What really happened in the hills

The Three Peaks Challenge, September 2013

A bit of a marmalade revival so I've got somewhere to share the write up of my latest adventure. For general background, see my story on http://www.justgiving.com/Amy-Wackett

The Three Peaks is seen as a ‘well trodden’ very achievable challenge. And it is, but as some of our group (me plus a group from a law firm that supports Aspire) discovered, it isn’t quite a walk in the park. On top of the walking, there is also the sleep deprivation, weather conditions, travel sickness (hurtling around the winding Lake District roads will turn even the strongest of stomachs) and a good few hours of walking in darkness.

Ahead of the challenge, we spent a night (reminiscent of a year 7 residential) at a Welsh youth hostel close to the foot of Snowdon. Then, well stocked up with toast, radioactive jam and individually wrapped weetabix, we set off in the pouring rain up the Pyg Track via the Miners Track. It was pretty standard Wales, with the very occasional rain let-up and brief opportunity to take my hood down and get some relief from the rustling.

Unable to tell whether the rain had seeped through all the Gortex, or it was just cold against my skin, I powered on, determined to catch up with the speedy guys at the front. Whilst I could match their pace from a distance, actually reaching them became futile so I soothed my competitive side by remaining in the top third.

Our summit was brief. It was cold, I'd foolishly neglected to put gloves on, and you couldn't see a damn thing. So back down again, gloves perched on the ends of my claw hands until they loosened up enough to get my fingers in to the... fingers.
 

Down and down, it felt twice as far as up. I found someone who just about matched my pace, but we'd completely lost track of who was ahead of us. We did pass a couple still on their way up, which was a bit a concern if we were planning to complete the challenge in 24 hours. I finished in 3 hours 20 for that one, including some extended stops at the beginning, before attempts to stay together were abandoned. It turns out that only two had been ahead of us! 

A minibus, a dry top and socks, instant coffee and a hot sandwich and I was a new woman. Adorned with hanging wet stuff, the minibus gradually filled up with group members as my body heat returned. We set off for the Lakes rather late- about 2 hours behind schedule; damp and sleepy. The roller coaster ride through the winding Lake District lanes was a bit if a wake up call, and made for some slightly green faces.

When we finally piled out of the buses, it was starting to get dark. Despite severe warnings against it, we faffed extensively. The public toilets were closed, walking poles were required and needed some adjusting. By the time we set off we caught only a glimpse of the view behind before we step-stoned across a river and focused on the ascent.

Visibility was very low by the time I relented and switched on my head torch. Some steep climbs and wet rock scrambles later, we were on the loose rubble that surrounds Scafell's summit. It must have been around 10pm by this point and I'd reached that strange, imaginative state when you've been in your own head a bit too much.

"Hey, this is what it would be like to walk on gravel if you were really really tiny", and so on.

We were met by two men who had lost the other two in their party but were assured that the lost pair had phone signal and were not in danger. Eyes and ears open as much as they could be in those conditions to listen out for them.

A quick group shot at the summit, lit by head torches and rain reflections, and we headed back down, staying as a group so as not to rack up the missing persons count. There was no sign of the Two, but we got word that Mountain Rescue were on the way up (one of the guides being ex Mountain Rescue and one being current). 

Meeting a very happy search and rescue dog was a highlight, as was having a stand off with a Scafell mouse that clearly couldn't see past my head torch to establish that I was something to run away from.

An article later turned up that detailed the not-so-dramatic rescue that night... http://www.grough.co.uk/magazine/2013/09/09/lost-scafell-pike-walkers-failures-lead-to-frustrating-six-hour-rescue 

Now, sleeping on a minibus is not ideal. Neither is finishing your second mountain climb at midnight with no epic pub meal to fill your boots, or shower, or even reclining seat. But I was elated from the dark mountain adventure (and being the fastest Scafell climber!) and endured the six bumpy hours under a fleece blanket.

 
Amazingly awake at 5 or 6, or whatever it was, it was a case of cramming in some fruit/nuts/whatever else was around, toggling up and heading off from the car park at Glen Nevis just as it was getting light. Our final climb was relatively uneventful but equally rain-free and we were rewarded with a stunning view for most of the way up before hitting the clouds, not before spotting a few ptarmigans (I'd first casually dismissed them us funny looking mountain pigeons until the people behind me started getting excited).

After about three quarters of the distance, the group had spread out so much that our guide, Zac, waited to gather members in the middle and three of us continued to the cloud covered summit alone.  

"Don't fall off the North Face!" Zac called.

When we reached it after a couple more steep climbs, it's sharp drop, obscured by cloud, was tantalising. I have to go back and see that view on a clear day...

The barren, rocky summit was eery in the cloud. Stone constructions loomed out of the white mist, each cairn appeared to float in to sight until we found the highest point.

It was cold up there after a very warm, sunny climb. Fleeces, gloves and hats on, chocolate consumed and we were off back down. Our speediest member decided to run it, and quickly disappeared leaving Phil (seasoned hill walker and bird enthusiast) and I to skip, hop and jog our way over the rocky 'path'. After an hour or so, every impact was bone shaking. Ben Nevis had been making me increasingly aware of my own skeleton as the aches seemed to reveal the position of every bone from hips down.

The descent seemed to go on for ever. More and more walkers, many very inappropriately dressed, were heading up, giving as admiring looks for being so far ahead so early. And as we got closer to the end, it felt further and further, pain mounting in my toes, ankles hips, shoulders and rucksack chafe points.

Some ran the last bit but I couldn't even manage a jog. It's not quite the glorious finish line of the London Triathlon, a couple of blokes with a minibus, but it was better- personal, like they were with us all the way. A big congratulatory hug from driver Simon, a freshen up and change of clothes in the visitor centre toilets. Fatigue, relief, elation. 

People arrived in quick succession. Having missed our Scottish breakfast, the only option to re-fuel was a McDonalds take away, after which I suddenly couldn't keep my eyes open.

It's a strange, sleepy end to such a challenge. Everyone anxious to get home (and Glasgow is a long way from it). The exhaustion hit hard and didn't really let up for three days.

So I'm proud to say that my individual times were well within the required 14 hours to qualify. I can cross two more mountains off the list (although Ben Nevis will need a re-match on a clear day).

Thank you all for the support, it's what made the challenge happen, and will make it possible for someone with a spinal cord injury to buy vital equipment to give them their independence back.

And I'm on to the half marathon, my biggest challenge yet. Fuelled by coconut water and Swedish House Mafia, training is going well. Just over a week to go. £250 still to raise. It's not over yet!

If you'd like to support me, I'll be massively grateful, and I promise that if I do a similar write up of the half marathon, it won't be nearly as long.

Donate online at: http://www.justgiving.com/Amy-Wackett

A wee dram for an icicle whip

The familiar but infuriating sensation of over-heating due to a combination of physical exertion and over-enthusiastic layering against the cold. Except this is no train, and it's not crowds of people that are preventing layer shedding. Nope, it's the arctic (sub arctic?) conditions of a Scottish mountain.

Now, Scottish mountains sound tame. Green, heathery, a bit damp.

But no! They're not like that! They're an extreme, danger fuelled onslaught of snow, ice, thick walls of white blizzard, bitey 40 - 50mph winds and very hurty bits of exposed skin. And it's not worth the pain of trying to de-layer if you get a bit hot. Just stand still for 5 minutes and the feeling will disappear from your toes and the various technical fleeces, jackets and thermals start clinging desperately to that excess heat as it gets eaten by an icy gust.

Something hard and sting-y whips me in the face and I realise it's a lock of my own hair that's formed in to an icicle. One of my fellow adventurers points out that little icicles have also formed on my eyelashes within seconds of removing my goggles.

It's just white as far as you can see, and the odd blast completely engulfs my companions in blizzard so that they disappear. The steep slope up is all but a solid sheet of ice, only navigable by the wonder that is crampons. I'm like some sort of ice spider, marching on regardless over all manner of snow, ice and slippery rock. My ascent of Cairn Gorm mountain is hugely aided by the fierce winds being behind me, so it actually feels like a giant hand on my lower back driving me upwards.

The summit is a plateau of brutal winds, next to no visibility and more ice onslaught. But it's brilliant! I'm fairly sure that at some point we'd actually wandered in the the Arctic. It was just like those documentaries of people doing mad arctic treks. I wasn't going to expose my camera phone to those conditions, let alone take my hand out of my cosy double glove combination. But luckily, someone else did.

I managed a couple lower down, out of the wind:

That was a good NYE walk. Until that point, I'd thought there was a similar walk the day before when the weather was even worse but, on paper, it was actually only a up a ski slope.

The picture above is at the top of a red run slope that we proceeded to slide down. Serious fun. It was all in the name of learning some 'winter skills'.

This was an informal trip with my new mountaineering club. A four-day trip over the New Year break to seek winter climbing and a good old Scottish Hogmanay. A couple of us were new to the winter stuff and getting used to the equipment and conditions. Someone had referred to us as 'Team Training'. I refer to us as 'Team Awesome.'

In the foreground there is Mel, who was militant about post adventure tea (and medals) BEFORE ANYONE HAS A SHOWER. And quite rightly. A good re-group and catch up over builder's tea and gnarly climber's cake (the climbing is gnarly, not the cake) as we regaled each other with tales of the death defying adventures of the day.

Then further tales and nonsense in the little bar that was trying very hard to be some sort of alpine apres ski venue but in a sort of remote, hearty Scottish way. Everyone there was highly amused by the idea of a London mountaineering club. The landlord there was a small, friendly and well-seasoned winter climber/ ski mountaineer. He gave me a sample of one of the local beers that sited elderflower as one of the flavours.
"I like it." I said with enthusiasm, "You can really taste the elderflower!"
"Really? No-one has ever said that before..."

Ha. That's right, I can be a hardcore snow spider, survive the arctic and still come down and appreciate the elderflower notes in a Scottish pint.

I didn't get as far as doing a proper climb. The only day the conditions were up to it was New Years Day and I wasn't getting up at 7am to go out with the big boys after a night of apres mountain, Scottish tavern, terrible fireworks, better fireworks, whiskey (a 'wee dram' from a man in a kilt. It was anything but wee), dancing (wii dancing) and a late night youth hostel feast of anything we could cobble together.

Instead I opted for a little new year's walk, which turned in to a bit of an epic walk involving forest, snowy mountain, boggy mountain side and iced over boggy mountain plateau, which I imagined was a lot like how it would feel to walk on a creme brulee.

So some good new year views; hangover cured after the first summit and a solid Scrabble win later on over ginger cake and custard. I got even closer to going skiing than I did last year; experienced the unique sensation of frozen crispy waterproof jacket, ate my body weight in fried stuff and went tobogganing in a survival bag. Excellent start.

There's no place like...

I'm sitting in a little French cafe on Upper Street, Islington, London on an almost icy cold but bright and crispy Saturday with the genius invention that's the Flat White. On the next table there's a bespectacled slim arty man in a striped jumper reading a book (not a Kindle) that's no doubt excruciatingly arty and cool. When I'm on Upper Street, it's always sunny and I want to spend my life cycling up and down wearing an expensive coat and with a bouquet of flowers and probably some patisserie in my bike basket, stopping off for coffees and novel reading, or to buy things that are then wrapped in pretty paper. And I look around at that the other people (all ridiculously good looking and well dressed) and wonder "is this actually your life, or are you just weekend-pretending like me?"

In case you can't picture my Saturday, it's pretty much like this:

This is a distant dream on Monday morning's when I drag myself out in the dark and power walk to the train station where a completely jam packed train pulls up. "I'll never get in that" you think, but the insistent whistle blows, the doors give their taunting beeping noise and you have to get in it! So you launch yourself at the wall of people filling the carriage and then squeeze right up to stop any bits of coat or bag stopping the doors and you're in! Doors clearing all winter wear and accessories has the feeling of clearing a hurdle the height of your shoulder. My relief is quickly shattered, however, when I realise I'm wedged between three armpits, and the Metro I was looking forward to reading is now stuck to the side of my face. Then if it's raining you've got the issue of AGH WET UMBRELLA LEG! Oh and I walked very briskly to make the train and wore a lot of layers because it's bloody freezing outside and now I'm sweating in the searing heat of a prison of wool coat, scarf, armpits and train.

Step out of the moment for a second and there you are, sardined with a bunch of strangers in a game of: "Don't catch anyone's eye! Agh I just caught someones eye! Quick - dart eyes to one side and then keep looking around as if I've been doing that the whole time and then it will look like one of the places I stopped moving my eyes happened to be looking at your eyes. Good save."

Passing that many people every day, I can't believe nothing very noteworthy has happened yet. My bike wheel got stolen once, the lady that hands out Time Out magazine at West Hampstead station has a little song about it (that gets resolutely stuck in my head for a couple of days - Free Time Out! Free Time Out!) and sometimes people apologise for stepping on me, and sometimes they don't. When faced with that many people, no-one sees 'people' any more. Everyone zips themselves up in a little bubble of self absorption, aided by smartphone/book/paper/ipod. When I'm not in my bubble, I basically end up staring. If you are going to people watch on a train, well you just have to be okay with being a starer. No panicked eye-darting, unless you land on someone scary; then it's all about the shoes, invisible lint on the trousers and other such 'awkward social situation' safety nets.

So Marmalade had lost it's way a bit among the total assault on the mind, body and senses that was changing jobs and relocating but it's back, with the London chapter, an adventure to the Scottish Highlands, and the promise of a SE Asia expedition. Maybe even a mash up of some previous draft posts from the past few months. For now, it's back to my Saturday fantasy.

What do you get when you cross Billy Christmas with Action Science Theatre?

I have some very talented friends. Now I think it's in the spirit of Marmalade to share this. Partly because one of them has written a book, I've written a review, and there doesn't seem to be an appropriate platform to post the review while the book is not yet available. (You'll also notice that I still feature in these plugs so I won't pretend that it's a matter devoid of self interest... it's probably mostly self interest).

The book is Billy Christmas by Mark A. Pritchard.

It's here to pre-order on Amazon 

Subscribe (along with 76,000 others) on Facebook

 Here's the review:

Billy Christmas is a young man in his early teens who carries the weight of troubles beyond his years whilst juggling an increasingly extraordinary, even life threatening, adventure to try and find his missing father. The characterisation of Billy is perhaps what makes this first novel.  His warm and well-meaning nature keeps us rooting for him as events never quite seem to go his way, and we experience the familiar injustice of why some people always seem to have to learn the hard way. All the while, we are conscious of the awkwardness of adolescence with all the clumsiness of lanky limbs and a school boy existence booby trapped with opportunities for social humiliation. The story has the makings of your typical teenage novel: Billy’s secret crush on his best friend Katherine, run-ins with the school bully. Only that’s only the start of Billy’s story...

Billy’s father has been missing for almost a year, having disappeared on Christmas day, and Billy has been valiantly holding things together for his mother, who sank in to a deep depression following her husband’s disappearance. Things start to take an interesting turn when Billy brings home what turns out to be quite an extraordinary Christmas tree, complete with an unusual set of decorations.  Think a talking tree is strange? Christmas decorations that come to life? That’s only the beginning of a series of weird and wonderful adventures as we a thrust in to a deeply magical and darkly dangerous world which as Billy discovers, was right under his nose all along. So what’s that got to do with Billy’s father?  Billy’s got to work that one out for himself if he, and those closest to him, can survive the challenges he’s got to overcome to find out.

Billy Christmas is an enjoyable read that will keep you guessing until the final pages. We are somewhat thrown straight in to the story with little scene setting and, when thrust in to some of the action later on, this absence of introduction to a wintry Marlowe, which is so central to the story, is often felt. As a reader, we can sometimes feel that we’ve missed something by not being able to visualise the Marlowe scenes that are so familiar to Billy. There is a sense that a huge amount has been crammed in to this story, which makes for some inconsistent attention to detail which speeds and slows the pace.

The characters, however, whether human, animal, or event plant, come to life through deft descriptions that allow us to see their mannerisms and expressions. My personal favourite was a mischievous little sprig of mistletoe, which is in an excellent example of the subtle comic elements that are woven around the action.

This book is a carefully intertwined exploration of both the fantastical and the soberingly real, wintry bite of life.  We see relationships strained and tested, weaknesses, fears and failings exposed, all within a whirlwind magical adventure that will keep all ages gripped in the cold evenings this winter, and perhaps giving their Christmas trees the odd second glance in the dead of night...

That's www.billychristmas.com and it's out this month, I believe.

( I don't know why the word 'giving' looks different, it just does)

..............................................................

Secondly, a quick mention of a very innovative project by the great trio: Action Dan, Science Brian and Producer Dan:

 "Action Science Theatre is a podcast that mixes action, science, comedy and silly voices to create a welcome distraction from real life for 20 – 30 mins, and who knows, you might even learn some science. Maybe."

I appear in episode 3, had a great time recording and was very impressed by all the skill, effort and talent that goes in.

It's already attracted the attention of a Minnesota radio station (I am proud to say that I got to share in the celebration with a Minnesota-shaped cake made by Producer Dan).

*Listen and enjoy here*

Mentions Barbie plus what happens when you're giving information on the phone and the other person doesn't have a pen.

So what's everyone doing? All those starry eyed volunteers who went to Peru/Guatemala/Argentina/Thailand. I've been checking up. If they're not still there, they're back home, looking for jobs. Slotting back in to normal life, enjoying proper tea/bread/chutney/dutch cheese/chipotle paste/pizza for a while until it's completely mundane again.

 All but completely broke, job comes first, you come completely consumed by the thankless hunt, then you're really happy to get one, then it's just business as usual.

Does that sound horribly negative, bitter and bleak? I don't think it is. 

I've got a sparkly new job. It's a step up in charity communications and I'm moving to London for it. It was that or more, longer term work or volunteering abroad. I'll occasionally wonder if that was the right call but, actually, I made it on returning from Peru because although in many ways it was an exciting adventure and I was the envy of my friends, it was still work and, in many ways, it was harder. 

As the new and different becomes the norm, you have all the same worries, doubts, insecurities and thoughts about the weekly shop or bills or, more likely, where to get the best rehydration salts. The weather is better and you can go surfing every day then off to the mountains for weekend adventures.At the same time, your digestive system never feels quite right, there were rats in the kitchen, you face daily racism and the constant threat of being robbed or kidnapped. 

Don't get me wrong, all of that is worth it, it is brilliant and you have some great stories but why should being back home be much different? What do we do when we're away? We make time for EVERYTHING. Never mind TV and the same pub every week, you go exploring and try new things. Admittedly, where I'm from it's harder because it's expensive and it rains a lot. That just requires a bit more creativity.

So there's a been a drought,  a double dip recession and an awful lot of rain but:

Over the past few months, I have been on a motorbike, I've flown a kite, been strawberry picking, salsa dancing, boat racing, went to a wedding where I didn't know a single person and ate jelly beans during the ceremony, got involved in a film version of Much Ado About Nothing, been a witness to a legal document signing in a hotel room, drunk gin and tonic in a hammock in the park whilst watching the sunset; seen comedy, theatre, music, the Olympics, ate street food from three different countries all at once, hung out with a group of pirates on the Bristol docks, HUGGED TIM MINCHIN 3 TIMES, been swimming in an Oxfordshire lake and sung along to a song called Everybody's Itching for a Party in the Kitchen sung by a guy in a tiger sitting by a campfire.
I could go on. I won't though.

You know that person you are when you're away, that really great open-minded, adventurous person who makes friends everywhere they go? If you were Barbie, this would be Malibu Barbie (or super tanned Hawaian shirt clad Malibu Ken). 



Do not make any mistake, I am not suggesting anyone let their inner Malibu roam free. Actually, she's really annoying. Smug, self satisfied, sits in the same bar telling the same stories to backpackers and tourists about all the great stuff EVERYONE ELSE HAS DONE TOO.

I had a few Barbies when I was little. my favourite one was casually dressed Artist Barbie. Now, I'd love to read in to this (having gone on to do an art degree) and pretend I'm especially grounded and valued Artist Barbie's talent which outshone the other dolls' sparkly dresses even in her jeans and paint palette t-shirt. But, honestly, she just had really brilliant hair.

Anyway, for argument's sake, let's say it was at least something to do with her talent, potential, lack of vanity etc. 

Malibu Barbie has a place, and it is not at home (or preferably not anywhere). The only difference between Malibu Barbie and every other Barbie is a brightly coloured bikini and Malibu Ken's little plastic surf board.

Artist needs no themed outfit. Artist is real. (yes, I know still a Barbie but a Barbie in overalls!).

I'm aware there are a lot of holes in this analagy but the point is... something about potential and not having to be in Malibu. Something like that!

Artist Barbie would say:

"My god! There's just no time! I have to stop watching TV, make some obscure blend of tea and decoupage a lampshade!" 

"Today I met a guy on a train and he's 94 and he's just travelling around tying to see as many places as possible - he's bee going for 3 months. How cool is THAT"

 "LOOK at this crack in my wine glass, it looks just like a giant squirrel on top of the Empire State Building."

So, to try and conclude this car crash Barbie analagy life observation thing; go bake some cupcakes, try and make the longest ever dominos trail, do something in a boat or walk/climb up somehere really high, do something for charity and write someone a letter - a proper letter. THEN you can wish you were on a beach somewhere warm (and you won't, you'll be too tired).

What else did the travel blog have that this doesn't? 
Amusing anecdotes about cultural differences. 
Actually, they're everywhere:

Just another day at the office. I take a phone call.

Caller says (with 'My Girl' by Otis Redding playing loudly in the background)
"Hello, I'd like to talk to someone about volunteering in the charity shop please"

"OK, I'll give you the number for the charity shop"

"Oh, right, I just need to get a pen"

*a bit of kerfuffling over pens and pencils ensues*

"Oh no that's a pencil, hang on"

*presume caller goes off to get a pen and wait for a while (meanwhile I'm thinking: what's wrong with a pencil for taking a number?)*

*still waiting and notice there's breathing on the line... maybe it's a cordless phone... wait a bit more*

*still breathing*
......
*breathing*

Eventually say:

"Hello?"

"Hello."

"Oh, I thought you'd gone to get a pen."

"Yeah, I did."

"Right, I didn't realise you'd come back..."
*silence*
"So are you ready to take the number?"

"Yes."

"OK.... "

(This picture was stolen from here: http://convozine.com/8846-pierre-hauser/19875)

"You have to play the board and not your dreams"

Scrabble philosophy.

I lodge with friends who are a married couple. Recently they've got in to Scrabble in a big way. Mrs was getting increasingly frustrated that she had the makings of a brilliant word but nowhere on the board to place the letters. Mr then came out with this golden Scrabble rule for life:

"You have to play the board, and not your dreams"

Maybe you have got 7 of the letters for xylophone and maybe there are 2 triple word scores available but if there isn't an appropriately placed 'H', you have to suck it up and work with what you've got. Luckily, you can get better at making the most of the board and the letters that you have. But if you keep on mourning that non-existent 'H' by the triple word score, you'll never be satisfied.

I've overheard a few, quite common, appeals to the Board:

Dream says: I want to be a princess
Board says: You are descended from lowly farmers and you've got about as much chance of hooking Harry as you have of pulling zygote out of the bag across that triple letter score.

Dream says: Happily ever after?
Board says: Alright, you can have a team-mate. Two brains will do better than one but don't think I'm making it any easier for you.

Dream says: I want to travel the world forever
Board says: Your overdraft is laughable, you are a credit lender's dream, you've got a bit of a distant niggle about your biological clock and your friends all have fabulous careers taking off and are buying houses. But you could get a respectable score of 30 with 'employment' over a double letter, and you'd still have your H and other Y to save for an amazing 'holiday', with any luck on a triple letter.

Dream says: Lottery win?
Board says: Ha!

Really good Scrabble players always do pretty well, even with pants letters and a sarcastic Board. They practise, they probably read a lot, they're often older and wiser than you.

Dreams are important, but without a good healthy dose of reality, you'll be left crying in to your Scrabble tiles and mess up your whole game.   

 
For those who don't know, I work for a mental health charity. Sometimes, it's an absolute pleasure talking to service users. Some of them have had a really tough time - multiple bereavements, redundancy, relationship breakdowns, physical disability - and they are so grateful for the little support they get, and sound genuinely happy. They've already gone through all the kinds of things we worry about happening, or forget could ever happen to us because we're worrying about which route our already very comfortable lives should take, or body image, or new car vs holiday, or WHY HASN'T HE CALLED*?! These are people who've got through the scenarios our nightmares haven't even imagined and they are happy just because they are OK and their loved ones are OK, and they've got somewhere to go and be with people twice a week. That's what I call making the best of the board.

Having been inspired by the simple things, I'd like to take this opportunity to say, just LOOK at my desk orchid!

It was bud-less before. Now it's bursting with green shoots of loveliness with little buds all ready to explode in to smiley white stars.

Anyway.

In other work moments that bring you down to earth, my colleague observed a great one at a campaigning event, only today, promoting the 'Five Ways to Wellbeing'**. We have a branded minibus for the occasion, smart new postcards, publications, branded balloons, interactive activities... and an extra today was some baked goods courtesy of a cooking group.

There we all were in Abingdon Market Place with Oxford United, the Mayor, journos, photographer etc, in my colleague's words "trying to look like a slick, media savvy organisation" schmoozing away with our glossy new campaign materials, when a loud voice pops up:

"HAS ANYONE SEEN THE KNIFE FOR THE LEMON DRIZZLE CAKE?"

Oh.

Cake anyone?



*This is an abstract question for entertainment purposes only. If you haven't called, I haven't even noticed.
**Are you interested? I can expand if you're interested.

Same same but different

"What do you miss most about Peru?" asked friend (having just received present of Peruvian brand 'Fanny' mustard)
-"The heat."
I say, wearing a thin little 50s-style tea dress and high heels I put on for the cold April evening at home 'to cheer myself up' (first time I've tried this in a long while. It worked, and was worth being chilly. I'd been wearing a much-loved giant wool cardigan that belonged to my grandmother all day. As much as it is one of my favourite things in the world, the sleeves are too long and impractical for work, and I mostly feel like a clumsy sheep).
The same friend said I should keep blogging, and that was all it took. That on top of the odd blog-related ego stroke that I'd received over the past few weeks.

The glorious high of being back from abroad in a mini March heat wave with a glowing tan and catching up with everyone and being very busy and exotic came to a withered end, and everything was the same as before but without this big trip I'd been looking forward to for 6 months. Queue plan of action (or ¿Qué plan of action?)

It's brilliant going away and doing something you love in an exciting place with a great group of people but, more often than not, it's temporary. I only met one person in Peru who could not wait to get home and live in their home town forever (one of my favourite people, in fact). Most other people, and especially the ones who have been away the longest, feel a certain dread about the 'what next' and 'the life I had before won't be enough now'. Then, just occasionally, you get the other extreme of deeply tanned, multi-lingual eternal travellers who have had a lifetime of drifting, unable to settle in any way shape or form. Those are the ones (in my experience) that seem to either cry or fly in to a rage about life when they've had a few too many cuba libres. Nobody really wants to be those ones, do they? A girl/boy in every port, extensive romantic email correspondence to keep up (Facebook must be a nightmare to manage), worldly possessions filling one smallish rucksack and a general air of dissatisfaction under the various gripping tales of adventure. (Apologies but I tend to do stereotyping in a big way. Just blame it on my theatrical background).

So if you don't become a natural fibre-clad nomad, what is next? You get "life plus" in these travel/work abroad situations - a big, very close and culturally diverse community, the reality of extreme poverty in front of you every day, intense heat, brighter colours, noises, smells, breathtaking sunsets, warm nights and so much outdoors, activity and constant stimulation. Most lifestyles would be pretty bland after that. (I say this, I was at a meeting at my 'day job' the other day that got interrupted first by a dog coming in, then by the dog's bed coming in and finally by a photographer taking photos of the meeting (not because of the dog, this was a completely separate issue). Not entirely usual...)

However, the sun-baked nomads don't seem happy to me. They constantly talk about their enviable lifestyle, as a kind of affirmation to themselves. No, that is not the way to go.

Spoilt for choice, footloose and fancy free, I endeavour to explore what is the way to go. Not my way to go necessarily, I'm interested in the balance between satisfying itchy feet and becoming a sort of lost drifter whose feet never land anywhere.

For over three years, I've been working for a mental health charity and the issue of happiness or wellbeing is constantly cropping up in media monitoring, press requests, promoting our services etc etc. So it's something I've become increasingly interested in. Added to that, I've been meeting more and more people of my generation who are experiencing some sort of late-twenties/early-thirties crisis. Did our parents have this, or is it a new thing? Are we all just a bunch of overgrown brats spoiled by endless opportunities and credit cards?

How have I been beating post-adventure, back to reality flatness? (I hasten to add here that 6 weeks is not the same as, say, a year. I have a job that I like and I don't live with my parents. I am 10 steps ahead of some others who I plan to quiz about this. I can feel instantly cheery about a new shoot appearing on the orchid on my desk (it sounds lame but there really is something in that plant on the desk tip)). I have many tactics. However, the favourite Oxford-based replacement for surfing/jungle trekking/mountains etc:
climbing.
With some basic experience and a shiny, just about the right size harness, I started back up immediately post-trip. There is nothing like terrifying and exhausting yourself and then defying every fibre of your being that's saying "GET DOWN FROM HERE!" and actually getting to the top when it seemed impossible. No, 364 days of the year you can't go for a balmy sunset beer afterwards, but overcoming deep seated fears combined with adrenalin and endorphins is not to be underestimated. And that's only indoors, as a beginner. These are exciting times.

Since I now can't remember a time when it wasn't raining in Oxford, indoor climbing is one of a few very good things. Another involves paper mache, but that's another story. Now, I'm going to catch up with some of those deep in post-adventure "what now?" crisis and see what amusing, insightful blog material I can garner.