A Perfect Diet



Lundy September memories… golden grass, glittering grit, glistening sea and lighthouse sunsets. Again please.  2 days before leaving Met office declines the request with a prophecy of hailstorms, force 8 gales and cold. I swallow the bitter pill and move to a mind-set of rest and relaxation. I pack winter clothes and books.

The ferry pitches and rolls out of Ilfracombe and then wallows its way through the troughs and dips while its passengers moan and turn green and white. Becky lies on the deck and asks: ‘When is it all going to end?’, while Peter scampers around saying: ‘The waves are incredible’, to anyone who is able to pay attention.

On the island the sun shines but recovery time is given priority over any strenuous activity so we sit in stripy deck chairs on a green lawn with a view of the north Devon coast and eventually motivation creeps in. We should at least get a rope out.

I heave the heavy rucksack up the hill and down the other side, and back up the same hill, and down another. Steep, very steep.  I had forgotten the Lundy Alpine mountaineering experience: finding the right bit of rock at the right time of day is for the older and wiser and therefore fatter people.


We arrive at Flying Buttress at the wrong time and watch the waves crash around us and over the way into most of the routes. We are left with a brutal looking VS 5a. We get the ropes out and Peter does a short vertical dance on it for a while, and then it starts to rain, so he retreats and we put the ropes away and walk uphill again.

I’m not disappointed – just glad to be back at the foot of rugged sea cliffs on this wild and beautiful island.

Pinned to the notice board in the pub that evening is a print-out of the forecast: Cloudy, drizzle and more.

I look out of the window the next morning and see a blue distant coastline above a glistening sea. The winter packing was so, so wrong.

The hot sun bakes us as we tentatively try to find our way down a steep grassy slope to where the abseil should begin above Needle Rock. It seems a lot harder than the way down we found before, 5 years ago, but we continue, down past loose rock and a blank wall, down to the big boulders on the shore. We get the ropes out and play at being brave (and sweaty) climbers until the sea starts to be an irritating presence for the belayers. Sitting in the sun on top of the stack after an interesting Severe, among the drying regurgitations of some mythical Lundy bird of prey, I watch the seal watching us and the goats being braver than us, and take in the glittering grit and glistening sea. It is all so good.

The blank wall is too blank to provide a route out so the adventure of getting down to the shore is reversed.  I lead the way up a precarious scramble, trying to find something solid to hold on to and avoiding goat shit, until we meet up with the ab rope. The sun is still baking us as we walk up to the breezy top.


Last year I ate too much. This year I’ve been discerning and only eaten my favourite food. It’s a diet of adventure, fresh air, sunshine, remoteness, and dramatic scenery. It takes me beyond my comfort zone, but only just. I haven’t been ticking the boxes or pushing my grade – I’ve been discovering my  ideal meal and at the end  of this day I was replete.

And that was it, and it was enough – a storm raged over the island the next day and the last day I couldn’t get motivated to get the rope out for the non-tidal routes on offer so spent a few hours sitting in hot sun on a rock above a cove watching seals sunbathe and sing. Simple pleasures.

Keep it simple.



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Best day of the year and it didn’t involve consolidating new routines to overcome the challenges of a cranky VS, but a mountain day. A day where I hugged the pinnacle and shouted ‘I have nothing to prove.’

Mountaineering – a big day out, travelling through rugged and inspiring landscape in a number of ways to get to the top. And for me, the most satisfying of idle pursuits.

It was third time lucky. I’d been to Scotland with hope of walking, scrambling, climbing but it rained of course so it had to be the Munro bagger’s agenda. After 14 summits in 3 days I looked at her and said: ‘No more’ … and meant it.

Then to North Wales with a similar hope. No rain but others had other hopes and so instead I practiced my new routines on Dinas Mot in shorts and T Shirt and then went to have a nice cup of tea.

A few weeks later I took more hope to North Wales where randomly I found a fellow hopeful. While others scurried away to the dry coast, we played on a 3 star grade 3 scramble, Clogwyn y Person Arête, in non-wetting rain and I had my first encounter with the drifting ridge of the infamous Crib Goch (disappointing after my meeting with the A Chir ridge in Arran in May).

The next day rain threatened but we rose early and undeterred and hopeful we made our way to Idwal Slabs where we chose our first route by an easy method of elimination- routes going through wet rock were out. A diff – Ordinary Route . In boots. Moving together with rucksacks: Interestingly awkward and exertive.

Idwal enchainments on a Saturday are busy, so in our hopeful enthusiasm we chose the free route – a VS 4C: Piton Route. Him in boots (a combination of Alps training and forgetfulness), and he found it hard. Very hard. Technical climbing ensued as I whipped on my stickies and heaved and grunted up the slippery blank groove .At the top he said ‘remind me never to do that again.’ Type 3 fun then.

Not quite there yet, so we made our precipitous way up to a 200m scramble – grade 3 and 3 stars again. The route description had wetted our appetite using words that sounded like it was out there and a steady head was needed. Correct.

In boots. Heavy rucksacks. Huge exposure and teeny tiny holds plus a short traverse that made me sweat even more. Thankfully we were delightfully in the zone. The sun came out and we sweated some more and walked past  Glyder Fawr with grins on our faces, back to Nant Peris – for a pint.CIMG3312

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Magic Numbers


Bow shaped slab. Pembrokeshire

I have a shiny new harness and fresh new rock shoes. Dave suggested it might be a good idea to replace some of my aging equipment. Dave Talbot was the man hanging from a rope next to me as I made my way up a route at Wintours Leap in the Wye Valley,  and buzzing in my ear with the repeated question: ‘Why are doing you doing  it like that?’ I’d paid him to do that: to give me a climbing MOT-  it felt more like a second driving test and I hated my mouth for its insistent excuses and justifications . Instructing  ‘experienced’ climbers must  be like giving driving lessons to ‘experienced’ drivers –  there will be a wall of resistance to any suggestion that what they are doing is in any way incorrect. And that’s how it was – initially. My wall was well built as evidenced by the amount of pleas and protestations and ‘buts’ that came from my mouth last Friday.  I wished I would shut up.

What he was telling me (‘suggesting’ to me) was everything I’d heard before (mostly) , but somehow it had become lost in the mists of time and bad habits… and it was oh so difficult to get to that place where I could listen and absorb without my wall of pride flinching. But we got there, eventually.

‘Starting routines: Have one. Know exactly where your gear is on your harness. Why do you use a bandolier?  It gets in the way. Get more harness loops. Oh look your harness is so worn away the red bit that shows you should replace it has been worn away. Your shoes have no edge and holes on the toes.  Get a chalk bag on a bit of tat. Don’t put it on your harness. Stop clutter and reduce weight. Be tidy. Be exact. Be ritualised. Look up at the route. Where will the first bit of the gear go?  How are you going to get there? Where are the holds? Break up the route into bite sized pieces. Stop and look. Now off you go…’

So it’s not a matter of feeling scared and not looking at it and just diving in with a vague idea where gear might be on my harness?

I start  with his buzzing filling my head, placing nuts, hexs and cams as I go.

‘Look for the V’s. Look for all the possibilities for placements, not just the first one you see. Where exactly will you be placing the gear? Which gear? Grade it out of 5. Outward/ upward /downward pull? Add gear until it adds to 5. When you can rest, put in 2 bits on both ropes – that will make a 10 which is the strength of a belay and that should fill you with happiness before you make the tricky move. You should get to the stage where you can put it in quickly, first time. And it’s a really bad idea not to hold on with the other hand while you put in the gear.Climb every route the same way, with the same routines.’

‘But. But. But’, I want to protest.  By this time a slight melt-down is going on in my head. The wall is crumbling and I have to deal with its tumble and fall and re-construct it as a positive and beautiful thing quickly. I succeed.  I listen and absorb and the light bulb goes on.

My fear as I have gone up the grades as increased because my confidence in my gear hasn’t. I haven’t been accurately appraising it and been throwing it in more and more randomly in the haste  of fear that comes on steep routes with a quick thought of ‘probably good enough’ , which is a vagueness that only generates more fear. Fear on fear on fear. And less and less good gear. I really need to eat humble pie and go back to basics.

I’m shocked how some bad habits are so engrained . Dave has to repeat: ‘Hang on to the rock while you’re putting that in!’ –  and I’m shocked how casual I have become. We peer intently at a  sexy 3 point belay made up of 10 point graded placements  – ‘ Independent and equalised’  – and I realise I’ve forgotten what the  ‘independent’ bit means… please can I go home now and never go climbing again. How is it I am alive still?

Dave the bee buzzes all day. Yes I feel like an amateur again but I know I have to do this – listen and absorb. So I take this rebuilt stack of information and re-found knowledge and take it to Symonds Yat  a week later, where I do a route I would usually avoid – ‘steep and  polished at the beginning’. I put in lots of lots of good gear ( 9 points) deep in the crack high up above the polished rock and make the moves and enjoy it.

I have rekindled my mojo.  Thanks for the magic numbers Dave.


A Chir Ridge. Isle of Arran







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Backwards With Eyes Closed


I touched rock again in March and didn’t come up in a rash so I tried it again… and again. I’m still in the grip of addiction and not prepared to go cold turkey,  so instead  I’m walking backwards towards it with my eyes closed  – like some children’s game in a weird dream. In this way maybe neither of us will notice and it’ll all be alright: sweetness and light, like before.

My approach (backwards) is also to pretend I haven’t climbed much before: to do the easy (and fun) stuff all over again to rediscover the delights and soft fragrant places of the sport ; not to go to the door-slamming-in-the-face place, the desperate arguments and sulks. It’s about establishing a different relationship.

So I closed my eyes and went to:

The Peak District – Northerly wind howling across the moor, Mediterranean sun blazing at the foot of the spines of rock that lie along the brown hills. Gritstone climbing is so totally different  to limestone  vertical play that I was destined to be an amateur there – which should have been just right for the backward approach. But I was affronted by how different and my southern drawl could be heard complaining across the crag: ‘This isn’t climbing, it’s caving.’ How the Sheffielders smirked. The delicacy of the limestone dance on rock is usurped by the inelegant thrust, thrutch and squirm of grit as various body parts are inserted in the many cracks and chimneys.  ‘This is stupid’, I declared, forgetting all about the soft fragrant places.

My indignation grew and then peaked during a V Diff that required me to face away from the cliff  and shift my arse and feet up an unprotected corner. ‘Backwards but not forwards’, I thought ruefully.

And progress wasn’t helped by a serious fall about 20 metres away from where we were climbing, requiring an ambulance helicopter and mountain rescue team. The unsaid thought was unearthed: ‘Why do we do this?’


Goblin Coombe, Somerset: Among the ticks and biting ants I almost frolicked up a blocky limestone arête – rediscovering the dance in a small way and loving the rock. (So there was a point to grit.) Any other progress was limited by a series of mini epics involving my partner that day including a slip/fall, a dropped belay device and a stuck abseil rope. The best bit of the day was scrambling up and down a dirty, dusty, steep gully twice to relieve the situation. ‘Maybe scrambling is the way forward?’ I wondered.

South Wales. Porthcawl: Box Bay on an almost sunny day, away from the ever persistent cold wind. I felt a slight interest in the awkward starts and simple short routes – but I still found the fear creeping around my blind side to take the pleasure away, like an annoying younger brother hanging around on a teenage first date. Two days later there was a day trip to Caswell Bay where children played on the beach and the tide retreated and advanced extravagantly. The sun shone and it was all just right for  a lazy day on the beach, which we weren’t there for.  4 metres up a Hard V Diff I had to stop and breathe.   It  turned out to be short and sweet, no nasty surprises, so there followed the usual face off – the internal scolding about lack of confidence.  We looked eye to eye, no eyes closed stuff. So back to square one.

I opened my eyes, faced front  and accepted I’d totally forgotten where I put my mojo,  so when I got home I put out an appeal by email for help in finding it…


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Thirty . Cornish Spring

Make way for the light

Throw off the chains of winter’s drag

Celebration and jubilation

Pollock has been given free rein

To spill and fling


Wind and rain threaten violence

The season is sticking to its old routine

I escape frost-burnt fields

And the awkward nudity

of roadside hedges passing

fields that sing the slight possibility of yellow


Fat fingers of renewing colour

On rain-soaked earth

Here a field shows careless splats of cadmium ink

There Jackson ‘s paint is spilled

Thick Snakes trumpeting

A firework of daffodils





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Twenty Nine

For twenty nine days

I have


poetic possibilities

from the kaleidoscope

of my landscape


wringing out washing


the colours bleed

Scented words

                 Textured text

                                             Playful articulation

                                                                              Delusions and nightmares

                                                                     Truth and lies

                                                                                           Songs of my life


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Twenty Eight. Strange Flowers

From monochrome to

rainbow in a month.

Among the blossom, bluebells

and bright new grass

strange flowers are sighted.

Bursts and flashes

of red, blue, orange and green

on lapels, on walls, in windows.

They fall through our letter boxes

like petals in the spring breeze.

They have no fragrance

and are neither

carnation nor forget-me-not,

marigold nor fern.

Nothing to put in a vase

and admire.

Just a bunch of

artificial flowers with a promise

of beauty and scent

but always

ultimately disappointing.





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Twenty Seven. Waves

You come to me


And again you come

As ocean waves

Until you drown me


I stand

Solid and am

Refreshed by

Each drenching

You come to me


I taste the waves

Each is a new draught

Until you drown me

You come to me

And again you come

Brahk 44


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Twenty Six. Today I have shown you

Today I have shown you

A Skylark’s filigree tune lifting above gold grass

The long hiss of gust in dry reeds

Slow-motion cloud-shadow unfurling on greening hills

A white sea in the furthest corner of the horizon

Warm quiet places in the valley away from the numbing wind

Blue sky dropped into a mountain pool

The peace that comes from seeing your place

in the tune, the grass, the wind, the colour, the sea, the valley and the greening hill

and how to carry a small part of it home in your hand


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Twenty Five: Breath

We sit like a parliament of owls to watch your time narrow.

New-leaf skin so thin it would tear if you coughed,

peach-soft but bruised with a touch,


so translucent it would glow if you had

enough light left.  These are the thinning days

where radiance dims to a breath caught between


pain and the numbing sanctuary of poppy dreaming .

We follow your wisp breath as it arches in the air

and falls. Each waver of in and sigh of out,


hangs in the room and fades into the darkening corners.

We owls breathe out and hold our own breath

to clasp the moment. You breathe out.


We breathe in. Time misses a beat and

thick-blanket silence descends to suffocate.

The owls are left holding our breath.



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