Anyone who's been kind enough to follow my blog over the last 2 years will have spotted a certain labrador popping up every so often in my posts. I'm referring, of course, to Alfie, that loopy but lovable dog of ours. A dog who has accumulated, if I may say so, quite a sizable fan base since joining the Hunot family as an 8-week old pup nine years ago. I think it's the pleading eyes. Or could it be the bonkers personality?
Alfie's always angling for a name-check in my blog. Better still, a pic. He'll resort to photobombing if he thinks Mabel is getting too much of the limelight.
No doubt about it, after mealtimes and countryside rambles, there's nothing that male dog of ours likes more in the world than full-on attention. And finally in this post the spotlight is shining 100% upon him. Although sadly not in the way we - or he - would wish it.
Alfie comes from a long line of hard-working field labradors, and even in late middle age, he's a lean machine who prides himself on his stamina and fitness. As such, we blithely assumed that his life expectancy would be a reasonably extended one. However, six weeks ago he begun to exhibit some rather, shall we say, pungent symptoms in his nether regions. After several trips to our local vet, followed by an unpleasant exploratory procedure, Andrew and I were told that he had an anal sac tumour, 'the size of a plum,' as our vet put it. There's no denying it, an anal sac tumour is bad news for dogs - by the time such a tumour is picked up, it's usually already spread to other systems in the body and is beyond active treatment. Our vet advised us that with effective palliative care, Alfie would continue to enjoy life for 'months rather than weeks'. It was a massive shock - like I say, he seemed so fit and healthy.
Three days after Alfie's diagnosis a canine-related crisis occurred. Labradors are notorious scavengers. Anything remotely food-like and they'll wolf it down, however rank and festering it may appear. Alfie duly sourced a carcass of unknown origin somewhere in the garden and gobbled it up. The first we knew of this furtive feast was 24 hours later when it became apparent that his ailing digestive system couldn't handle it. The Weekend from Hell ensued. How Alfie suffered. As did we. As did Lucy, and my brother and his partner (all of whom had the misfortune to be visiting us at the time). I'll spare you the details, suffice to say it involved multiple rolls of kitchen paper, mops, buckets, industrial strength stain remover and Glade plug-in air fresheners, together with a series of panicky phone calls to the very helpful vet on duty (why do health emergencies always seem to happen at weekends??), plus a plethora of pats, strokes, and hugs to soothe our distressed doggy.
We carted Alfie off to the surgery on Monday to have him checked over and to discuss treatment options for the tumour. By then Alf was beginning to recover from his scavenging shenanigans, although he was still looking pretty dejected and fragile. The vet told us that in her opinion Alfie most likely had 2 weeks to live. Goodness, such rapid deterioration.....Andrew and I couldn't believe it. We returned home in bits. We spent the next few days trying to come to terms with this heart-breaking turn of events, and alerting Alfie's devoted band of followers, including the Hunot offspring, who all shot home pronto to give him treats, attention and oodles of love.
A cocktail of palliative drugs was duly commenced. Tramadol for pain. Steroids for anti-inflammatory purposes. Lactalose for the bowelly bits. And then a few days later antibiotics for a localised infection. Meanwhile life continued to be a real struggle for poor old Alf. He retreated to his bed much of the time. His fizzy demeanour evaporated and those soulful eyes of his seemed sad and troubled. Mabel attempted to lift his spirits by snuggling up to him or grooming his ears. Andrew and I spoiled him rotten and steeled ourselves for his imminent demise.
However....two and a half weeks later, much to our astonishment, Alfie boy is still with us! Thanks to his magic medicine mix and his inherent fitness, he appears to be having a mini revival and is doing pretty well at the moment. He's gadding about the Ashdown Forest on short walks, he's guzzling his food (albeit only at wheaten terrier speed now) and he's welcoming visitors with that old manic excitement. We know that the tumour is continuing to grow, we can see that he's losing weight (he's getting so bony...) and we recognise this is just a short-term reprieve. But at least the vet's two week prediction has proved to be, well, wrong. So now we're just making the most of every day we have with him.
Anyone who isn't a lover of dogs (or indeed cats and other domestic pets) might perhaps find this post a little bewildering and/or over the top. But I think I can say with some certainty that pet dogs have the most extraordinary capacity to steal your heart, and the resulting pull on your emotions is very intense. So it is with our lovely labrador. And since I know that a number of dog-loving family members, friends and neighbours follow my blog, this post has been specially written for all of you to say a huge thank you for all your kind words and support over the last few weeks - Andrew and I are very touched.
Bingo? Me? In Tooting? I suppose it does sound a little off the wall. Even if Tooting is one of the ten coolest neighbourhoods in the world. Let's begin at the beginning....
Over the past 10 months the sixtyat60 baton has been very skilfully and efficiently carried by my friend Caroline Britton, who has been whipping through her list of sixty tasks like a dose of salts. In truth there have been times when I've found myself breathing a silent sigh of relief that I've only had to live a task of hers vicariously through her blog. Go zip wiring? Not on your nelly. Whizz down the Orbit giant slide? Er, no thanks. And I'm not sure I'd have the patience, concentration or intellect to read all of Shakespeare's 37 plays. But for the most part I've read about Caroline's activities with a sense of yearning. Yes, that sixtyat60 mindset of mine is still alive and kicking. So when I was invited by Caroline to accompany her on her 57th task, 'Play bingo in a bingo hall', I accepted with indecent haste.
I have some hazy childhood memories of playing a board game version of bingo with my brothers, which invariably ended in fights. But I've never in my born days stepped across the threshold of a real live bingo hall. So I was super curious to find out what lay within. In my mind I saw a smoothy male caller grasping a large microphone, lots of dodgy bingo lingo, underwhelming ten shilling prizes, and a room heaving with Nora Baty types, gimlet-eyed, fingers twitching, pens at the ready.....
Caroline had chosen Tooting as the setting for Task 57 because its bingo hall boasts very fine art deco credentials. Originally a jewel in the crown of the Granada cinema chain, the building was designed by renowned architect Cecil A Massey, and opened to great acclaim in 1931. With falling attendance it closed its doors in 1973 and sat unused for 3 years before being resuscitated by Gala Bingo. It's now Grade 1 listed, and quite rightly so, although in truth the exterior does look a little jaded.
As I arrived at Tooting Bingo Hall last week, adrenaline was beginning to course through my veins. Were Caroline and I about to be humiliated by a gang of great-grans? Or could it be that we were a bingo session away from winning a shedload of dosh? I ventured into the entrance foyer where Caroline and her husband Peter were already admiring the mind-blowing marriage of art deco design and gothic grandeur. Those fabulous features were in full-on competition with a multitude of prominent and, some might say, garish, Gala Bingo signs telling us to Get Ready for the Bingo Buzz and to Go Go Flamingo. I was strangely mesmerised. What an extraordinary and slightly bonkers place.
Peter bade Caroline and me a fond farewell and left the building to pursue other more esoteric activities. And without further ado, our ladies' bingo afternoon commenced.
The first step was for us to be registered as Gala members, aided and abetted by a very smiley and helpful lady receptionist in a flamingo pink Gala shirt. We then made our way over to the sales counter, which was headed up by Mustapha, a personable lad nattily dressed in the requisite Gala shirt, embellished by a pink hawaiian garland, florescent-pink wig and a pair of pink lace-edged ladies' pants worn over his trousers, Superman-style (see below - I've spared you the pants).
Mustapha explained that these days many customers play bingo using electronic terminals rather than the old style paper books and pens. Since we had arrived at the tail end of the morning bingo session, we decided to briefly flex our neural pathways and join in with the last two games using the traditional paper method. The Gala booklet explains the methodology far more succinctly than I could.
We walked into the main bingo hall and paused for a moment in awe. We were standing in the stalls of a vast, neo-renaissance, cathedral-like auditorium. The caller was holding court at a large podium on the stage like a evangelist preacher addressing his devoted flock - although the flock of pink inflatable flamingos draped around his feet slightly diminished that impression.
The sky-high auditorium walls featured a plethora of grand medieval-style paintings and gothic arches. Fixed to the floor were lines and lines of 70s-style seating booths, which were sparsely populated with bingo fans, mostly ladies of a certain age. Not a Nora Baty in sight though.
The final game of the morning was about to begin. Caroline and I sat at a booth not far from the caller (who didn't appear to be a smoothy and wasn't holding a microphone) and readied ourselves for an oral onslaught of numbers. Initially I found it difficult to keep up with the flow, especially as my biro was throwing a wobbly, but after a few minutes I began to get into some kind of rhythm. Notably, the caller didn't use any bingo lingo. Not even a clickety click or two fat ladies. And every so often a hand would emerge from a booth, accompanied by a shriek of 'House!' or some such technical term.
The session finished and Caroline and I took stock of our progress. We decided that we would use electronic terminals for the afternoon games, partly to ensure that we achieved a complete bingo experience, and partly because that's what most of our fellow bingo players were using. Little point being Luddites. We were in to win! We hunted down two terminals (£10 a piece for the session), ordered bowls of chips, accepted a round of drinks on the house and sat back to familiarise ourselves with our 21st century equipment.
The Main Event began. Caroline and I switched on the auto-dab functions of our terminals. Yes, dear reader, I kid you not, those terminals actually mark off all the numbers automatically for you!! And they tell you how close you are to completing a line/double row/full house. No brain power needed. Just loads of luck.
The afternoon caller took his place at the podium. 'Six and two, sixty two, a single seven, seven, five and four, fifty four....' he chanted with hypnotic intensity. For the next hour we watched our terminals like hawks. You could hear a pin drop in the auditorium. Sometimes the prizes were just £10. But other times, when we were linked up with other Gala halls across the country, we were playing for prizes of up to £5000. That's serious money.
Our session was almost over and we remained win-less. 'Right Caroline, this is our last chance' I said. We stiffened our sinews. Off went the caller again. We had no luck with the single row. Ditto the double row. And then a curious thing happened. Caroline's right arm began to twitch. Her eyes became, well, gimlet-like. The index finger of her right hand started to hover over the claim button. And all of a sudden she went into a little frenzy of excitement. 'Oh...oh...'she squeaked, waving her previously twitching arm vigorously in the air. The impossible had happened. Caroline had won full house. A £100 prize was all hers for the taking! How amazingly fantastic is that?
As we left the auditorium, the manager walked past us. 'Well done' he said cheerily. 'Beginner's luck!' he added with a wink. Several bingo customers nearby also offered their congratulations. We were very touched by everyone's warmth, good humour and genuine pleasure at Caroline's unexpected win.
Is it likely that I'll be lured back to a bingo hall to try and replicate Caroline's success? I have to be honest, probably not, as it seems to me as if the advent of terminals has transformed bingo into a full-on gambling experience, which isn't really my bag. But what an entertaining and enjoyable afternoon we had of it - and what a truly fabulous building in which to experience bingo for the first time. I'm really grateful to Caroline for inviting me to accompany her on Task 57 of her 60@60 challenge and will be thinking of her lots over the next few weeks as she tussles with those final few tasks. I'm especially looking forward to seeing the YouTube clip of your magic trick Caroline ;-)
Caroline's blog can be accessed at http://60at60challenges.blogspot.co.uk/
One important postscript.....
Caroline's sixtyat60 year comes to an end in early December, and we think it would be wonderful to be able to pass the baton on to a new team member. Are you perhaps approaching your 60th birthday (or even your 65th or 70th?) Are you looking for a challenge to sink your teeth into as you approach/enter retirement? Do you like the idea of writing a warts and all blog? Would you be happy to do a little bit of fund-raising for a favourite charity of yours? If your curiosity is being piqued, do please email me at sixtyat60challenge@gmail.com - I'd be delighted to hear from you.
Hiking up Ben Nevis? So yesterday. Twenty four hours after Andrew, Clive and I completed our mountain escapade in the Highlands, the clock was already beginning to tick towards a second key event in my diary, the Thames Bridges Trek.
In a previous blog I explained how it was that I came to sign up for this special fund-raising day, but perhaps it would be helpful to set the context again in this post? A few months ago my lovely friend Paulette asked whether I'd consider accompanying her on the Thames Trek, a 25km zig-zaggy walk across 16 bridges, to raise money for St Wilfrid's Hospice in Eastbourne. The hospice has provided outstanding palliative care to Paulette's husband Jeremy, who has been living with progessive prostate cancer. It was such a good cause, and I agreed in an instant. Very sadly, Jeremy died two months ago - but Paulette decided that she'd like to continue with our trek challenge in Jeremy's memory.
So it was time to pack my bags, bid a fond farewell to Fort William and leg it home to East Sussex. I say 'leg it', but at that stage my quadriceps and calf muscles were begging for mercy every time I moved my legs in an upward or downward direction. And in truth, I was beginning to panic a little. How on earth was I going to cope with extended pavement pounding and multiple bridges in just two days' time?
I remembered what I'd said to Paulette a few weeks back. 'Come what may, I'll be on that start line with you' I'd told her. So I put my problem-solving hat on. For the next 36 hours, I nursed my legs through an intense programme of hot water bottles, bags of frozen peas and Radox baths, with the occasional gentle dog walk thrown in. And I studied the Trek route to prepare myself a little. Although I'm not sure that was a wise idea. Oh my goodness, that red line looked so long....
Our Thames Bridges Trek day dawned. Paulette awoke to the ping of a good luck text from son Luke in Cape Town. I awoke to the realisation that my legs felt more, well, human. And after two days of wall to wall rain, the sun awoke to find itself uncluttered by clouds. Paulette and I squeezed into my battered old car, with chauffeur Andrew at the wheel. Butterflies were going absolutely bonkers in my stomach. Would we be able to find our way to the start of the event? Were our bodies capable of walking 25km within 7 hours? Would Paulette's daughter Antoinette and family be able to track us down en route? And was I too old to be wearing lycra?
First stop, Lucy's house in Wimbledon. Lucy and Andrew wished us good luck and made a beeline for The Ivy Cafe to enjoy a slap-up breakfast (on Dad of course), whilst Paulette and I headed empty-stomached to the tube station. An hour later, the two of us were primed and ready for action in Bishops Park, near Putney Bridge. We had 'It Takes Two' bibs pinned to our backpacks, St Wilfrid's Hospice logos emblazoned across our chests, and event passes draped round our necks. The butterflies had settled down and we were beginning to feel quite excited. Mixed in with the excitement was a wave of intense sadness at the thought that Paulette wouldn't be able to share this special experience with Jeremy, as she had originally imagined she would be doing - but every single step of the route would be taken with Jeremy in our hearts and minds.
The 9.30am start slot was announced and Paulette and I took our places with 298 fellow walkers. We were all given blue trilbies to pop on our heads. We warmed up with a lively zumba routine, which instantly exposed my lack of coordination. And then we were off! We pootled over Putney Bridge, shimmeyed by shops, moseyed alongside a market and promenaded past a park. Some keen and swift folk from later time slots began to overtake us. 'Just let them go' Paulette said 'We'll get there in our own time'. Wise words indeed. We fell quite naturally into a comfortable rhythm and pace, and our lungs weren't so hard pressed that we couldn't talk nineteen to the dozen. Every so often we felt compelled to stop in our tracks and take photos of iconic landmarks.
After two and a half hours of walking, Paulette and I reviewed our physiological status. Feet? Check. Legs? Check. Backs? Check. Hips? Che.......oh dammit, time to 'fess up, I was beginning to notice a nasty niggling soreness in my right hip, a part of my body that's known to throw the occasional wobbly under provocation. It had behaved itself immaculately all the way and down The Ben. Would this trek prove to be, er, 16 bridges too far?
As luck would have it, we had a scheduled halfway break coming up. So we slowed down our speed, crossed Vauxhall Bridge (Bridge 7) and made our way to the nearby Pleasure Gardens where we were ushered into a big marquee. In front of us were long tables groaning under the weight of croissants, Danish pastries, cakes, cookies, crisps, sweets and chocolates, and a smorgesbord of fruit for the virtuous. Pleasure Gardens indeed!! I knocked back a couple of anti-inflammatories and then gorged myself on a shed-load of starchy grub. Meanwhile Paulette deftly juggled a croissant, chocolate brownie, orange slice and her mobile as she attempted to track down Antoinette and family's current location.
Back on the road, and to my immense relief my hip was firing on all cylinders again. Paulette's phone rang. Breaking news....Antoinette, husband Steve and their two daughters Zoe (13) and Mia (11) were on the train heading towards London Bridge and were planning to meet us towards Southwark. 'How are they going to find us?' pondered Paulette. 'Smart phones and apps Paulette, you'll see' I replied with more conviction than I felt.
We strode towards Westminster Bridge (Bridge 9), where we encountered a plethora of famous buildings, a Lib Dem March for Europe, and hoards of tourists, many of whom gave our trilbies and bibs a long hard stare.
We crossed the Golden Jubilee, Waterloo, Blackfriars and wobbly Millennium Bridges (Bridges 10 to 13) in quick succession. More iconic structures and swarms of overseas visitors.
Paulette's mobile rang again. It was Steve, inquiring as to our whereabouts. 'We're coming up to a bridge' she replied helpfully. Hmm....but which one? It turned out to be Southwark. 'Are you north or south?' asked Steve. Paulette and I looked at one another blankly. But guess what, just two minutes later, there were Antoinette, Steve, Zoe and Mia standing in front of us - an absolute stand-out moment of our day and a very emotional one.
Back to the job in hand, now accompanied by the fabulous Dale Henderson support team. After a minor unplanned detour at the Tower of London when the route arrows seemed to disappear (or was it that we were just chatting too much to spot them.....?), Tower Bridge (Bridge 16 - hurrah!) loomed before us.
Once on Tower Bridge it was my turn to coordinate a family rendezvous. Texts flew back and forth. I learnt that Andrew and Lucy had moved on from the Ivy Cafe in Wimbledon and were now hanging out in the Southwark area. 'We're on Tooley St on your route - outside keeping a look out' texted Andrew. Outside what Andrew? Oh of course, a pub! Ten minutes later Paulette and I duly arrived at The Shipwrights Arms and our support team gained two additional tiptop members.
One. More. Kilometre. To. Go. Our legs ached, our feet felt sore and my hip was throwing a minor hissy-fit. By now the route had taken us away from the majestic Thames and we were slogging it along unforgiving pavements and soulless streets. We yearned for Southwark Park, our ultimate destination. Another road. Another corner. And then finally the end was in sight - banners flapping in the freeze, people cheering, inspirational music blaring.....yes, It Takes Two had made it!
Paulette and I crossed the finish line together, big smiles on faces, aches and pains forgotten. We were awarded with medals, tee-shirts and a glass of fizz by cheery event staff. And we wrapped up the formalities by having our finishers' photo taken.
Paulette and I gave one another a big celebratory hug and then raised our glasses very high to Jeremy. He would be so proud of Paulette's achievement. I'm very proud of her too. I think her decision to register for the Trek and to persist with her plans following Jeremy's death is testament to her strength, courage, resilience, warm-heartedness and zest for life and is also testament to Jeremy and Paulette's devoted relationship, spanning more than 50 years.
To date, our 'It Takes Two' webpage has received £1851 in donations, an amazingly fantastic total that will be hugely appreciated by St Wilfrid's Hospice in Eastbourne. Paulette and I are truly grateful to everyone for their generosity and for all the support and encouragement we've received.
This blog has been written in loving and fondest memory of Jeremy Dale Roberts.
If you would like further information about St Wilfrid's Hospice, do please visit our JustGiving page https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/paulettedaleroberts
'
A large percentage of seeming incapables reach the top of Ben Nevis'. So remarked a certain William T Kilgour, who worked in the Observatory on Ben Nevis's summit in the late 19th century. William T's views on female climbers were especially disparaging. 'The fair sex must do their own sweet will on Ben Nevis' he declared, 'Along with the broken-winded and the rheumatic'. Hmm....what would William T have made of our little trio of Ben Nevis hikers, combined age of 190 years, infiltrated by the fair sex and each of us latent broken-winded rheumatics. It's a dead cert that he'd have ranked us as incapables.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My story begins on a grey September morning, the day after my brother Clive's 60th birthday. Six months previously, Clive had agreed to celebrate the start of his seventieth decade by trekking up Ben Nevis with my husband Andrew and me. And so it was that the three of us arrived bright and early at Ben Nevis Inn, renowned Ben base camp, where we had been instructed to rendezvous with our guide Eve - a member of the fair sex who, as we would later discover, possessed extraordinary reserves of resilience, tenacity and diplomacy. The plan was to ascend Ben Nevis via the Mountain Track, also known as the Tourist Path. 'Don't be fooled by the name' said Eve, with a small glint in her eye, 'It's going to be a tough and strenuous walk.' Andrew gripped his walking poles. I straightened my beanie. Clive chewed hard on his gum. And thus began our quest to conquer Ben Nevis.
The first stage of our trek was a relatively gentle one. The weather was dry and calm. The views were glorious. Our legs were full of spring. Our spirits were high. My big toe felt recovered from the evil wasp attack. Life was good. We soaked up Eve's impressive knowledge on The Ben's history and geology.
We reached a section of the path where a helicopter was hovering overhead. Its task was to deposit huge containers of boulders for the purposes of building a smart new track. We all noticed with some trepidation how the containers were partially blocking the current pathway. 'That won't be much fun to negotiate when we come back down' said Andrew, ever the pragmatist. 'Oh it'll be fine' said I, ever the optimist. Clive chewed harder on his gum.
We eased our way cautiously past the helicopter delivery section and soon found ourselves moseying along a very nice flat path. Clive confessed to feeling a wave of relief. 'That was tough going' he said. 'How much further is it to the top?' A shadow briefly crossed Eve's face. 'Er, we're not halfway yet Clive' she ventured cautiously. 'And it's going to get tougher' she added for good measure. Half an hour later we reached the Red Burn, which is indeed the halfway point - hurrah! Time to replenish our water bottles with some authentic Highland H2O.
Whilst we paused for breath and chomped on indigestible breakfast bars, Eve prepared us for the next section, known as the zig zags - eight stretches of steep and stony track of varying lengths. We set off again. The weather started to close in. It rained. It hailed. It blew gusty gusts of wind. It may have even sleeted. It was certainly getting more chilly. In some weird way, it all felt rather exhilarating, whilst simultaneously deeply unpleasant. We kept climbing steadily upwards. One. Step. At. A. Time.
After 90 minutes or so, Andrew and I finally reached the end of the zig zag section. But dear oh dear, where was Clive? Eventually we spotted a familiar tall figure emerging slowly from the mist. I'm not going to lie, dear reader, Clive didn't look too chipper. 'I don't know if I can do this any longer' he gasped. 'You need to eat something' said Eve. 'I don't feel like eating' retorted Clive. A polite stand-off ensued. I'm afraid I wasn't having it. Big sister waded in. Two pieces of Yorkie bar later (I didn't quite resort to force-feeding tactics, promise), Clive was back on track - just. True grit had prevailed.
Within thirty minutes, we were at the summit. We found ourselves enveloped in a thick layer of low-lying cloud. All around us fellow walkers were emerging and disappearing into the mist, like shell-shocked nuclear bomb survivors. We picked our way gingerly across the crunchy uneven shale. In front of us were the ruins of a one-bedroomed hotel and William T's Observatory. It was a very spooky and surreal scene.
Eve led us to the summit monument and we climbed up a small flight of steps to its top. We took the obligatory selfie and checked our watches. The ascent had taken us 4 hours and 15 mins - not bad going for incapables.
All of a sudden......whoosh.....the breeze picked up, the clouds rolled away, the mist cleared, and for a precious 90 seconds or so, Ben Nevis deigned to reveal its stunning views to us. Knowing, as we did, that the summit shrouds itself in cloud for 355 days of the year, we felt truly privileged to have witnessed this, and we instantly forgot about the fact that we were damp, frozen, stiff-fingered and tired-legged.
And so to the descent. Eve warned us that the going down would be every bit as challenging as the going up, indeed it was likely to be more difficult. She wasn't kidding. I'm not going to bore you with too much detaiI. But I think it's fair to say that the terms rheumatic and broken-winded became increasingly meaningful as the hours passed. The zig zags were very hard going, but the most tricky section - as Andrew had accurately predicted - was the helicopter zone. The track was steep, slippery, uneven and narrow-ledged, and worse still, we were expected to leg it quickly down the track between 'copter drops, which were at 2 minute intervals. Clive had a couple of nasty moments. Thank goodness for Eve.
One other apparent cruelty was inflicted upon that beloved younger brother of mine. Every time he caught up with his speedier companions, they had the audacity to simply whizz off again, leaving him no time to recover. Although......when Clive and I compared notes 3 days later, it turns out that he had far less leg stiffness than Andrew and me, which leads us to conclude that it doesn't pay to do the stop/start method of descent.
On the pluser than plus side, the weather improved as we descended, and we were treated to some wonderful scenery (Eve took the photos below - perfect screensavers both).
Finally, after five gruelling stretched-out hours on the descent, we arrived back at The Ben Nevis Inn, looking rather less bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than 9 and a bit hours previously. My legs felt like stiff jelly and my hair had turned to stiff jelly, but there was nothing stiff jelly-like about my sense of achievement. Andrew was delighted that his 'poli poli' approach, honed on the slopes of Kilimanjaro last year, had borne results again. And Clive? 'That was the most difficult thing I've done in my entire life' he announced somewhat darkly, a minute or two after the photo below was taken. Eve wondered whether he'd ever talk to us again. But Andrew and I had a sneaking suspicion that after a few pints, he would feel more mellow. And guess what? We were right. Scafell Pike beckons. Maybe think about doing a bit more training first bro?
I can't begin to say how grateful we are to the fantastic Eve at Abacus Mountain Guides for leading us up and down majestic Ben Nevis. Without Eve, I'm quite sure we would never have reached the summit. She made the whole experience totally safe, hugely satisfying and a lot of fun too. I'd like to think she doesn't consider us to be a trio of incapables. And I feel quietly confident that William T Kilgour would be very impressed by Eve's mountain guide skills, fair sex or not.
I woke up the following morning feeling stiffer than a stiff board in Stiffkey. 'Never mind' I thought smugly to myself, 'I don't have a mountain to climb today.' And then I remembered that I had 16 miles and 16 bridges to cross in just three days' time. Whoops. Did I make it to the Putney Bridge start line? Now that would be telling. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait for the next installment....
