Walking, Rock Climbing, and why I’ve given them up

The thing about Welsh hills is that you can never get to the top. On a sunny day, after giving up smoking, when the world is a joy to behold and your energies are unceasing, this is a good thing: there are always new heights to be reached, new challenges on an ever-elusive horizon. But when it is 10 am on a Sunday morning, and it is pissing down, and the hailstones are aiming straight for your eyes, the never getting to the top thing is really crap.

Up and up and up I went, one foot in front of the other, cursing under breath I didn’t have, while old people came jogging up alongside me, and they were actually chatting! Of course when they saw that I didn’t have enough lung capacity to walk, breathe and talk, they politely ran on into the distance...

At the risk of sounding rude, I think they’re all a bit mad. Take rock-climbing for example. I fail to understand the joy my husband gets from dangling about on the end of a rope, half way up a crag in the middle of Wales, or the Lake District, or anywhere else. Don’t get me wrong here… I have tried it. Lots of times. I even thought I might enjoy it at first, despite the fact that I am terrified of heights, and hate adrenalin.

The last climb I attempted was a tiny little V-Diff on Sheppard’s Crag in Borrowdale (that means Very Difficult, but is possibly as easy as it gets, with E-grades (Extreme) being the hardest but affectionately called Easy – such is the logic of the climber). The weather was superbly Lake-Districty, with gale force winds and a driving squally shower (okay, a light shower). My husband showed his prowess on the rock face and sauntered up the crag in a sickeningly casual manner while my stomach turned and retched at the thought of leaving the ground. He disappeared up into the clouds (okay, 60 feet then, but the weather was crap and he went over a ledge so I couldn’t see him). I waited for the tug on the rope to let me know I should start climbing…

I have no idea why I even bothered. After 4 feet my fingers started to ache, and after 6 my head started to spin and I felt rather queasy. I wanted to go back but couldn’t cope with looking down, wimp that I am, so I went on following the rope, up and up. I climbed with all the grace and elegance of a mud wrestler on a pig farm and failed to retrieve at least 3 pieces of gear (expensive thingymijigs wot keeps ya safe if ya fall off – but that cannot be climbed past because the bloody rope goes through them and they’re attached to the rock). I slipped and whacked my head (no idea how that happened but does re-iterate the importance of adequate safety gear, old chap), and arrived at the top battered, bruised and bleeding only to get shouted at for said gear left in said rock-face! To add insult to injury I then burst into tears in front of a crag full of adrenalin junkies and fell arse over tit down the decent path.

I’ve had enough. As spring threatens to carry my husband off into the hills I will not be following him with the expression of a rabbit on the carriageway of the M6. I will don my walking boots (but never again rock boots), and will walk as far as the nearest riding centre, to continue with my new hobby, which is much, much safer – Horse Riding!