Peaking

Ironically, I saw on the OS map that we passed Simon Fell as we peaked. And we peaked three times in twelve hours. In near perfect weather, pretty much everything in moderation without any torrential rain, hail or snow. In The Yorkshire Dales National Park, some of which was moved to Cumbria, all of which remains in the north of England. No one left behind. No traumas brought home.

The challenge started at 7 am, from Horton-in-Ribblesdale where noise abatement considerations preclude earlier departures. We set out for Pen-y-ghent (694 m) in a conga-like line of several hundred challengers of all ages, shapes, sizes and purpose. We fourteen plus two guides from Maximum Adventure melded indistinguishably into the hordes. Said hordes were relatively well disciplined, discarding little waste other than losing hats and ziplock bags to the crosswinds and generally lining up patiently for the more vertical bits. Our guides reminded some overly enthusiastic folk that scrabbling above us risked dislodging rocks or sliding down onto us. My thoughts were darker; along the lines of 'If I survive you knocking me over, I will hunt you down'. A group of dentists from Leeds sportingly yielded space to me on the ascent of Pen-y-gent when I asked for a bit more time and showed them the scar I was protecting on my left hand. Guide C and I were discussing the 320 million year old cyclotherms underfoot, the alternating layers of limestone and grits that resisted recent glaciation and form the distinctive flat topped peaks, the mountains of our challenge. Ninety minutes into the hike and we were lined up at the wall on the peak for a team photo, in a gap between mists. Not too bad at all; so far, so good.

The second peak at Whernside (736 m) was a long way off; about 19 km and five hours away in fact. Much of the boggy portion between the first two peaks is paved and more paving is being added, all needed to limit people to a track and reduce the erosion due to the several hundred thousand who trek here annually. We crossed steams and walked beside dry stone walls and passed typical Dales stone houses. We stopped en-route for twenty minutes at the Ribblehead Viaduct for a bathroom break in the Station Inn, hot soup for some and generally, to take a breather. I often wonder what other people think about on treks like these. I wondered what it was like living in shanties during the four years of viaduct construction, especially when you know around a hundred were killed in workplace accidents and that smallpox was endemic. And do many folk notice (or care about) the impressive glacial drumlins that fill the valley? And on and on we went, alongside the aqueduct that takes a beck (the Force Gill) over the railway with a view to the entrance of the famous Blea Moor tunnel, up to the Force Gill waterfall and then up Whernside proper, a rounded mountain that is both the highest and least visually impressive of the three peaks. We lined up again for another team photo, this in strong crosswinds that somehow thickened the mist; 23 km and 6.5 hours done. Coming down from the plateau of Whernside was tough, along the sometime walled border with Cumbria and then precipitously down into the Shake Holes area but the weather was pretty much perfect and so it was nothing like as treacherous underfoot as wet limestone can be (and would have been if we'd walked 24 hours earlier).

We crossed the valley of the Winterscales Beck towards Ingleborough (723 m), the third peak, stopping for thirty minutes at Philpin Farm for tea, ice cream and a change of socks (at least these are what I enjoyed on that break). I was getting intermittent messages of encouragement, when mobile coverage allowed, via text and Whatsapp as Walkmeter was broadcasting our progress to friends and family across the world. Guide C rightly chastised me for 'being like a teenager' reading a message, I thought safely, being on a flat grassy bit; I was risking a tumble I couldn't afford (and nor could the team), mea culpa. As an aside, in a truly extreme example of mobile madness, I saw one young woman in trainers shouting over the wind to a tablet-sized video call as she stumbled over limestone cobbles in the mist, just a few metres from the top of a cliff. Ingleborough was the hardest peak for me. By far. I found the ascent really challenging. I was neck-tired from the concentration it took to visually spot the best place for each footfall - normally, this is pretty much autonomic but not when you are consciously protecting a recently repaired hand. Also, much of the blocky scramble was on my left side and I was having to steady myself with my good, right hand, while making very large steps up. Guide C and team mates, BA and AF really helped just by staying with me. And on arrival at the table-topped summit, Guide M walked me across to the peak for the last team photo, another misty mountain trophy. Ten hours and 33 km done, it was a trifle dismaying to accept what we already knew, that there were still two more hours to walk back to Horton-in-Ribblesdale. And so, for the first time, our team split into two, seven hares deciding to run to the pub (or so they said). Us tortoises still made it in twelve hours, just, enjoying the delightful evening sunshine as it brought fields to light and warmth to our faces. And we'd only needed our rain gear twice, for nothing more than short lived drizzle. Hurrah.

Ribblehead Viaduct

There are many memories and eventually, our photos will supplant them. As RN said, 'The memories of these challenges go on for ever - just like the last few miles'. Or perhaps SZ, 'it was the last 23 miles I struggled with most'. Meantime, in summary, this was a great walk, a fine challenge and despite it promising to be the hardest of the four I've done over the last decade, it was the most satisfying. The difference? This was the only one that didn't involve sleep deprivation. And our guides, M and C, were fantastic. They paced us well and circled to rescue any who became dispirited, and not just folk on our team. However, having experienced guides is about the security in case of accident or emergency. And having a reassuring safety-net to promote self-confidence.

There are several serious aspects to these challenges. In our case, we raised a lot of money for Care International (you know who you are and we are exceedingly grateful for your support). And the success of our fund raising was really put into perspective by some of the conversations I had with other groups out on the trek. There were an incredible number of motivations for their pilgrimages. Charity fundraisers for poverty, cancer, the children's hospice. Memorial walks after loss of family members or loved ones. A temple of Sikhs, a practice of dentists, a union of students, university challenge, all team building. Family outings for significant birthdays. A sober stag group. Reunions of all sorts; some said army, some said a get-together of former work colleagues. One group said they were on a corporate spirit weekend but I think we call that Corporate Social Responsibility, which is why we were walking. And I'm sure others had lots more reasons besides. The scale of it all is quite impressive. Imagine that we 14 averaged 60,000 steps each, expended about 3500 calories each and took not just three days in travel and trek, but maybe averaged 100 hours training beforehand. Our partners, spouses, family, friends, colleagues, employers and supporters deserve at least a moment's consideration. We, none of us, did this in a vacuum. And we, each of us, spent a small fortune on boots, socks, back-packs, poles, waterproofs, snacks, water-bottles, vitamins I and P (ibuprofen, paracetamol), sudocrem, knee braces, compeed and maps, gadgets and batteries. And they say a quarter of a million people will set out to do The Yorkshire Three Peaks this year. It's quite fantastic especially since Level 4 fitness is needed to conquer The Yorkshire Three Peaks (same fitness level as Mont Blanc and Kilimanjaro). Some readers might like to know that the annual Yorkshire Three Peaks Race attracts runners who can complete the course in approximately three hours. I'm pleased that we took the twelve and because of that, I feel less fatigue due to taking one hour at rest stops. Rather than a medal or a certificate, I have a flat cap, and to quote from colleague JB, 'I'll always wear my flat cap with pride'. Twelve hours was the perfect time to spend on this challenge.

And here's the link to the final map. Some might say that I owe my sponsors 100 km in training walks. I say I broke my hand four weeks ago and I'm delighted to have been fixed and able to complete the challenge at all. Including the challenge itself, I did 44 walks in total, and it took 100 hours to cover 447 km. Thank you all, sponsors, team mates, guides, physiotherapists, surgeon, friends and family.

And finally, the remainder of the string of (disjointed) notes from my phone:

Who'd have thought you could assemble a team of fourteen with everyone having unique initials? BA TB PB JB AF HG MJ SK RN SR MS PS PT SZ

Our guide M has done both Mont Blanc and Matterhorn.  Our Kiwi AF was discrete in her celebration of the ABs defeating the Lions as we walked. Our American HG took great photos in his new clothes. Our IT savvy Scot MS shared a host of new gadgets. Our Cornish delegate BA ate pasties and wore shorts that earned him a mild hypothermia. Our co-driver JB forgot to bring a tie for the designer shirt worn on the mountains. The Canadian PS sliced and diced a toe only days before the trek.

Who knew phones were for streaming anthems via Deezer into blue-tooth boomboxes inside reverberant minivans? Prince Kinks Dolly My Way with Rocket Man.

Seasoned trekkers talk of anti-inflammatories and pain killers in tablet / caplet count to avoid admitting to self-medicating by grams rather than milligrams.

Time for a few top tips. Always turn off the taps in your hotel bathroom if plumbers are adjusting the mains water supply. Baby food pouches are a great way to keep hydrated and nourished - Ella's Kitchen red, yellow, purple and even green ones worked for me. As did putting sudocrem between my toes before the walk. Professional guides M and C from Maximum Adventure were just that, professional.

Hadrian's Wall was suggested for next year. Please count me out.

Vultures

I'm back walking three weeks after breaking my hand. The base of the metacarpal was successfully pinned and plated two weeks ago and the bandages came off yesterday. So I went out for a short walk today and got sweaty for the first time since the surgery. Not a long walk, just two local loops, with my wife and our dog.

Despite the splinted hand, it's been a hectic three weeks, and while there's been a lot to think about at work, there've been a lot of family issues too. Parental transitions; dementia, strokes, Byzantine bureaucracy and some amazing selfless carers as nursing home care became reality. A family wedding involving many from home and around the globe. A new engagement, perhaps a wedding next year, and a visit to a potential wedding venue. The end of a school year for another transition. The Dalkey Book Festival. And there was The Take Five gallery opening in Kinsale. Discussions with other family members considering job/career changes. All of these layered into a continuous blizzard of intense work commitments for my wife. In the middle of which I had a five day hangover from a general anaesthetic (anyone, how does propofol actually work?).

Talking of such things, I learned that Diclofenac is a killer; it's the active ingredient in the Voltarol I recommended in an earlier post and it almost wiped out the birds that dispose of bodies in India. I've written before about my respect for American Turkey Vultures who were (and sometimes still are) used by natural gas companies to pinpoint pipeline leaks. Natural gas is by itself odorless, so gas companies add the chemical ethyl mercaptan to it so that people can smell gas leaks. As it happens, ethyl mercaptan is one of the chemicals emitted by putrefying animal carcasses, and so, strangely, leaks in natural gas pipelines attract congregations of Turkey Vultures. But don't be confused by my conflation of vulture stories; the diclofenac and mercaptan stories are only linked by the association with vultures. (Which reminds me of Bird Sense, an excellent book on senses in birds by Tim Birkhead in 2012.)

Overheard while yielding way on a path: woman to two late teenage sons: "And there it is, the stone bird ..."

Overheard on passing a park bench: two women, one to the other: "I tried another one on in BT and it fits, so maybe I should ..."

Overheard passing a coffee shop; father to teenage son: "They left the place in a terrible mess. You've got to understand your friends did this to you, to us."

For a different view of your world, you might want to read this thought provoking piece in the Los Angeles Review of books: "What Are We Still Doing in Guantanamo?".

And if you need to know the difference between cryogenics and cryonics, read Wait but Why here.

And so, back to fundraising. Recall that I was watching pipits and larks the day I broke my hand. I was retching and resting and retching on the way up the mountain and now I have found a famous haiku that even in English captures the scene (of the birds).

all the long day
singing, singing, yet not enough:
a skylark
Bashō

I'm not going to make the 500 km in training walks before the event, which is just six days away. We walk next Saturday. I tried. I will still do the event unless it rains; I'll cry off if raining in case I'd slip and undo the repairs to my hand. Otherwise, I'm going for it.

Meanwhile, I am very proud of our sponsorship and fundraising endeavours. The funds raised to date are fantastic, thank you and you can read more here. 

Fell

With optimism and inclination to determination and my summit inukshuk.

Welcome to a right handed blog post. It's one handed because I broke the other one. I stood on a tussock in a boggy patch among granite boulders and it gave way. I went over, skinning hip, hand, head and knees. And fracturing a metacarpal base.

As the nursery rhyme goes:

Hands, knees
and boomps-a-daisy
what is a boomp
between friends
Annette Mills

Going back in time, the day had started so well, I'd driven to the car park in Glenmalure, a beautiful morning, windows open, music from the XX reinforcing the majestic views, especially along the Military Road from Laragh. I got a text at the start of my walk:

Hope you have a lovely walk

To which I replied

Thank you. I'm just starting 0750. Beautiful here but no mobile coverage.

I didn't know I had the whole mountain to myself. Apart from the sheep, larks, meadow pipits, hooded crows and some Sika deer. The only signs of humanity were the occasional jet trails far above in the azure skies. Indeed, vertical visibility seemed so much more than haze limited horizontal views. Of course humans have long shaped this area; I was on roads and tracks, among fenced Sitka spruce plantations, seeing tagged sheep with red and blue dyes of ownership, modern hiking boot cartouches in the mud, the adjacent Glen of Imaal military firing range warning signage; but there were no other folk around as I headed up Fraughan Rock Glen. And vertically, up past the waterfall beneath Ballinaskea. I'd been here often before, the last time was in 2008 when I came on a family excursion. And the time before that, it was for a 30 km hike. But this time, I only had time for a four hour round trip hike, so I was headed directly to the summit of Lugnaquilla. And I'm not as fit as once upon a time, but getting fit, that's the point. 

I recalled the last time I got lightheaded and puked was 60 km into the 100 km Oxfam Trail Walker on the UK South Downs,  seven years ago. Then, I was very fit but had too many 'energy' drinks and supplements; sugar was the enemy. This time I reminded myself that I only have a month to get fit enough for the Yorkshire Three Peaks. So, I simply had to reach the summit. I rested several times, rehydrating, recovering among the meadow pipits, them saying 'sweet-sweet' when perched and keeping an eye on me, in between their normal business activities, which mostly involved flying up directly to a great height and dropping like hang-gliders, trilling exuberantly on descent. Lovely to watch.

The ascent from the valley of the Glenmalure River to Lugnaquilla feels like the inverse of a volcano climb. Volcanoes get steeper with altitude. The bits on the Lug that feel steepest are lower down, the final climb is along a broad shouldered plateau, popular with sheep. There's a good description here. The point is that I knew how it would end if I could get up to the shoulder. So I persevered, perhaps a bit too fast, perhaps more mindful of the limited time rather than accepting fitness limits.

Once up to the shoulder, I hiked quickly across to the summit where I took in the views, made an inukshuk on the benchmark atop the cairn, took a few photos and had a snack in the refreshingly cool and surprisingly strong wind. Surprising because the hike was otherwise windless.

Then I headed back down, retracing my steps. And took a tumble. And in taking the tumble, I realised, even as I willed myself to be unbroken, just how exposed I was. I found myself speaking out loud for the benefit of the onlooking sheep. I was otherwise alone. On the Lug. Madness. I felt my iPhone digging into my pelvis, stood, checked and saw 'no coverage'. Bottles of Lucazade and orange juice had popped out of the backpack's external pockets. The mouth piece of my Camel-Bak had somehow joined them on the ground. Contused on bony corners, and bleeding from other places, my left hand didn't feel normal as I reached down to pick up the jetsam. But I was standing and everything else felt normally connected. Lucky. Annoyed but lucky. I told myself to feel very lucky. But I was worried that I'd broken my hand. And worried that I was five or six km from the car park. And there was no one in sight.

I walked on down and was only troubled on the descent around the waterfall, scared to fall again. First time I wondered about walking poles in years - said to spare the knees and make you think and therefore be careful on the tricky bits - but despite having two sets at home, I've never got comfortable with them. Are they an age related necessity?

And yet, I got to the car park in half the time it took to summit. Where I saw my first other people, a family group who had just arrived. They asked about local loop walks and told me they were seeking a one hour hike, practice before a 120 km walk in June on the last part of the Camino de Santiago. By now, my hand felt broken as I struggled to remove my hiking boots. And I can paraphrase what one of the Camino group said of my hand, them summarising a poem read the night before, you're not living if you're not getting knocks and scrapes. And a corollary I overheard ascending Ben Nevis in 2008, on the day of the annual Ben Nevis Run when I was doing another Three Peaks Challenge - the seniors (70+) were descending, two in conversation, one carrying bloody stigmata on knees and palms, he shouted "I'm getting so old that if I fall again, I'll give up fell running". 

The car is automatic and together with Tom Petty anthems, I drove home. I convinced myself it was a sprain until the next dawn light forced me to consider swelling as an indicator of fracture.  X-ray and CT scans confirmed and imaged the damage. Left fifth metacarpal fractured at base. Pinning may be required. And while telling tales of woe, last year's factor 50 sunscreen failed to protect my face and ears.

Four hours, 14 km, 770 m up at 21C. I wonder will I be able/allowed to do the Yorkshire Three Peaks in 26 days time? Our sponsorship status is here.

And by the way, here's something lucid and brilliant I read while in the emergency department.

Contacts

I was going to name this post FOG but the fog receded as I was walking my local loops for 13 km. The fog had been so thick that its condensation dropped off the trees creating rain below the canopies that we more often use as shelter.

I'd been watching three swimmers, so far offshore that I caught a couple of glimpses of a dolphin breaking the surface nearby, where terns and a gannet were diving for fish. Then I saw six naturists on the beach. One was towelling himself dry as I walked towards them. He sat down on on a rock, bare and facing me, and proceeded to insert his contact lenses. Surreal.

The trees had looked ethereal and the beach cobbles collectible and transformable into mock turtles. And these are the iPhone photos I snapped and posted here today. 

I was one of 8800 people who attended a talk by Prof Brian Cox last night. It seems that we are just proton pumps on a mote in a multiverse where an earlier pump, Georges Lemaïtre, asked Albert Einstein in 1933 if there had been a day without a yesterday.

15R

We went for a very short walk with Gus, our dog, the limit imposed in part by foot blisters and the need for knee braces. I’ve added a few pictures of places that Gus will never go - Tresham’s Triangular Lodge in Rushton, Northamptonshire, a random set of instructions from a building site in Haymarket, London and a circular window from the City West Hotel in Dublin - all snaps made on the iPhone over the last few weeks.

Imagine being a seventyish couple on a state pension with a severely handicapped child living at home. Imagine what happens next.

We had a fund raising quiz last Thursday and I set 'American Geography' questions. I sent 15 to the quiz master who chose ten for the quiz. Here's one that wasn't used: You probably know Alaska has the longest border with Canada (1,538 miles) but can you name the state with the shortest? Surprise, it's Pennsylvania with a 42 mile border and no official crossing points because it’s in Lake Erie.

That's it for today, just a month left before the challenge itself. So far: 80 hours, 39 walks, 373 km. 

Dandelion

"It's a flower not a dandelion" insisted the indignant three-year-old yesterday before we left her for a trip to rugby disappointment. There's a lion theme to this blog, dandy or not, coincidently as Leo Vradkar vies to replace Enda Kenny running the country. We've seen the Leinster Rugby mascot, Leo the Leinster Lion for the last time this season. It's Scarlets that head to the Pro12 final in our home city. 

I came away from the game last night, dispirited, thinking of George Best who said "I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered." It's the last bit that came to mind. Maybe coach Leo Cullen and his management team have squandered the talent that earned five selections for the imminent Lions tour of New Zealand. Saracens, who are on track for a double double had six Lions selected. Leinster, in the same two seasons, have managed to lose two semis and one final. That's poor, very poor. A management problem with serious implications; the inspiration of three European Championships in the four seasons 2009-2102, the European Challenge Cup in 2013 and the Pro12 in 2013 and 2014, successes that filled the rugby academy with amazing young talent, is perhaps being squandered.

dandelions,

dandelions

on the sandy shore -

spring

opens its eyes

Ogiwara Aeisensui

These are things that were in my head as I walked 8 km just to to get to the start of the Dublin Mountains Way in Rathmichael Wood. There were other thoughts too, as I put on and off my rain-gear as the showers drifted over me. I had been to a Cecil Beaton photo exhibition during the week where I realised that fake news and photoshop are just new terms for old concepts. Char to Dowager is worth a look, from the Beetles+Huxley gallery where some 70 photos, all printed before 1945, are being sold.

The beach and some of the mountain walks were augmented by the musky smell of valerian. There were no deer to see because the forest is being logged.

Imagine being so sick that you need home visits by nurses. Imagine having a friend who one day takes you out to lunch where one of your carers happens to see you. Imagine being told that since you have a friend who can drive you to lunch, you no longer need home visits. Is this nationalised health care? 

I wanted to walk the whole way, as I did last year. But I hit the wall on Ballyedmonduff, carried on to Three Rock where my packed lunch did nothing to restore me. So I called for rescue and walked back to Johnnie Fox's pub where I was collected and transported to sanctuary. Only 26 km today according to Walkmeter. But it's OK, there's a month to recover from the blisters and even better, we have reached one of our sponsorship goals.

And I see that I also used Dandelion as a title in 2011.

Fore

"Sorry about that" I said.

"You're most welcome" they said, together.

A flight of two were teeing off and I had nowhere to hide as I walked through the golf course and across their fairway. There were other flights too. Flights of Canada Geese and Rooks and Mallard. It's beautiful this morning at 0900 on the Uxbridge (formerly Harefield Place) Golf Club, and look, there's a squirrel loping across the greens. (And no, that's a nest-cleared discarded pigeon's egg.)

I've already been under the M40. Not Hockney, nor Noble & Webster (dirty white trash with gulls). Fly tipping. No heart, no soul, just opportunistic ignorant dumping. Then and now photos, a broken gate facilitates the awful mess I snapped.

And I've been along a portion of the Grand Union Canal. People on their narrowboats enjoying the early morning sun day. One fat man in nothing but shorts, listening to the radio, drinking breakfast beer from a glass tankard. Others with more ambition, doing boat maintenance using tools and paint brushes amidst the hum of generators and the occasional bell tinkle from passing cyclists, under a splendid cacophony of bird song from the trees and hedges that frame the canal.

There are hawthorn confetti flurries in the light breeze, creating interesting dappled patterns on the ground.

The Frays River was running faster than it has been these last six months, fuller from recent rains - rich feeding opportunities for herons, coots, mallard, moorhen and grey wagtails.

And so went today's 7 km walk.