instructor suggested we take a break, reminding us that because we were having a private lesson it was much more full on than if we were there with a group, when you have a chance to rest for longer between each climb. This made me feel slightly less effete - until I attempted to open a can of coke and discovered my fingers didn't even have the strength to perform this paltry task!
After a ten minute breather we were back on the walls - this time tackling a corner wall, which we both found very tricky, and took a long time conquering. Nevertheless we both succeeded in making the top - Fisher making some remarkable noises in her exertion - and returned to earth well pleased. By this time our hour and a half was almost up, and we had one more wall to tackle. This one had an overhang you had to get over, and it was almost the beating of Fisher. It took her ages, but she persevered and reached the top, straining every muscle in order to do so. A fantastic effort! You were supposed only to use the black holds, and apart from a few 'cheats' she managed to stick to the route pretty well.
Then it was my turn. I set off with a will, reaching the overhang and getting over it without too much trouble. Then I simply couldn't go further. My fingers wouldn't hold me up, and my forearms had just had enough. I couldn't reach a decent hand-hold, or balance myself properly with my feet, and after slipping off the wall twice I just had to admit defeat. Fisher lowered a furious me to the ground - and then leaned too far forward and found herself being lifted off the ground by my greater weight. This did nothing to improve my mood as I dropped outwith her control, but luckily I was close enough to the ground for it not to be a problem (and Instructor was there also).
My failure on the last wall quite spoiled the whole thing for me. Silly, certainly, but seeing Fisher conquer it after such a monumental effort only made my failure all the greater. I was livid with myself, and utterly baffled to explain why my fingers and arms were all but unusable while hers were relatively unaffected. She says she doesn't really rely on them, barely using them at all in fact, save as supports. I pull myself up and cling on, using a great deal of upper body strength, which I suppose must be going about it the wrong way. However, I don't really see how else to go about it. I can't just use my legs - my balance doesn't allow it. Whenever I tried to push up using only my legs I found myself in danger of falling. I had to have something to pull myself up with by hand.
Hey ho. It was galling to feel so like a failure, and so shown up by Fisher, but in the cold light of day I don't think it was as bad as all that. I managed all the other walls fine, and enjoyed myself quite a lot - so I'll definitely be returning.
Watch this space.
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