April 18th 2014.
Good Friday.


AN ISLAND IN A SEA OF SUNSHINE

Driving along a narrow, winding road, hugging the Trent Bank on our right hand side while flat as a billiard table fields lay to our left. Open and exposed, they presented an expansive and sprawling vista unimpeded by neither hedge nor fence. Naked trees punctuated the scene like stark exclamation marks, basking in the warming sunshine preparing for summers verdant cloak to soften their outline. Overhead the Sun, in a massively wide blue sky, was just beginning its steady descent towards the horizon, quite high as yet and warm still, but the working day was drawing to a close and elastic shadows were lengthening. The uneven road, an ancient route squeezed between river and field, bumped and bucked playfully, forcing us to drive slowly, which we were only too happy to do, savouring every joyful moment of this beautiful sunny, late afternoon. The sun streamed brightly through the windscreen filling us with its warmth, allowing us to drive with the windows down, letting the sweetly fragrant spring air flood in, invigorating and cleansing us, finally banishing the last of winters stuffiness. The undulating ribbon of broken and patched Tarmac meandered gently, drifting away from the bank, a small, white, single story cottage appeared on our right, neat and compact, a short distance from the road. A rough, dirt drive left the road at an acute angle, quickly arriving at a wooden five bar gate. Leaning on the gate a man and a woman looked out across the fields the bright sun on their backs. Perhaps in their late Forties maybe early Fifties, she had shoulder length Chestnut hair, tied back loosely, the work of the day causing  it to spill free from its insecure restraint. She wore a denim shirt open at the neck, she looked healthy and glowed the way one does after a day of satisfying labour, doing something you like. Her arms rested on top of the gate her hands clasped before her, looking at a spot twenty feet in front  she listened, a relaxed smile sat easily on her face. He stood to her right, lean and a just little shorter than she, half turned towards her his short cropped hair shone grey in the sun. His stance was almost identical to hers, but he leaned slightly in her direction, his face animated with good humour, as we approached we could see his lips forming the words that held her attention. A small neatly tended garden clung to all sides of that pretty cottage and beyond that, wide acres of blossoming, yellow flowered Oilseed Rape completely surrounded them. A tiny island, adrift in a dazzling sea of Sunshine. There is absolutely nothing, nor any combination of things; no amount of stuff in the whole of this world, that is equal in wealth to five seconds, of leaning on that gate, at the end of a day such as this, with your squeeze by your side, just chewing the fat. That scene, briefly seen, beautiful in its timeless simplicity caught in my throat, I looked across at the old man sat beside me, he saw it too. He didn't say so, but I knew, I could see it in his face. In his eyes I could see he wanted to say, but he daren't, he too saw that beauty and it stirred memories not deeply concealed, he wanted to speak, just to say that it was a nice image, but he remained silent. You see, no matter how hard he tried to keep his voice controlled and even, the short sentence would have started falteringly and ended in wet sobs. His eyes met mine for a brief moment; I knew; he knew I knew, he turned his head away, silently and looked out the window. We bounced along the road, talked about the weather, how things have changed since he was a boy, he used to know this land around here, but now he forgets. Shortly after we arrived in Gainsborough meeting my brother and his wife accompanied by their son and his fiancée, where we enjoyed a very convivial Fish and chip supper. As we drove home that brief moment came up again, he wanted to talk about it, his eyes filled with tears and sadness. It's a hard road and long, it's not going to get any better, confused and bewildered he's not handling it very well. Love and light to him, for what it's worth.

 9th August2013



FONTAINEBLEAU BOULDERING



After a long day on the road we arrived at a camp site just outside of Milly de foret, 70 km south of Paris in the Forest of Fontainebleau. The site called "Musardiere" is a rag tag collection of tatty caravans some looking as though they have been here for many years and are slowly being reclaimed by nature, set amongst tall Oak and Birch trees. The sun filters through the green canopy of leaves, shafts of light dappling the sandy forest floor with luminescent patches that dance as the trees sway in the light wind. There are many climbers camped amongst the trees, tents of all shapes, sizes and colour scattered here and there, Bouldering mats leaning drunkenly against tree trunks, whilst many slack lines span between them like spider webs. The place has a nice laid back ambiance to it, the sounds of laughter and music drift on the warm air. It reminds me some what, of the infamous camp 4 in Yosemite.

In the morning we walked down the road for three quarters of a mile then cut into the woods following a sandy track that wound through the trees. We soon heard the sound of voices and very quickly came upon the first of the famous Sandstone boulders in an area known as the "Gorges au Chat". We picked a way through scrub and trees into a maze formed by the ten to fifteen feet high boulders as an intricate network of paths twisted it way amongst them. We soon identified some of the problems, musing about how hard they looked. We selected a couple of promising looking routes and donned our boots, we immediately learned a sharp lesson, the routes here are incredibly hard. Massively explosive moves on really sloping hand holds, whilst feet scrabble and flail looking for grip on tiny holds that have been polished to a high sheen by countless scores of feet leads to smooth rounded tops which leave you belly flopping inelegantly, gasping for breath from the exertion.
We had a day of this, it's a wonderful place and the bouldering is truly fantastic but bloody 'ard. When we left we had shredded finger tips and aching arms weak with fatigue.
Back at the campsite we jumped into the fabulous swimming pool which is without doubt the main attraction of this site, it was heaven.

The following day we did the same cutting into the woods at a different place we wandered through pretty forest for an hour, slightly lost but enjoying the relaxing walk and especially the peace. Sandy paths curled through the trees and around overgrown boulders, as yet undeveloped by boulderers, the air was fresh and clean, gossamer threads strung across the path glinted brightly in the sunshine, easy to avoid whilst unseen ones snagged across our faces. A rustle in the carpet of dead leaves on the soft forest floor betrayed the secret movements of a snake which writhed yoga like under a rotting branch to stay hidden from curious eyes. Eventually we ended up at a different area known as "Canche" it was equally as hard as the day before but more popular so the holds were even more polished and even more slippery. Muscles still not recovered from yesterday initially protested at the effort but after a while we settled into the groove. Jack and Rick soon burned out and I ended up bouldering alone. I stopped to share a sandwich with Rick and a rather neatly trimmed dog that instantly became my best friend, at least while the sandwich lasted. I found a new reserve of energy and hauled, balanced and pressed my way up another half dozen problems, the last of which was desperately hard and one I was sure I was going to fall off. I did managed to stay on but was completely spent by now, so we gathered our stuff together and walked back to the site chatting about what a good trip it's been. Another dip in the pool was followed by a very nice Tea prepared by Maggie.
With a heavy heart we will begin the journey home tomorrow. We have had a Fab time. It'll be good to see Colette and Steve and maybe next year we can persuade them to come with us and indulge in a little insanity, it's good for the soul.

February 15th 2014





MEMORIES OF AN ANCIENT OAK.





I took a walk a few days ago, leaving Kirkham Abbey my route brought me by various paths eventually to a small wood on the edge of the Castle Howard estate. A weathered wooden gate, knotted and corroded, hanging drunkenly on a crooked post at the edge of the wood lurched open on to a worn muddy path that slithered down a gentle slope bringing me shortly to a huge and ancient Oak tree, massive and magnificent.

 Kim was particularly fond of trees just like this one, she would pause a moment and marvel at its great age, contemplating the things it has witnessed, wondering what events have taken place in it's life time, how the surrounding countryside looked when it was a mere sapling, what the world was once like and the changes that have taken place. She would try to imagine who had passed by, had sheltered from bad weather beneath it's boughs, sought the refuge of it's leafy canopy from a scorching sun, leaned a work weary back against it's reliable and sturdy trunk, maybe it was a rendezvous for lovers, or a playground for children, a landmark, a milestone, all these things, maybe and more.

 It towered over me as I stood silently beneath, looking up, a cloudless, deep blue, winter sky emphasised it's nakedness, stiff branches shivered in the fresh breeze that blew coldly from the North, quickly robbing any heat that the listless winter sun might produce, it made a low roar as it rushed through the arthritic, twisted branches, bent and gnarly. The coarse rugged bark, rutted and crevassed deep enough to get a hand between the folds, is weathered almost to black. Each of its main limbs is equally thick as the adjacent trees, many of which are the seeded offspring of this noble parent. Ghostly among the boughs, dead limbs wither on the tree, as round as a man's thigh, the bark stripped away exposing bone grey skeleton, split and cracked, streaked mossy green and stained earthy brown, corruption and decay consume and weaken the stark, rotting arms until the mournful day a winters gale sends them crashing earthwards to join others resting on a comfortless bed of cold blackened, wet leaves, spent and lifeless forms, crumbling slowly into the soft loam around the base. A yellow dog appeared on the path ahead of me approaching at a steady pace with an inquisitive manner about it, ears alert, head held high it pushed its nose into my waiting hands, I scratched it's chin and behind its ear, unexpectedly glad of its friendly attention, satisfied it trotted on towards the rickety gate. Its owner haled a cheery greeting as he passed moments later red faced and glowing. The raw wind made eyes water and noses run, I turned up my collar as unwelcome fingers of cold rudely intruded into my clothing, cloying mud clung to my boots and spattered my trouser legs, I hunched my shoulders and turned my back to the wind reaching out to feel the rough bark beneath my hand, not ready to move on yet, I lingered.

 This majestic tree has it's own story, a long and complex one with many chapters spanning centuries, not a single soul in this world knows of it; not all of it: I know one tiny bit of it; I know that one day, one hot, sunny, summers day, when the birds were singing in the trees and Blue Tits flitted busily amongst the green leaves chittering incessantly, far away a Woodpecker's laughing call filtered through the hot scented foliage, while a Jay's startled squawk sounded a warning nearby. In that sweet sunlit glade twinkling gossamer snares tangled dazzling sunbeams in the spaces beneath the trees, a bright ribbon of clear, cool water glittered a myriad points of silver light as it tumbled a tinkling symphony over clean gravel between soft clay banks luxuriously draped with the lush green foliage of Comfrey, Foxglove, Harts Tongue Fern, Bracken, Bramble and a dozen other woodland plants. Damsel Flies flashed blue bolts of lightening across the waters tireless surface, synchronised Midges vibrated a complex choreography in slanting shafts of dusty sunlight whilst gaudily striped Hover Flies hung rock solid in the air suspended on near invisible wings, first here, then over there, then here again. The low drone of a Bumble Bee accompanied it's clumsy, stumbling pollen search, dusted yellow and leg pouches stuffed full, it bumped sleepily into each heavy blossom. The breathless air throbbed with nature’s ineluctable energy.

On that day, in dappled shade, Kim rested on a soft green log its edges made indistinct with cushions of fat Moss, a fine sheen of perspiration glistened on her brow, her face rosy and healthy from exertion. She smiled, her clear eyes quick and lively, she cocked her head to one side, as a broad chested Robin, alighted on a quivering, slender twig a short distance away and mimicked her, in a breath it flitted to the ground and vigorously scattered velvet, ochrous leaves into the still warm air. Beneath this beautiful tree, marvelling at it's stunning grandeur, Kim began to picture some of the people who back through the ages had found themselves in this very same place, what circumstance delivered them here, to this tree? She sat and pondered its story, I sat beside her on that soft cushion, our shoulders touching, I felt her warmth, her presence, her strength, I shared her musings, her happiness, together we shared our lunch; we shared our lives; we shared that day, that moment. We shared a deep love that spilled out of us and touched everything in that sweet sunlit glade.

 I remember that day from some years ago, its details are etched indelibly into my memory, along with many others; it has become internalised, it's a part of me, a part of who I am, it's a part of my story. The Earth turns and whether we want it to or not the sun rises each morning, we shoulder our burden and another day begins, the story goes on. For a brief moment three stories became entwined, Kim's story, my own and the story of that noble and ancient Oak tree.

 I love and miss you forever Kim.

14th August 2013



BIRCHEN BOULDERING




Not having climbed for several days now, I thought it would be nice to have an hour or two on the crag this afternoon. I sent a few texts but nobody was available, not to worry, a bit of Bouldering would be equally as good. I drove over to Stanage and arrived at the exact same moment as the rain.
It wasn't very heavy, just a light drizzle, but looking to the West there appeared to be a lot of it, it would make the rock greasy and slippery, to the East looked better, not great but a little brighter. I drove over to Birchen edge which was, as hoped, dry, but brooding. I fancied a crack at a problem called "Scandiarete" which I've tried previously, a couple of times but been unable to do. I warmed up on an easy problem next to it, then moved on to the wall behind, soloing several easy routes to get the blood flowing and muscles moving smoothly. After I had completed half a dozen routes I looked around to see the rain creeping slowly up the valley, I calculated it would be a while longer before it reached me, so I worked out the wall behind. Feeling more flexible, I dropped to the lower level where "Scandiarete" is located, studying it for a few minutes. A decent three finger crimp off a small flake for the right hand, a slap round the corner on bare rock, step up on a smooth sloping right foot out of balance and quickly reach for a sloping hold with the right hand, but I didn't hit it right and fell off. I tried again, this time hitting the hold right, it wasn't as good as I hoped but I stayed stuck. Another quick move with the left hand to another sloping hold, but again I didn't hit it right and fell off. I tried once more, stuck both hands but got my feet wrong, once more I was off. I'd got it sussed now, right hand crimp, left hand round the corner, up on the right foot, hold it there momentarily, left foot up to a high but good edge. Hit the two sloping holds bang on this time, hips tight to the rock, squatting on my left leg, then reach for a good pocket with my left hand heave up and that's it really, two moves to the top and it's all over. A breeze in the end, chuffed all the same. I felt the rain on my face as I stood up on the top. I quickly jumped on "Danes Delight" the adjacent problem, much easier but my feet were skating all over the place on the already damp rock. It was a short session but fun none the less. I would have called at Tim's house for a cuppa but I had neither his address or phone number. Anybody fancy Stanage on Saturday?

The picture at the top of this article is not at Birchen edge but Stanage Plantation.

15th February 2014




Genesis Of Emptiness.


Each day passes one much the same as another, neither good nor bad; tolerable. I'm looking through the back window, twisted in my seat, I see you standing at the side of the road, not moving.

 Still.

You don't wave or smile, you just stand motionless staring right at me. Swimming into those familiar eyes I look back, into that place behind your eyes, frustration lurks there, hope, smudged out like a thumb print in soft clay, despair, but mostly disappointment. An idle Zephyr moves a lock of your Blonde hair across your face but you don't move.You stand there and I'm moving away, I try to reach out to you but it's useless, yearning fingers collide numbly with the clear glass that separates me from the void between us. You were here beside me, side by side we were travelling together, shoulder to shoulder, but you stopped. You stopped and I'm moving away. I thought maybe I should stop too, maybe I could join you at the side of the road, be together again.  I seized the thought and squeezed it hard, it, it didn't take long to work out how, I wasn't scared. Yet it didn't seem right, not so much wrong but not the right time.

 I look at you through the back window, as I'm moving away, I picture your smile, the one that made it so easy to pick you out in the middle of a hundred crowded sun loungers on a Dominican beach, I see you trailing your feet in clear Blue Ocean as we sail a tiny Catamaran past faded sugar plantations off the coast of Barbados. I hear you gasp at the magnificence of the sunrise from the summit of Blue Mountain Peak and feel the trembling electricity as we shared an ethereal sunset with a hundred thousand ghosts on top of the ancient and sacred Pyramid of the moon. 

 You're growing smaller, the shadows are getting longer. There was always something I wanted to tell you but I could never find the words, when I tried, you'd smile, and say "I know", but that didn't cool the fever of wanting to tell you. I look out the back window you're so far away now, the far side of the universe is nearer. Sometimes in the late summer evenings when the sun sinks low and begins to dip below the hazy horizon and all of nature is gilded with golden sunlight, when the sunbeams are soft and sleepy and they move slower than usual, I imagine you then, fabulous, head thrown back, all care cast aside, your heart full of laughter and mischief, starlight twinkling in your eyes, riding on a golden ray of sunshine.

 I miss you telling me you love me. One day I'll make sense of all this. I'll find the words.

Today is a new day, it's likely that at its close it will be much the same as other days, but I cannot let this day pass unmarked, today is not just another day, a little steeper, a little rockier, it's a hard place on a hard road.

March 2014



I exchanged some text messages with a friend today for whom life has dealt a pretty shitty blow lately. I suggested she needed some romance in her life, I stressed not a man, her reply struck me as somewhat scornful. It made me think: it's keeping me awake.

Everybody needs some romance.

Everybody needs a sunset; to stand and watch the sun dipping slowly towards the horizon, to see the sky come alive, rich with colours. When the sunbeams turn the atmosphere golden soft and slide like honey, caressing your skin more tenderly than any lover will ever do. The clouds become less vapourous carriers of moisture but discreet intimate companions hinting at natures sweetest secrets and all of it only for you. We need friends and campfires and warm nights with wine that you never want to end with no care for tomorrow. We need Sunrises that hint of so much promise that we dare to dream, when no dream seems too big and they seem less like dreams and more like plans. Nobody is ever too old for the pure joy of Snow flakes on your eyelashes and the wonder of all the ugliness in the world made soft and beautiful by those same simple Snow flakes. We need Soft rain and sighing winds. We need warm sand between our toes and long beaches to walk on, empty and all to ourselves, with only the harmony of hissing surf to accompany us.  We need quiet and time in every day to dream. Do not think these things are luxuries, they're not, they are as essential as Air and Water.

Everybody needs some romance; it's what makes the shit tolerable.

ALTHOUGH LIFE KEEPS BITING ME IN THE ARSE I KEEP COMING BACK FOR MORE

ALTHOUGH LIFE KEEPS BITING ME IN THE ARSE I KEEP COMING BACK FOR MORE.






                 We sagged to the floor, propping ourselves against the tussocky, grassy banks at either side of the overgrown Land Rover track, some; too tired even to manage that, slumped to the ground gaining meagre respite and a little support for their aching backs and tortured shoulders by leaning against the heavy Rucsacks we all carried. We'd come a long way and now we were spent, fatigue was our mean and constant companion; fatigue and hunger. We were cold, wet and dispirited; we were damn near broken. As Ryan stood before us, his gaze drifted across us.

It hadn't started this way of course and if we had had any idea it would end this way, perhaps it wouldn't have started at all, although; I think it would; for some of us anyway. We had set off, the day before, in early morning mist, each one of us, keen for adventure. In reality, even before we put our first foot forward, at the start of what was to be a two day hiking expedition in the Scottish Highlands, we were already starting to flag; just a little.

The first "Scot Camp" was held in the Scottish Highlands by Brumby Secondary School and gained a reputation for being demanding and tough. Ten days of Walking, climbing mountains, fording rivers, swimming in Lochs, living close to nature and a truly massive dose of boyhood adventure. Despite the school admitting girls when it became a comprehensive, it remained a "boys only" activity; for reasons unknown, perhaps the details of having girls on the camp were considered too difficult to manage. To deny them the opportunity, to my mind, seems to some what diminish the reputation rather than enhance it, it would have broadened the experience of all those involved. What nobody knew at the time, was this was to be the last Scot camp, the following year not enough boys came forward to make the trip viable, a camp was run but the location was shifted to a permanent site in the Lake district, the activity programme, run by an outside organisation was made more varied and significantly less demanding and it was opened to all older pupils.

For us, the thirty boys or so boys from the fourth and fifth years, all fourteen or fifteen years old, it started at the end of a very long coach ride, cramped and eager to stretch our legs we spilled out into the grounds of Blair Athol Castle and walked along a rough Land rover track for around three miles until we reached a level patch of rough pasture, close to Gilberts bridge in Glen Tilt,  this was to be our camp site. Triangular in shape it was bordered on one side by the River Tilt, its Peat stained waters the colour of black tea. It slid smooth and silent beneath the high stone arch of Gilberts Bridge, its dark, glassy surface flecked with creamy foam, flowing deep and wide in a shallow gorge behind our tents, it thundered violently through a narrow rocky defile a little further downstream. This constantly cold river was to provide our drinking water, our cooking water, our bath and swimming pool as well as the place where we washed our pots and pans, with cold river water and a hand full of fine gravel.

On our arrival we cleared the Sheep, then wrestled with the stiff canvas tents that weighed close to a hundredweight each. As we unpacked the pale green tents and spread them on the grass  unfurling the iron hard folds, we released the trapped vapours of past expeditions, floating in the air like barely remembered dreams, faint aromas of sunshine and soft rain, of grassy meadows and long, halcyon days, the musty smell of good times and adventures. The tents had a pitched roof and vertical side walls about two feet high, strangely, once erected the bottom edge did not reach the ground, we drove stout wooden pegs into the rocky earth to stretch the canvas but only succeeded in forming a series of graceful arcs between each tent peg, it had the advantage of ensuring the tent had plentiful ventilation, which with eight boys sleeping in it, was  undoubtedly a good thing. The plastic ground sheet that was slightly bigger than the tent, poked out through the same gaps, when it rained the water dripping off the sides of the tent was efficiently collected and directed inside the tent, which was not such a good thing.

With our accommodation sorted, the next task was to fashion tables roughly four feet high from Rustic poles that had been left for us by forestry workers, using Axes and Bow Saws to cut the poles we lashed them together using baler twine. The table top was covered with a layer of Stones and soil upon which we then built fires to cook upon. Having been given only the vaguest instructions in regard to building these "Altar fires", as they were known, and having no previous experience, we failed to fully grasp the key design features foremost of which was to have a good bed of Stones, Gravel and Soil for the fire to rest upon and thus protect the wooden structure from the heat. Unfortunately we did not pay sufficient attention to this detail resulting in hot embers slipping through the stones to come to rest on the wooden frame and rather quickly burning through it, or more alarming the rope lashings burned through causing a sudden and catastrophic collapse, of the whole structure including the fire and any cooking pots that were sat on it. We very quickly learned to cook our meals without ever releasing our grip on the saucepans throughout the entire operation. We were advised that these "Altar Fires" were expected to serve our needs for the duration of our stay and, still be serviceable for use by another group, from another school, who would take over the site when we left. They were a very forlorn collection of blackened and charred stakes by the time we left, bearing almost no resemblance to any kind of useful structure, they would have made a reasonable Bonfire and little else.

 The entirely temporary nature of our settlement was symbolised and completed, by the tall blue tent that resembled a sentry box, inside its inadequate confines, it barely concealed the camp "Thunder Box" a thing so utterly vile that most people simply wandered, toilet roll in hand, into the Pine plantation that bordered another side of our site, close to nature indeed. The third side of our campsite gave way to pleasant, open views across rolling countryside in the direction of the Castle though it was itself hidden from view.

We were split into groups of four, each tent providing accommodation for two such groups. We stowed our gear inside and laid out our sleeping bags, all the while laughing and chattering, good natured banter about who was sleeping next to whom, a string of vulgar and lurid reasons, each one more outrageous than the last about why he was sleeping next to him and why he didn't want to sleep next to somebody else. We tumbled out of the tents and surveyed our surroundings, taking in our new, recently built, temporary home: Some distance away, watching over us, silently brooding, aloof and menacing, a huge grey, green hulk of granite, the wide, expansive acres of its rolling flanks swathed in waving, restless grasses, home to the indefatigable wind that constantly harassed, raking the hillside with endless malevolence. From our camp site its shape resembled a gigantic armchair, its name, Beinn Dearg. We larked boyishly in that gentle meadow, beneath a lowering sun, an intoxicating mix of scents; crushed grass, and sweet, wild flowers filled our nostrils, a lone Buzzard turned idly on rising thermals its piercing call knitting seamlessly into the landscape, far away Sheep bleated, the sound floating on drifts of warm air, our hearts were light and free of care; a safe distance from it, we paid it little heed, innocently unaware it was destined to test us.

  We spent the first few days being broken in gently on day walks in the surrounding mountains, I was completely captivated, the stunning wild beauty and brooding skies, the sighing winds and tormented rivers. Beneath the massive bulk of those majestic mountains I imagined lives lived, great deeds performed: in that spellbinding vastness men came to know themselves, their limits; to know nature, her creatures and her habits, to form iron fast bonds of friendship in that lonely emptiness. Then there was the silence; Oh, the silence; it soaked through my skin as though it were blotting paper; seeping into my bones like a salve for all the worlds wrongs; it draped like a heavy cloak over a stunning landscape whose beauty grabbed me in the guts, squeezed, then twisted till I was helpless, hopelessly awed and enslaved in a love from which there can never be any hope of release.

Arriving back at the camp site at the end of the day, we lit the altar fires and cooked our food, then took our evening bath, immersing our delicate, classroom soft tenderness into the intimate, shrivelling embrace of the River Tilts' cold, sliding black waters. Getting to the river was not difficult, but neither was it easy, having carefully negotiated the steep grassy bank that plunged straight into the river without its angle easing, it was difficult to find a place to stand at the waters edge, from where to get a wash. It was easier to swim, so hanging a towel in a tree we plunged into the deep, peaty water clutching a bar of soap, treading water we raised different parts of our bodies clear of the water to soap them, then plunged beneath the surface to rinse away the suds, it was wonderfully invigorating. Then balancing, like a circus acrobat, on slippery rock, hopping from one foot to the other, we rubbed our, tingling pink skin with towels, coarse with grit,  as numbness was slowly replaced by feeling it felt like we had near stripped the skin from our bones. Later in the evening, Lockwood, a laid back Art teacher would give us a couple of hours of free time, when we would walk the three miles along the rough track into Blair Atholl, smoking and talking, retelling tall tales of mischief and bravado, of toughness and strutting Peacocks. Eventually arriving in the village we would visit the general store of "John Seaton and sons" to buy bars of Chocolate, Cigarettes whilst some took the opportunity to practice their shoplifting skills. Big Gezz, would nip in to the village pub to drink a pint of McEwans "Heavy", his size belied his years, even at fourteen years of age he was six feet two and despite still being a schoolboy he had no problem getting served. Some days later, towards the end of our trip, we were taking part in three day hike, as a test of our independent ability we walked by our own chosen route to a rendezvous point where the teachers met us in the evening providing us with provisions for the next day and checking we were safe. At the end of the first day we had found a nice place to camp in a field by a lively burn close to a pretty stone farmhouse, with stunning views across the glassy waters of Loch Tummel. The teachers duly arrived in a van, complementing us on our chosen campsite they satisfied themselves that we were in good shape and with words of encouragement left us for the evening to meet up with other groups. After our evening meal, we lazed in the scented long grass slapping at the voracious Midges whilst listening to the ratchet of nearby Grasshoppers, we watched the slowly sinking sun turn the sky shocking pink and scarlet, its splendour dramatically mirrored in the still, calm surface of the Loch below us. It was then that Big Gezz decided to visit the nearby pub. Sitting comfortably in the bar lustily sinking his first pint of Beer, Gezz noticed the front door open and in walked the teachers, smiling and joking with one another as they headed for the bar, thinking on his feet and ducking sharply out of sight, Gezz running at a crouch made an extremely rapid exit through a hastily located back door. To us, it made a great story and elevated Gezz to Folk hero status, which, for me at least, endures to this day.

 And so the time came for us to pack our Rucksacks in readiness to leave camp the next morning to hike for two days, camping overnight somewhere en route. Such was the attitude and discipline of that age that at no time was it considered to be of any importance, at any level, to tell us where we would be going, nor where we would be stopping or what route we might take. At no time were we ever shown a map, I am sure it would have been considered dangerously subversive if we should have come by any such information, the common good was best served if we remained entirely in the dark.

 Morning came and we were up early, we were up early every morning, sleeping in the tents was not easy, it was cold, drafty and the lumpy ground was uncomfortable, not to mention the constant fidgeting, the chatting and the endless belching and farting. Sleepy eyed we jumped in the river then breakfasted. It was a cheerless day, damp wraiths of ragged mist swirled and drifted through the campsite, snagging on trees and collecting in hollows. Glistening droplets of water like sparkling Diamonds, collected and dripped from the tip of each blade of grass and the point of every needle on every Pine tree, it was a "closed in" world, silent except for the occasional rasping call of a solitary Crow, sending an eery chill through us like a creaking hinge in an empty house.
We milled around, kicking our heels, awaiting the signal for our departure, impatient yet apprehensive, it almost felt like a punishment. Back in the regimented world of  books, desks and classrooms punctuated by the shrill clanging of bells to mark the end of lessons, a world far too ordered for our wild spirits, I sometimes found my self alone in a corridor outside a classroom, resentfully pondering the imminent caning I was about to receive for some infraction of rules I had little regard or understanding of. That same anxiety mixed with impatience to get it behind me. In time, as a keen wind came hunting through the trees behind us, we heaved our bulging packs onto our shoulders, grunting, we pretended the weight was like nothing, straining straps creaked and stretched, tender shoulders protested, winces were hidden behind jokes and punches to the arms. Young boys dreaming of being men. Oh, but we were alive; life oozed out of us, we didn't have enough flesh to contain it, young skin was too innocent to hold it all back, such was our abundance, life dripped from us like treacle and formed puddles of energy around us, we were so  fucking alive, we crackled when we moved.

The walking that first day was on reasonable paths and Land Rover tracks, used by game keepers for access to the Deer moors and to move shooting parties around the hills in the ease that soft and lazy but none the less wealthy, fee paying guests expected. The way was long and our packs made the hills seem bigger, the climbs longer and steeper and the descents more tortuous. We chattered most of the time, unified in our shared toil, less during the ascents and more on the descents. Where we could, on the wide trails we walked three and four abreast, growing together, laughing, joking constantly, spurring each other on, proud as Peacocks. Muscles flexed easily with the smoothness of youth, we developed a loose rhythm, eager bodies offered up for challenge responded with vitality and craved more, we sweated and gave what was required, knowing we had reserves.

We rode on a fine wave, through wild heather, over windswept moors and hungry Peat bogs, as much a part of the landscape as the Mountain Hares that bolted as we passed, the stuttering Grouse that warned us to "Go Bak, Go Bak Go Bak", as much even, as the stately Red Deer that sniffed the air snootily and watched with suspicious caution from a long distance. We were growing, the world was changing, it was moulding to our will, we owned it, here in this wide and wild playground, we walked and we grew, our potential bloomed and swelled until it became boundless, its vastness dwarfing us, dwarfing the wildness around us, dwarfing everything that has ever been. If only we had known.

 The day wore on and strongly we strode the paths through the hills into Glen Bruar, arriving eventually at Bruar Lodge in the early evening. Haunting our heels though, a thin grey spectre of weariness, began by degrees to creep insidiously into the weaknesses in our resolve.

We burned calories in a highly tuned furnace, our bodies had little necessity to store fat, none of us carried any excess weight, we were lean and yet we could never eat enough, every meal was a small hill of food on a plate, we ate anything and everything voraciously. So at the end of that long day when we had cooked our evening meal we looked upon it with ravenous disappointment. With little difficulty any one of us could have eaten, to our selves, what we were supposed to share between four, we wolfed it down then ferreted in every corner of our backpacks for some morsel that may have been overlooked. We contemplated eating our breakfast right then, but resisted, knowing that morning with out breakfast would be a misery unendurable. Regardless, our spirits were high, bouyed up by each others company and bursting with boyish good humour were at the top of our game, we explored our surroundings. Bruar Lodge is a sturdily built stone hunting cabin, a comfortable Biviouac for paying Deer stalkers, it was securely fastened and the windows boarded, sheltered round the back, away from the watchful eyes of the teachers we chattered and smoked.

 There were four of us in each tent, too many, the searching wind found our camp in the night and with it brought rain. In the drab grey light of morning we rose cold, damp and tired, joints ached and keen daggers of stiffness stabbed through every muscle, we fought to tame iron hard leather boots into submission and onto our tender feet. After a meagre breakfast we packed away the wet tent, heavier now and shouldered once more our bulging packs careful with straps on newly rawed flesh. Our school teachers and now our guides, referred to only by their surnames and never with a title were Ryan, who taught us French and Scargill our metal work teacher. Ryan was a keen and strong walker who harboured an ambition to complete all the peaks in Scotland over 3000ft, known as the Munros. At this very moment as we shuffled about waiting to start, he had his eye on one, it's hulking bulk completely dominating our view, it reared up before us to a little over 3000ft, that same Beinn Dearg, the ascent of it's steep flanks starting right from the soles of our boots where we stood. He had a plan and it was unfolding, of course he didn't share it with us, not at this time anyway.

 The sky was a damp, flat grey canopy over our heads, the summit of Bienn Dearg was hidden in cloud which hung loose down to about 2500ft,  the wind blowing strongly in the valley would be worse as we climbed higher, a light drizzle that had already set in, stung our faces sharply. We toiled up hill, hoping sore muscles would loosen and creaking joints ease as we progressed, there was no easy start today, we were immediately into tough terrain, the relentless steepness was felt with every laboured step. Our inadequate clothing did little to keep the rain out, it was still many years to the invention of breathable fabrics so we boiled and sweated and soaked our clothing from the inside too. Although our bodies sweated our hands and feet were blue with cold and when we stopped the perspiration quickly turned cold bringing a new level of discomfort as our sweat soaked clothes clung clammily to our undernourished bodies. The steep route and foul weather silenced all chatter, turning our heads away from the stinging rain which slanted down sideways, we breathed in gasping pants, blood throbbing in our ears, we each plodded on in our own dreary pain. Whilst Ryan strode on strongly, Scargill was looking distinctly shaky, it was not something he could hide from us, even if he had wanted to, we were too intimately familiar with the signs, we knew he too shared the same dismal agony. No body grumbled, there was no point, there was nothing to be done, just keep on, keep putting one foot in front of the other, keep enduring, until it was over. Sometime around midday, none of us being really sure of the time, being too tired to care, Ryan called a halt in a small, shallow hollow in the hillside to rest. We shriveled ourselves into tiny balls, hunkered in to the rough grass as low as we could, shying away from the cruel hunting wind and stinging drizzle. We were in the Highlands but it felt like Tolkien's Mordor. Ryan was talking, I turned up my collar and quivered behind my pack using it as a shield against the foulness, nobody was listening, he stood on the rim of the hollow, slightly elevated, defiant of wind and rain, his hair poked from beneath his hood and stuck wetly to his forehead, his face glowed red and healthy, neither cold nor fatigue disturbed him. As I looked at his relaxed stance I was aware of his lips moving, I shrunk inside myself some more, trying to shut out the words, but like the damp creeping into every part of my clothing that I was powerless to prevent, so too, his words seeped damply into my consciousness;

 " God no", I inwardly recoiled from his words, he wanted somebody to go to the summit with him.

 This was his motivation, this was the ambition he had been nursing quietly all the time, his cunning plan. He'd put up with and put himself out for this unruly bunch of brats, now it was time for his just reward, his payback, his Munro, his tick on his list. All he needed was somebody to volunteer, just one kid, to justify the detour. This was the weakest part of his scheme and now the whole plan hung on it. He seemed to be looking at me.

 "Please, please, somebody volunteer", a tiny voice whimpered inside my head.

 There was no response, only a silence disturbed by the whipping wind and the crackling rain against my hood. Each one of us cringed in silent horror at even the thought of his plan. He and the eager volunteers, who he would selflessly guide to the summit, would make a quick dash to the top whilst the others waited in that increasingly attractive hollow. But I knew how this was going to go, I determined to fight against it, I tried to huddle lower from the cruel insensitive wind,

 "please somebody volunteer", the same tiny, inner voice, desperate now, almost sobbed.

 He was getting irritated, his disappointment more than he wanted to bear, his goal was too close to let go, he goaded us that we were weak, insinuations that we lacked courage, vague hints that we were without backbone, we were not men. His words lashed sharper than the rain and cut keener than the wind, it felt personal, like he directed them at all of us but were meant for me. I bowed my head, lowering my eyes to avoid his, the same shattered silence empty of voice roared around me, I felt a deep sigh of resignation escape from me, 

 "I'll go" I  said, quietly, barely audible above the wind,

he grinned, reaching for his pack.

No longer tiny the voice in my head shrieked loudly now "God No, why does it always have to be me? Why for once can't I let the goading, the jibes just go over my head? Why,why,why?"

The thing is I really didn't want to go, I tried, hard, not to say "I'll go", it's as though it wasn't really me, it was my voice but not me speaking with it, somebody inside of me that I didn't really have control over. As soon as he'd uttered his first appalling suggestion of it, somewhere deep inside of me, in the same place where the voice came from, I knew , I would go, I knew I couldn't not go, I was instantly aware of the inevitability of the events set in motion, the ineluctable outcome regardless of how much I might want to resist or how unappealing I may find it, I just couldn't shirk the challenge. Did Ryan know that?

 Rick, being my close friend and not one to let me suffer alone, also volunteered, I felt rather than heard the relieved sigh escape from the others. I hauled my self wearily to my feet, hearing Steve Snowden next to me muttering something about my being a Mug and him being grateful for it, Rick was already on his feet looking up, we could see a swirling malevolent grey mist 200ft above us, it seemed the rain lashed us mercilessly and the wind mocked us for even daring to imagine that we might be made of something remotely capable of defying such overwhelming forces.

 Ryan strode ahead, the mist swirling around him, threatening to engulf him, I paused a moment wishing it would. It became a carrot and stick scenario, I was reacting to his stimulus, all the time I could see him ahead I plodded on, it was not because he was our guide, I would not have worried if he had disappeared into the mist, I didn't fear losing him in the least, but the motivation would be gone and at that point I think I would have simply sat down and stayed there, until who knows when. My mind shut down I lifted one foot forward, swung my weight onto it then lifted my other foot and did the same. I have heard that some people in similar situations distract themselves by counting the number of paces they take. I didn't count, I didn't look to the end, I didn't think at all beyond the mantra of weariness, I became an automaton, I just plodded. It became so I was no longer aware of Ryan or even Rick and when the ground was no longer steep, I carried on monotonously plodding, a few more steps and it was level. I looked up, the abrasive wind grazed my face a thick mist engulfed us damply, but it wasn't raining, Ryan was stood ahead of me his pack off and grinning. I looked hard at him, searching his face, half surprised and half relieved, I saw the sallow fringes of tiredness creeping into his countenance, a greyness around his eyes. To my left Rick was alongside me, step for step a companion. Ryan's smiled widened, he was suddenly full of praise and camaraderie,

"We ought to have a picture," he bubbled, " has one of you got a camera? I'll take your picture," he said

 I had a camera in my bag but was too weary to raise any enthusiasm, Ryan pressed me and I dragged it from my pack handing it to him. Rick and I moved over to some low boulders scattered on the summit, ordinarily Ryan was a strict disciplinarian and not a man to waste many words but now he became animated and enormously encouraging. He started to tell us how well we had done, how it wasn't an easy climb, how it took mettle and determination, this high place was a place for champions, each member of our group was at that moment in their rightful place, ours being right here on the summit. It felt like something more than just simple encouragement, more than just a means for him to achieve his ambition of a Munro ticked off his list. It felt like a connection, a common bond joining us. He was a man, long grown up and comfortable enough with it and although we were young boys dreaming of being men, we didn't truly understand him, we didn't yet know how to talk to him as an equal, to him we were still young boys yet in that instant, we were the same, comrades, fellow summiters. Rick and I sat on the rocks, turning our faces from the cutting wind, peering beneath the edges of our hats, squinting slightly into the swirling mist, Ryan hunched his back against the wind and huddled over the Box Brownie camera, something warm swelled inside me, a smile flickered across our faces and Ryan took the picture.

We stumbled back down the hillside, back to that inadequate miserable haven, the glow of glory we had fleetingly experienced on the top didn't sustain us for very long, no more than a dozen paces, the rest of the group cursed us for being gone so long, they were cold and despite it's initial attraction there was no shelter here, tired as they were they recognised that moving on was the only course to real respite. So without rest we were straight on, plunging down the rugged hillside.
The going was rough now, poor paths, indistinct and hard to follow, as we dropped lower it got wetter and marshy, clumsy or unwary feet would sink ankle deep in sucking swamp. we stumbled as Marren grass snatched at our boots. Ryan, who was the only one who knew where we were and where we were going, had to consult the map regularly, the wind tore at it spitefully and it flapped viciously threatening to shred itself at any moment as he checked and rechecked it carefully, the rain soaked it despite his contortions to try to protect it, reluctant to make any mistakes progress was slow and difficult. Scargill was not doing good, tired he became clumsy, carelessly ploughing through tangled Heather he stumbled and fell heavily, twisting his ankle sharply, he rolled around in the wetness and clinging peat, clutching his ankle, pain overwhelming him, he cursed loudly, then looking up at us he cursed some more, not at us or anything in particular, just the pain and the frustration, he cursed his exhaustion, he cursed the wind and the rain, he cursed everything, it spilled out of him in thick uncontrollable gobs, he cursed the whole vast enormity of eternity. We looked upon him impassively, feeling his pain but unable to help and too tired to offer sympathy. His ankle was badly twisted it took several minutes for his pain to subside, when it became manageable he could barely walk, we split his pack down and shared half of it between us, Ryan taking the rest and tying it to his own pack. Ryan too was getting tired, his patience was wearing thin, he became snappy with us but we didn't take it personally, we understood, perhaps better than he did, nobody was immune.

The leaden sky pressed down on us from overhead, drizzly showers raked across the hillside and swept over us at intervals, the wind constantly tugged at us, chilling us whilst our packs caused us to overheat in our pathetic waterproof clothing. Eventually we picked up a little used and overgrown Land Rover track and the walking got a little easier. Silently and numbly we shuffled on, no longer a cohesive group, just a strung out straggle of suffering individuals occupying roughly the same space. We entered a small pine plantation, the track cut down between soft mossy banks it was sheltered from the wind, a place of calm, it felt warmer, we lowered our hoods and heard the wind roar through the tree tops. Fat drops of rain dripped from the drooping branches but they were easy to dodge, tall shuddering stems with pink flowers grew on the tracks soft banks, it was dark under the trees, the soft bare earth looked inviting. I imagined lying down  allowing sleep to claim me, sinking slowly into the thick bed of Pine needles and soft earth, a dangerously magical place. How long could we go on? We none of us thought about it directly, we just carried on, what else could we do? Yet it was a thought that lurked at the backs of all our minds. There must be a limit, what would it be like when we reached it? Would we just drop in mid step or would we lose all motivation, stopping and stubbornly refusing to move any further. Somewhere at the back of our minds we thought it couldn't be too far away.

 At the head of our bedraggled troop Ryan stopped  just a few yards short of a drooping wooden five bar gate that blocked the track, he turned to face us, we sagged to the floor, propping ourselves against the tussocky grassy banks of the track. Scargill slumped down into a puddle, too tired to care, he was the worse of us. As Ryan stood before us, his gaze drifted across us, taking in our fatigue reading the pain in our faces the near despair in our eyes, he spoke, choosing his words slowly and deliberately. I remember the drift of his speech, that it had been a long walk we had just done and not easy, that we should be proud of what we had achieved over the last two days. He went on to tell us that the wooden gate behind him, green with lichen and so tangled with grass and weeds it was impossible to open, was the only thing now between us and the campsite where the rest of our school friends were waiting and preparing to depart on a two day hike of their own.

The rest of his words I do remember;

"When you go through that gate" he said, " don't let them see you like this, hold your heads high." he paused sweeping a friendly eye over us; "I know at this moment you don't feel like it, but you're all winners."

A few days later we were riding the coach back to our homes and the loving bosom of our families, still young boys dreaming of being men but in some respects not the same young boys that had ridden North in the same coach ten days earlier. We were changed, grown a little? Yes, but more than just that, we had found our feet, we had learned a confidence in ourselves and yet even as we were finding it, it had also taken a knock. We had learned something of the world, seen it in a brilliant, different light and learned to like it, while at the same time a crumb of distrust had entered into our souls, a little cynicism. We had had our first proper draft from life's fountain, we'd tasted it's bittersweet.

The River Tilt still winds the same course through those romantic hills, its black waters patiently squeezing through and sliding over the same solid grey rocks, much has passed under that high and graceful stone arch of Gilbert's bridge and those young boys, that many years ago, dreamed of being men have grown; turned into men who dream of the days when they were young boys and a time when the worlds vastness was matched only by our ignorance; our confidence to deal with it equaled by nothing but our naivety. A time when we didn't once question our place in the world or right to be in it. Our dreams may have shrunk, there are thick callouses on our innocence and optimism has largely turned to weary cynicism. And yet Ryan's words are still with me forty years later, a beacon; no matter where I am I try to remind myself, keep strong, hold my head high and try to keep smiling, try to keep the faith and believe in dreams, because I learned then, in this life; Sometimes even winning feels like losing.

I have that picture hanging on my wall, from time to time I stop and look closely at it and remember. The quality is poor but I treasure it, I will always be grateful to Ryan for taking it, for persuading me to get the camera from my bag when I thought I was too tired. It always makes me smile.







April 2014