The end of the beginning

So, the day has come. When I initially set up this blog, the intention was to start writing this day, but it took on a life of its own..

I have been here for nearly five years. Doing my PhD taught me research, how to write and how to program computers down to the bare metal. Working here has taught me what it means to be a software engineer. There is a world of difference. How to work in a team, and the fact that code that no one else can understand is bad, regardless of how smart the solution was. I've had the privilege of working with some very smart people, both past and present. So, to DaveC, DaveH, Andy, Tariq, Glyn, Karl, Luke, Steve, Rich, Paul and more recently MarkK -- thanks for making the development team a fun place to work, through good times and bad.

From today, I'm officially unemployed. I'm sure this will take some time to get used to, mentally.

T - 1

Last but one day at work!

John and Lorne came around for dinner last night, char-grilled Tuna steaks, spring-onion studded mash, and pesto baked cherry tomatos. John's just been through Tennis elbow in both arms, and had some useful advice to offer. There's hope.

Succumbed to temptation yesterday, and picked up a Nikon D50 on the remaining insurance vouchers. It's a cool piece of high tech machinery. I have a lot to learn to make the most out of it, but it's worth having a good camera for this trip. It is claimed that on a full battery charge, you can shoot 1000 pictures if you don't use the display. Of course, 'they' also claim that your iPod battery will last for 14 hours. We'll see.

The last few days in the country will be busy. Tonight it's Sarah's and mine farewell drinkies - although I shall be driving, as I don't want to drink this close to the race. Tomorrow, Chris and Nana are coming to stay, as Chris is also running. Have to make sure that both me and Sarah have moved out all personal belongings from our respective work places, too. We only have one car available now. Saturday day will have to be spent packing and shopping for any items that we may need. In the evening, Steve, Allie, John, Sue, Sharon and someone else I haven't met are arriving, and yours truly is on kitchen duty. They're down for the race. Me, Sarah and her parents are staying at Henk's, as our house is short on bedspace.

Sunday is race day, two hours of pain. This will be the longest distance I've attempted to run since I ran the Lasse Maja race in Arboga, twenty years ago or so. I'd like to send my best wishes to the orthopaedic surgeon in Dorset County Hospital who said I'd never run again after I broke my leg. I'm happy to have proved you wrong. Portland, Dorset is a great place to break your leg in that the Coastguard are extremely efficient and professional in getting you off the cliff. However, if you can, for surgery and patch-up you'd rather be at the Avon Orthopaedic Centre in Bristol. Take my word for it.

Monday we're picking up a hire car from Europcar. It is a sad state of affairs that to get two people Bristol to Heathrow Airport (and back, eventually) it's cheaper to hire a car than any form of public transport available. More mad running around to finish off packing etc, and then head off around 7am on Tuesday.

Soooo..... the itinery so far

Three nights in SF
Two weeks in Yosemite National Park
Five weeks in Bishop, High Sierras
Ten days in Fiji, first at Oarsman's Bay Lodge, and then Beachcomber Island
Four weeks in New Zealand, arrive Auckland, and depart Christchurch
Four weeks in Australia, arrive Sydney, travelling up the east coast departing from Cairns
Quick stop in Singapore, before landing back in the UK Jan 25th.

Two days in Bristol ditching beach, climb and camping gear, and picking up winter clothes and skis, and then off to France for eight weeks in Val Thorens.

Big Boys

The Big Boy ISP people are in today. We're trying to flog our wares to them, and our sales people are a little too eager to please. I've been asked to maintain a low profile, not look too messy and be polite if the ISP people are popping their heads through the door to see the developers that did the work. You know, like people going to the zoo, looking at the monkeys. Well. Our competitor has a development team that's bigger than our whole company. The business end of our product was written by one guy - me. In no time, and constantly changing requirements - is that what's now hyped as an 'agile' development process?

Anyway. Chris reports that his second interview went well, which is good to hear. We had Will and Hilde round for dinner last night, and Jo and Eric came around to pick up keys etc, have the alarm demoed and stuff. It's funny how things inevitably get around to gore when having dinner with a medic..

London Irish 24, Bristol Rugby 22

Spent the weekend at the Chateau Ingham to meet up with the usual suspects a last time prior to departure. Cath and Dave cooked us all dinner on the Friday. Saturday morning, Sarah and Cath went for a hack in the country side on two of Cath's many horses, whilst Chris and I hit the pavement, with Nana setting the pace on her bike. We did 11k, on lovely country roads. Well, I did 11k. Chris did a lot more, running back and forth waiting for me to catch up. Now, I know it's foolish, but I've decided to do the race on Sunday after all. I haven't got the mileage, but the 11k run felt fine, in my own slow pace. I sure won't beat any records, but it'll be a grand day out, and I like pain.

Cath had got us all tickets for the London Irish game that afternoon who just happened to play Bristol. Cath's dad used to play for Irish, so the family are ardent supporters. I broght my Bristol shirt, of course. The post-run/ride breakfast had started with Bucks Fizzes - so much bubbly left over from the wedding - and once at the stadium the Guinness was flowing freely. The game itself was a limp affair, with Irish owning most of the play. Rugby games are so different from football on the terraces - fans mixing freely and good-naturedly, zero police presence. Afterwards, I learnt, Irish puts up a free concert which was very amusing, especially the (not so) gentle ribbing of the England rugby establishment's adopted anthem 'Swing Low Sweet Chariot', giving precise instructions were the English ought to put their Chariot.

The evening finished with a curry in the hamlet of Twyford and later me and Sarah gave the others a lesson in Trivial Pursuit. We'll see Chris and Nana next weekend, but this was the last time for nearly six months we'll see Cath and Dave. They will come out to ski with us in February, hopefully. Chris is having a second interview today, so hopefully things will go well for him there such that they can come skiing with us, too. Otherwise, Chris can always come anyway as Nana's got a well-paid job :)

And so I've reached my last Monday at work. It's a bit weird, having been here for five years nearly to the day. One day I'd like to tell the story of this place. It's been good here in many ways, and I've met, and learnt from a wide range of talented people. It's a shame the company isn't the success it should have been.

A week and a day until we're on that plane to San Francisco, bust elbow and all.

The Blue Hole

A long time ago, I became a SCUBA-diver. Most people gain their PADI certification in some warm island paradise, but I did mine in a very cold Sweden, way back in '90. It came to pass that I did very little diving (none, in fact) for the next decade and a bit. Recently, I found myself in one of the undisputably best diving spots in the world, the Caribbean coast of Belize, on the sunny Ambergris Caye, and I decided I couldn't leave without getting back into the swing of things, as it were. My partner is certified to the same PADI level, but has got more, and also more recent, diving experience. I could remember approximately sod all about putting the gear together, decompression stops, buoyancy control etc. I did, however, recall all the things that can go wrong; nitrogen narcosis, lung rupture, decompression sickness, not to mention the local sub marine fauna.

We decided to take a shallow reef dive as a refresher. My brother, a very experienced SCUBA-fiend, was on hand to cast a knowing eye over my fumbling attempts at connecting the regulator to the tank, tank to BCD, and determining the number of kilos of lead to strap to my waist to ensure I didn't just bob around like a cork.

This was to be a two stop dive & snorkel trip. We were scheduled for the dive first, but due to dive boat congestion we opted for the snorkel first, in the aptly named Shark Ray Alley. The water was warm, clear, and as I discovered as soon as I was submerged, full of Sting Rays and Sharks. We were assured that these were nice Belizean Rays and Sharks that posed no danger to humans. But please keep your hands and fingers tucked away in your armpits, as the rays have a sharp spine along their backs. Oh, and the sharks can sometimes bite your hands -- not dangerous, but it stings a bit, and the blood tends to mess up the boat..
Anyway, an intoxicating experience, swimming along the incredibly colourful reef, playing tag with the rays and sharks.

Next stop was to be our shallow dive at Hol Chan Marine Reserve. Our incredibly chilled creole dive master gave us a short briefing on what was going to happen before we geared up and giant-stepped off the side of the boat. We had to surface swim a bit to reach the site, and I was glad to discover that this felt at least vaguely familiar: push the button to deflate the BCD, breathe out, and gently descend into the blue. Equalise the pressure in ears, sinuses and the mask. Breathe. Inflate BCD slightly to achieve neutral buoyancy. Don't "swim", just use the legs. The colours are just amazing. More sharks, rays, snappers, groupers, you name it. An hour bottom-time passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye. As we never went deeper than 35 feet, we all surfaced with two thirds of the air left, especially as we didn't need a decompression stop on such a shallow dive.

We now had the bug, big time. As we landed ashore, we went straight to the dive shop to enquire about the BIG Belize dive destination, the Great Blue Hole. It's a curious circular hole, about 200 meters across that bottoms out at 450 feet or so. We couldn't really go to Belize, and not dive the blue hole. Unfortunately, this is labled an 'advanced' dive, which would involve me diving three times deeper than I'd previously ever dived, meaning that one may encounter nitro narcosis. Also, "corking" to the surface from 50 metres would likely be fatal. Diving to such depths means that the air in the tank doesn't last very long -- projected time at max depth is only eight minutes. This in turn means that one has to descend rapidly, and stragglers unable to equalise would have to return to the surface as the group would not have enough air to wait around. Still. We took some advice, and the dive guys said that as long as you can keep your "shit" together, it's not a technicaly demanding dive. Moreover, the day's outing would include two futher dives, investigating wall reefs - reefs that plummet down to obscene depths displaying a wealth of colours and marine life. We signed on the dotted line, somewhat hesitantly.

The next morning we were picked up from the pier outside the hotel at an unfathomably early 05.30am and raced back to the dive centre, and quickly kitted out and sent aboard the large dive boat that would be our base for the rest of the day. We were immediately struck by the professionalism and well-rehearsed slickness of the whole operation. It was clear that Amigos Del Mar were the real deal. There were to be about ten other divers and a sprinkling of snorklers joining us, and looking around it was clear from the array of dive computers and custom gear on display that we were definitely the least experienced divers on board. The journey to the Blue Hole would take approximately two and a half hours over some choppy seas, but we were amused by shoals of flying fish taking off from the wake of the boat, soaring along for hundreds of metres.
Suddenly the seas calmed, and the boat slowed down. We had arrived at the Blue Hole. From the boat it looked a bit sinister, and rather more black than blue, compared with the turquoise delights of the surrounding reef. Edgar, the commander of the vessel, held a concise briefing. Follow the dive-master's instructions. No waiting for stragglers. This is a deep dive, watch your air. Watch your depth. Meanwhile, some other guys are dropping air tanks and regulators on ropes down to a depth of 20 feet where we are set to stop for a 10 minutes decompression safety stop. Apparently, people frequently run low on this dive. The tension was rising as we were split up into teams, geared up, and shoved in.

A few hundred feet of surface swimming took us to the circular reef rim where we awaited our dive-master, Alex, and assembled the team. The hole itself is funnel-shaped, and we descended together to the start of the actual shaft. Peering over, all I could see was darkness, and my stomach churned over. When all had arrived, Alex started the pacy descent into the abyss. Although I wasn't aware of it at the time, several people had to return to the surface as they could not equalise in the allotted three minutes. Suddenly my depth meter said 100 feet, and the shaft widened itself into the most amazing cavern with huge stalagtites and other cave features everywhere. I followed Alex into the cave complex, still descending. At 140 feet, halt was signalled, and I knew we now had 8 minutes max of time before we had to make our way back up. To my relief I felt no signs of nitro narcosis. Suddenly the ascent was signalled, which coincided with my air reaching the 1000 psi limit. Very slowly we glided up through the shaft, arriving at our safety stop point. Now at 800 psi, a bit low but should be enough to last the duration. Eleven minutes later we breached the surface, and one by one climbed aboard. Although not much spectacular marine life was seen, the dive itself had been a sensational experience, and everybody was grinning.

There would now be a surface interval of approximately an hour whilst we travelled to our next destination, the Half Moon Caye Wall. This were to be a drift dive, depth limited to 60 feet, meaning that bottom time would be between 40 mins and an hour. The efficiency with which the operation was run was impressive, especially bearing in mind the normal central american manyana mindset. An hour later we were effortlessly drifting with the current along the most amazingly colourful reef teeming with life. This dive was less adrenaline and more of a chill trip compared with the blue hole iself. After nearly an hour's bottom time, our dive master inflated a small baloon attached to a stick with a flag on, which rose to the surface to signal the dive boat that we were about to surface. We held our 8 minute safety stop and surfaced next to the boat.

Once all teams had surfaced, we set sail towards the Half Moon Caye itself--a paradise island sand speck in the ocean fringed with coconut palms. Here lunch was served up followed by some leisure time wandering around the island looking at the local wild life. It houses a large colony of .. wait for it .. boobies, which contrary to what you may expect is a type of bird. Also on display was an impressive array of iguanas.

After a couple of hours we boarded again and headed for the last dive site of the day, which was going to be another wall/drift dive. This time the max depth was to be 50 feet, again increasing our bottom time. I was beginning to feel almost 'reefed out', faced with a barrage of colour, shape and motion. Suddenly, a high-reved engine noise drew our attention to the surface, where a boat was going round and round, with a dolphin playing in its wake. After it got bored, it was suddenly joined by two more, and the three of them swam straight towards us, curious. I put out my hand, and for a moment I thought that one of them was going to play some mischievous trick on me. It stopped just outside arms reach, appeared to grin at me, and turned around, showing me a clipped tail fin. A truly mesmerising experience. So long, and thanks for all the fish. From that point, we seemed to chance upon every creature imaginable, big sharks, moray eels, you name it. This dive was over far too soon. Once on board again, everybody was buzzing, and as we turned around, heading back to Ambergris, the dive boys broke out the crates of Beliken beer, and we set off into the sunset, blissed out, happy with a superbly organised trip.

So, you need some Japanese Steel..

To start off, you need the right sort of steel, tama-hagane. It is made from the melting of a particular iron-rich sand over charcoal, and is hard to come by today, being only produced in one place. Modern metallurgists are still not quite sure what it is in this raw material that makes it so suitable for blades. The sand leaves traces of silicon in the steel, which may contribute. The raw tama-hagane is by modern standards rather crude - full of impurities and a high carbon content. The first task is to prepare the steel. It needs repeated heating, folding over and hammering together again, producing a multitude of layers of welded steel. A master smith will be able to dictate the patterns in the blade, the jihada, typically visible between the edge and ridge. The repeated heating and folding will both force out impurities and ensure an even distribution of carbon in the blade. The folding pattern also gives the blade tensile strength.

Once this process is complete the steel will have perhaps up to 20000 unique layers from the folding. Your next task is to fold this lump of steel around another lump of softer steel, and start the shaping. You see, unlike western laminated blades, the Japanese sword has a soft core, and the hard edge steel wrapped around it, on the outside. A western blade will have a hard core sandwiched between two softer layers, and the hard edge only exposed by the grinding. The problem that all bladesmiths face is that hard steel is brittle, so you can't use it to make a complete blade, as it would snap on first use. Work your blade to the correct curvature (noting that the hardening process will add a bit of bend), create the tang, ridge grooves etc. The blade should be curved in such a way that its whole edge will follow the circumference of a circle when its wielder holds it out horizontally and rotates. This gemoetry is one of the secrets of its efficiency - the whole edge will come into play when a cut is made. A straight, western-style sword is a glorified axe - as its holder chops down, a single point of the edge is in contact. In order to utilise more of the straight blade you have to first chop down, and then either pull it back towards you, or push it forward. A Japanese curved blade can therefore be made thinner and lighter, as it depends not on its weight to crush an opponent, but its sharpness to slice.

Once your blade is shaped correctly, it needs annealing. This is the real magic of the Japanese blade. The secret is selective hardening, which is achieved by covering the cool blade with layers of mud mixed with carbon powder and ash in varying thickness. The ridge and sides should be completely covered, whereas the cutting edge itself virtually exposed. The smith is free to put is personal touch by exposing and covering the metal in swirly patterns. Now stick the covered blade back in your forge, and turn down the lights. Temperature is crucial for this to work, and this is best judged by the colour of the glowing metal. A dullish red is what you're looking for, about 750 degrees Celsius. This is where structural changes start happening in the metal, with the carbon bonding chemically to the iron to form austenite. If you now rapidly cool the blade by dipping it in water, the austenite will turn to martensite, the hardest - and most brittle - form of steel known to man. However, due to the mud coating you applied prior to the heating, the covered areas will cool much slower, producing a gradual hardening towards the edge. The selective hardening will have been accentuated by the pattern by which you applied your mud, giving rise to the beautiful hardening line, or hamon, for which the Japanese sword is so prized. You will note, as you quench the blade, that its curvature increases somewhat owing from the two types of steel behaving differently.

When the blade is cool, you need to give it a rough polish job. Sword polishing is a discipline in its own right, but before you hand your blade off to a professional togishi you want to make sure that the blade is not defect in any way. If this is your first attempt, or even your hundredth, it is likely that your blade will have cracked during the hardening process. Your togishi will spend another 1000 hours hand polishing your new blade with river stones of gradually finer grain, and you don't want him to come back to you saying your work is junk. After polishing, the sword will need dressing before it's complete.

Westbury run

Ran the long Westbury loop last night in my fastest time so far. It's rouhgly 10k, but unlike the 'twice around the Downs' run we've been doing recently, it's agonisingly hilly. Three killer uphills, the middle one being the killer-est, and two long downhills. This run used to really take it out of me, but yesterday it felt fine - sure, I was tired, but it I didn't feel like I was about to die, which I normally do at the end of this run. Funnily, I've started running much better when I actively use my GPS to keep my pace down. Before, I've set out hard, and simply run out of steam too soon. Keeping to a fixed mins/km for the first 5k gives the body a chance to settle in. After that it sort of just works for the rest of the run. Sarah was feeling a bit under the weather, so gave it a miss. She kicks my arse on this run, too, of course.

Beaten by a girl. Again.

Remarkable last.fm

Just discovered last.fm - it's remarkable. The social tagging of the web is throwing up killer app after killer app. Someone needs to sort out a common interface such that all these things can be rolled into one seamless whole. I know just the guy to do it (hint, if there are any venture capitalists listening).

For other social tagging applications, most people are familiar with flickr.com, but what's started it all was del.icio.us.

Zoé

This is my niece, Zoé. Her mother Karen is from Nicaragua, so Zoé is all latin fire and Swedish ice. She likes her power tools - evidently an engineer in the making.

Pride & Predjudice

Went to see Pride & Predjudice last night. Since school, I'd been a fan of Austen's writing, especially Pride & Predjudice with its wit, subtle irony and verbal fireworks. A decade ago, the BBC produced a celebrated mini-series of Pride & Predjudice, which many view as the defining film version of the work, with especially Colin Firth's turn as the dashing Mr Darcy gathering critical acclaim. Most women of a certain age still swoon, remembering Colin in that scene. Also Jennifer Ehle was applauded for her interpretation of Austen's perhaps most famous character, Elizabeth 'Lizzy' Bennett.

The current film, directed by Joe Wright, sets the plot a century earlier than did Austen herself. The iconic leads are taken by current hot property Keira Knightley, who made her name in the masterful low budget indie hit 'Bend it like Beckham', and Matthew MacFadyen, who came to prominence as a field agent in UK tv-series 'Spooks'. Prior to the release, many people voiced concerns about Keira Knightley's ability to carry such a strong, and much loved lead, but she certainly shows that she's more than just a pretty face, making the role her own. MacFadyen's Mr Darcy is nearly as smoldering and jaw-clenching as Firth's. Hopefully, Colin Firth can now move on. The rest of the cast is filled with English acting nobility - and of course Donald Sutherland as the long suffering Mr Bennett. Initially, his inclusion seemed an odd choice, but he does a good job of the role, and a passable English accent.

The quality of the source material shines through - the dialog is just a joy to behold, and the chemistry between the leads impresses thoughout. The production is magnificent, and for a climber, some very impressive views of Derbyshire with virtually the whole of Stanage Edge in all its glory.

So, is it better than the BBC version? It's a different, but capable interpretation of the source material. More abridged, of course, but all the central bits are there. Both versions are enjoyable in their own right, but Colin Firth still takes the biscuit as Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy.

The Guardian liked it, too.

HSBC - useless

A guy from Bangalore phoned me up yesterday.

Bangalore: "Hi, your credit card has been compromised, cut it up and we'll send you a new one. Oh, and tell your partner to do the same"

Me: "Eh, why?"

Bangalore: "Your credit card has been compromised."

Me: "Sure, you just said that. What's happened, are there any odd transactions there I may be able to clarify?", knowing that we've booked accommodation on-line for both San Francisco and Fiji recently.

Bangalore: "That's all I know. Phone this number for more information....new cards are in the post"

I hang up. We've had nothing but trouble with these guys - even just opening a new current account ended up being a comedy of errors of cards with wrong names passed to wrong addresses. My card being fraud-canceled after buying petrol in Sweden. I can imagine their anti-fraud intelligence guys sitting there:

AFIG1: "Hey, look a this - this Swedish guy's card was just used in Sweden to buy petrol for £22.50"

AFIG2: "HELLS BELLS - CALL IN AN AIR STRIKE!"

Sarah's a long-standing HSBC customer, and I relay the story to her. She phones them up, and is promptly kept on hold for most of the day. She finally gets through.

Sarah: "We've been told that our cards have been compromised"

Call centre guy: "I can see on my screen that your card has been compromised"

Sarah: "Let me guess: that's all you can tell us?"

Call centre guy: "How did you know what's next on my flow chart, are you in banking?"

It transpires that the "intelligence" section is separate from the "action" section - I-sec tells A-sec to cancel, and they do, and informs customer. I-sec doesn't tell A-sec why. When A-sec phones you up, if you want to know what's going on, you have to phone I-sec. Unfortunately, they close at 5pm. Having been kept on hold for most of the day, it is now later than 5pm, please try again tomorrow.

This morning, Sarah phones I-sec.

S: "My card has been compromised. Why?"

IS: "Your card has been compromised. I know why, but I can't tell you"

S: "As we're about to travel around the world Real Soon Now, I sort of need a credit card"

IS: "No new card's been ordered, would you like me to initiate this process? It'll take 10 business days"

S: "You gotta be f*****g kidding. You cancel my card, don't tell me why, and don't think it might be a good idea to send me a new one?"

IS: "Policy - we have new CC numbers associated with your account, which you could use in the mean time, but as no new card has been ordered, I can't give them to you"

S: "Could I speak to your superior, please?"

Sarah gets the same story from superior officer.

S: "Anyway, could you flag our cards such that they don't get stopped if we spend money abroad for the next six months please, as that could land us in an unteneble situation"

SO: "Nope, spending abroad is likely to trigger our anti-fraud intelligence"

S: "Excuse me?"

SO: "Our policy is that we only allow periods of 30 days of spending abroad, after that you have to phone us up again and reset it, or risk your cards being stopped"

S: "So really, this is a UK-only credit card."

SO: "The HSBC Gold card is accepted world-wide."

S: "For 30 days. If you phone up."

SO: "It's for your own protection from fraud"

S: "No, that's why I pay £15 for the Card Guard insurance"

SO: "Eehh...we'll phone you before stopping the card"

S: "Bush-whacking in Borneo?"

SO: "Are you not bringing your mobiles?"

S: "Bush-whacking in Borneo?"

SO: "Eehh..."

S: "Basically, you're saying I have to get up in the middle of the night in Australia to be kept on hold on a premium rate number to tell you I'm about to use my CC? Me, the customer, who is informing you now, down to exact times and dates, where I'll be using it for the next six months?"

SO: "You got it"

CardGuard insurance - £15. Using your card abroad - priceless.

It's a few hours later, and I head out for lunch. My phone beeps, signifying a new voice mail message. It's Bangalore again.

"This is a messsage for Dr Karma Police. Please phone HSBC Card Services on number...."

I dial.

Endless automated calling systems ask me to type in my umpteen digit CC number. Of course, having asked me to destroy it the other day, I don't have it, so I suffer the elevator music and hold. And hold.

Bangalore: "Good afternoon sir, what's your credit card number, please?"

Me: "Haven't got one. You asked me to junk it."

Bangalore: "Eeh, sort code..?"

Me: "I have a debit card, will that do?"

He says it does, I rattle it off, he asks me some security questions which I evidently answer to his satisfaction.

Bangalore: "Why are you phoning us today, sir?"

Me: "You tell me. You rang me 23 minutes ago, asking me to phone this number, so fire away. I'm all yours."

Bangalore, hesitantly: "Eeh, have you had your credit card lost or stolen?"

Me: "Nope. You phoned me out of the blue yesterday, telling me to destroy my credit card...etc" I outline the situation.

Bangalore, cheerfully: "Please hold, I'll transfer you to CC services"

Dear God Allmighty...

More music. A few clicking noises - back in Europe, I wonder?

Scottish lady: "What is the problem, Dr, sir?"

I know I'm shooting the messenger. Shouting at call centre staff is not fair on them, and makes me look like a prat. I ramble through the whole story, pointing out the absurdity of having one's card shut off without explanation, the insanity of not being able to use the card aboad, the incredulity of having to wait 10 working days for a new one, the utter incompetence on display.

Scottish lady: "I'll order you some new cards then, sir?"

Me: "W - T - F? You mean to say to me that between Bangalore yesterday, Sarah's multiple call to branch, and long call to you this morning, and Bangalore earlier today, replacement cards are still not even ordered?"

Scottish lady: "..but, but.."

Me: "Please order some cards for me"

Scottish lady, now at last box of flow chart: "Anything else I can help you with today, sir?"

I can't help but smile at the absurdity,

"The world's local bank" evidently means don't you dare using your card outside the country.

Christopher Walken -08

Christopher Walken is running for office -08. Remember him dancing away in Fatboy Slim's 'Weapon of Choice'? That'll make an excellent campaign trailer. Hopefully, it's a joke, or one of those trendy 'viral' marketing campaigns, but after the current prez, and Big Arnie, anything's possible.

Personality disorder

There's this personality test doing the blog rounds, probably about as valid (and following the same principles) as most tabloid horoscopes. Cold-hearted, arrogant unsympathetic rationalist, moi?

INTP - the Architect
You scored 9% I to E, 36% N to S, 95% F to T, and 57% J to P!

You are more introverted than extroverted. You are more intuitive than observant, you are more thinking based than feeling based, and you prefer to go with the flow rather than have a routine. The single word to describe your type is the Architect, which belongs to the larger group of rationals. You wish to sculpt the world around you. Others often find you arrogant, yet you have no desire to direct others, only to inform them. You must know the structure of things, and have a voracious appetite for knowledge. You are very rational in everything you do, and probably consider yourself smarter than most.
As a romantic partner, you can be playful with great energy to get things started, but not quite as good on follow through. You may have a tendency to hurt the more emotional types unintentionally by not sharing your own reactions and feelings as you can get swept up in your own ideas and projects. You want to be appreciated for your ability to respond quickly and to fix problems creatively. You need plenty of time to yourself - therefore your parnter must respect your need for independence and originality.

So, there you go. Laid bare.

Packing

So, departure date suddenly seems very close. At least we get two days back in Blighty before heading off on the winter leg of the trip, so the ski gear can be left in the house. Still - towards the latter part of the states leg, we may well encounter snow in Tuolumne. We'll be the only ones packing down jackets and boulder mats to Fiji.

As we're flying east to west, we're on the so-called '2-piece' luggage system. This means that each passenger is allowed - wait for it - two pieces of hold luggage, each weighing 32 kgs each. So for the two of us, that's a theoretical 128 kgs of gear to lug around. Shouldn't be hard to manage within that, one might think. However, the 2-piece system is just that. You can't take three pieces, totalling the same overall weight. This presents a problem in so far that we're due to visit Bishop in the states, and Castle Hill in N.Z - two of the foremost bouldering destinations in the world. A boulder mat weighs nothing in comparison - a couple of kgs, but due to its dimensions would have to be packed as one of the two pieces. Of course, you could pay extra to carry it, but the fee is 'per piece' not by weight, and the £100 it would set us back - per leg - vastly outstrips the cost of the pad. But still, we'd get 3 x 32 kgs + mat. Not too shabby, had it not been for the fact that climbing gear weighs loads and is bulky. Add tents, sleeping mats and bags, and you're almost there.

We'll be tradding in Yosemite and possibly Joshua Tree or Red Rocks, bolt clipping in Owen's River Gorge and NZ + the boldering. Ideally, I'd hope to not have to take both trad and sport ropes. I have two 8.5mm x 60m Mammut Genesis doubles - they really are the best ropes I've come across for trad, and a 9.5mm x 60 Mammut single. Seems like a no-brainer to take only the single, but many routes in Yosemite require multiple full 60m abseils to get off. Maybe we'll just have to give such routes a miss. Think that Bruno and Jen are only bringing one single.

For base camp we have our Antractica tent, two thermarests and two down bags. Stove, crockery and cutlery (naturally made from titanium, by Snowpeak. Accept no imitations). In terms of stove, can you get screw-top gas canisters for an MSR Pocket Rocket in the states, or NZ? I'd rather not lug around a Trangia for this. Moreover, airlines are apparently picky about allowing stoves on board, even if you don't pack any fuel.

Head torch and backup spare. Helmet, harness, rock boots, chalk bag, belay device - take a GriGri in addition to my trusty ATC-XP?

We have two large North Face base camp duffels and our two rucksacks, one of which will have to go on as carry-on, and can't contain climbing gear (apparently, quick draws can be used as 'restraints').

In terms of clothing, well, my normal approach is to grab a handful of what happens to be clean at the time. Two pairs of prAna climbing trousers, six or so dry-flo t-shirts, and two thin long-sleeved micro fleece or dry-flo tops. Two pairs of shorts. Underwear, socks. Soft shell, down jacket, baseball cap, fleece hat. My Salomon trainers and Chaco sandals. Like to bring running gear if there's space. Civilian clothes?

It's tempting to bring some gadgetry, but I think I'll limit it to my old digicam, as it takes AA cells, iPod + car charger and GPS (also takes AA cells). Two-way radios?

A Swede in the UK

All this cricket madness made me think. When I arrived in the UK a decade and a bit ago, I'd never even heard of it. Nor, come to think of it, had I heard of Rugby. Well, I knew that the sport of Rugby existed, but as I got established in Cardiff, the epi-centre of Welsh Rugby, I started to realise that Rugby is huge, both in Wales, England, Ireland, Scotland and large parts of the commonwealth, France and S.A. Not only that, but there are even two different kinds of Rugby, I learnt: Rugby League and Rugby Union, with slightly varying rules. Rugby Union, I was told, is 'proper' Rugby, and Rugby League is a game that only girlies up north play. However, should I ever find myself 'up north' I might want to keep this view to myself, or risk facial feature rearrangement.

To the uninitiated, Rugby must seem even more byzantine than cricket. Fifteen players (Union) on each side. Spectacular physicality (or even brutality), and extremely complex rules. Living with a northern Rugby nut, I've come to love the game. The off-side rule makes sense. Not only is it exciting to watch, but the players all just stand up, dust themselves off and get on with it after receiving hits that would have a footy player crying for mummy. Further, the game is blissfully unblighted by the ugliness frequently seen on football terraces -- all violence is on the pitch, rather than off it, so to speak. If you're under the misapprehension that American Football is a hard game, you should see an international Rugby game.

Go Bristol!

I've since then discovered that both Rugby and indeed Cricket is actually played in Sweden. Not so long ago, the Swedish national rugger squad lost out to that Rugby power nation, Poland.

The globe is turning

My brother has started a blog, too. He's called it 'The globe is turning', and indeed it is. That's him to the left in the picture a few posts below. He's a good writer, so I'm sure there will be amusing anecdotes and thoughful insights published there in time.

Freddie

According to BBC Breakfast this morning, Andrew 'Freddie' Flintoff was still in the hotel bar at 8am, clutching a G&T. And a blonde.

Respek.

Stop press! The Guardian is reporting that it was in fact vodka and cranberry juice, not as reported G&T.

A long wait

England has won the Ashes, after a courageous Pietersen 158. Absolutely riveting, and the sportsmanship on display is amazing. Brett Lee is still bowling 94+ mph at 5.30. He's clearly a man who hates losing, looking like a man possessed. Yet, he's the first one offering his hand and a smile to Giles at his 50. Warne putting his arm around Pietersen congratulating him on basically winning the series. A few footballers could learn a thing or two from these two outstanding cricket sides.

Australia is still number one in the world rankings, but many of the senior players that have formed the backbone of the success over the last two decades may be about to retire: McGrath, Warne, Hayden, Gillespie, Martyn. Maybe the series loss will be seen as the end of an era?

Pain

Went to see the doctor this morning with regards to my tennis elbow. I don't even play tennis! Anyway, my doctor said that a stereoid injection might help, but chances are lower than in many other type of sporting injuries, but as I'm going on this climbing road trip, he said that if it was him he'd probably take the chance. He estimated that perhaps one in three notice an improvement, and also outlined the potential side effects and complications. Tiny chance of infection. Small chance of actually weakening the tendon, although this is more of a problem after several injections. Thinning of the skin around the injection point which may give me a patch of miscolouring or dimples. He looked at me and said with a wry smile that he didn't think that I was the type of person who'd be bothered by some temporary miscolouring of the elbow skin. He got the gear together, and told me that this will hurt, lots, but that the shot also contains a local to ease the pain. It didn't hurt much, as he moved the needle around to make sure that the drug was distributed across the sore areas. "A crude intervention, this, but I hope it works for you" he said. He gave me a cotton bud to press against the puncture.

And then I fainted.

When I came to, I had an oxygen mask strapped to my face, lying on the floor. Nurses and doctors were swarming around me. Very embarressed, I mention that twice before I've fainted when having drip feeder tubes inserted in my arm. The first time, many years ago, I was very ill indeed with an advanced Compylobacter infection, and the second time I'd just been helicoptered out after breaking my leg rather badly. At the time I put it down to the trauma, but I guess the actual fact is that needles and I just don't get on.

They wheel me out and lay me down on a bed, and give me a mug of coffee. My doctor, in that very understated way that only the English can pull off, suggests that in the future, it might be worth mentioning to a medical practitioner about to inject me that this may happen, seeing that I'm a "big strong lad that it's quite hard to manouver into recovery position on your own". Best also mention in passing that when I faint, I appear to go through convultions, shaking like jack hammer. "We don't want anyone to think that you're epileptic, now do we?" he says with a smile. "For a while I thought you were going to throw up all over me". He's still smiling, totally calm.

The guy's a star, and whatever people say, the NHS is a quality outfit.

Swildon's Hole

I'm a climber, not a caver. However, living on the edge of The Mendips, one of the three most cave-ridden areas of the UK (the others being South Wales and Yorkshire) it's easy to see why many climbers also cave, and the other way around. Many skills are transferable, especially in terms of ropework. The advantage of caving is that one is not dependent on weather conditions, and can do it all year around. Some of the adventurehut.com crowd are very experienced cavers indeed. My occasional climbing partner Paul used to cave quite a bit during winter time, before he had children. Now that play time is more of a premium for him, he tends to stick to climbing. Paul took me caving a few times, starting out in Goatchurch Cavern, a dry cave which is rated as easy and requiring no ropework. I really enjoyed it - a real adventure feel to it. As I'd never done it before it was hard to know how I'd react to the inevitable claustrophobia. It turned out to be a real riot. We basically ticked the whole cave, including 'The Drainpipe', a 15m long squeeze tube. As we completed the roundtrip, I realised that this was something I'd like to do again. Maybe not to the same level of addiction as climbing, but every now and then.

In many ways, caving is much more serious than climbing. A leg breaking fall is probably terminal, as rescue is problematical, if not impossible, depending on the cave. Something as inocuous as your head torch running out of battery could have serious consequences. A few of the guys in the St Wereburgs crowd are world class cavedivers, with the late Rob Parker still holding the depth record, set in Wookey Hole.

My next cave was to be the uber-classic 'Swildons Hole', a wet cave. Most of this cave is only accessible to divers, with seven or so 'sumps' guarding the way. A sump is a water-filled dip in a passage that can only be negotiated by swimming under water. Sometimes, it's just a quick duck, but other times it can involve several tens of metres of swimming. In Swildon's, the first two sumps are free divable, whereas the rest require full SCUBA. Paul had managed to beg, steal and borrow full kit for me, wellies, fleece under overalls, caver's outer overalls, kneepads, helmet, waterproof headtorch. A caver's roll-up wire ladder, 30m of static rope and a few old krabs completed the kit.

This was a Thursday in December, and it was uncharacteristically cold for the UK with a couple of degrees below. The farmer on whose land the cave entry is situated kindly lets the caving community use an old barn as changing rooms, asking only for a small cash donation for its upkeep. The grass is crunchy with frost under foot as we plod across the fields. Suddenly, a fast-flowing stream comes into view, which curiously disappears into a small building. Welcome to Swildon's Hole. Wet cave indeed. Suddenly, the whole thing seems preposterous. It's freezing. It's December. It's dark. We're about to go swimming. Paul grins, and points down the narrow hole into which the stream is disappearing. "Your cave, mate". I realise that backing out now is not an option, as I'd have to endure relentless mickey-taking for the rest of my life. I sigh, and sit myself down in the stream, and ease myself down the passage. The stream is hitting my helmet, and progressing down the inside of my caving suit. The cold is numbing. The cave is worn smooth by thousands of pairs of boots, and the cascade itself. After some tens of metres the passage levels out, and instead of having the stream down my neck, I'm now standing waist-deep in water, waiting for Paul to join me. I'm wet, but actually not that cold anymore. The fleece underwear is sodden, but warming up from the exertion under my oversuit. Caving is a full body workout. We start moving. Route finding is not a problem in this cave, just follow the stream. I'm really enjoying this, to my surprise. We squeeze through narrow passages, bridge our way across bottomless chasms, plunge into pools, admire cathedral-like caverns that our lights can barely span. The first obstacle is what looks like a huge drop into the dark from a narrow opening in the passage. Paul says that there is a deep pool at the bottom, and that it's a safe jump. He's clearly insane. I lean over, and I can see the black surface of the pool below. "Go on, just jump, you poof, or we won't make the pub on the way back", Paul offers, helpfully. I finally take the step into the abyss, and plunge into the pool below. It's deep, probably about two and a half metres, but I still end up crouching on the bottom - it's sandy, and perfectly flat. I 'swim ashore' and look up to see Paul's light. It looks worse than it is from the top - the jump itself is probably no more than three or four metres or so. We press on, and get to the one place where we have to rope up. It's a bigger version of the drop we just negotiated, minus the nice pool, and 15 metres instead of 3. Paul pulls out the rolled-up wire ladder he's been carrying, handing it to me. "There are three expansion bolts drilled into the rock over there" he says, pointing. Clip the ladder to two, and a krabs through the other for the backup rope. I clip myself into the rope, and Paul's rigged a belay at another bolt. I lean over, groping for the bolts. They're all rattling; loose. Sure, caving is body-weight only, so no shock loading should occur, but still. I unroll the ladder and hook the rope through the krab for a directional. The ladder runs straight down the fall line of the water fall, helpfully. This seems to be a recurring theme. Climbing down a free hanging, narrow wire ladder in the middle of a water fall is surprisingly hard. I eventually get down, and belay Paul, and we leave the gear for the return journey. We carry on, with me leading the way. The stream is calmer, and the passages appear to change to become lower, frequently requiring us to wriggle on our bellies. Suddenly, the cave ceiling appears to meet with the stream, and there's nowhere to go. I can see a bolt with a dirty rope attached to it, cutting the surface, snaking its way below. We have arrived at sump 1. I know the details, in theory. Paul explains again. It's only five metres or so under water, and you just pull on the rope to make progress. The passage itself starts perhaps half a metre under the surface from where we're sitting, and it's perhaps two metres wide. At its narrowest, it's perhaps 40 cm, so it's best to twist your head sideways to avoid getting your helmet stuck half way, which would be unpleasant. I can't back out now. Kneeling down, I try to feel the entry. My heart is pounding in my ears. Deep breath, I slowly let myself sink down and start pulling on the rope. The passage is really narrow, and even twisting my head, my helmet scrapes both the bottom and the top. Ten seconds later I breech the surface on the other side, elated. I give the rope a couple of tugs to signal that I'm safely across, and sit down to wait for Paul. There is a huge road sign here, saying "Wookey Hole, 10 miles". Probably an example of a caver's sense of humour. Paul's head pops up, and after a quick rest we move on. Before long we arrive at the start of sump 2. Although apparently free divable, this is a different proposition altogether, being considerably longer, and we have no masks, and both wearing contacts. We decide to leave it for another day, as the clock's ticking, and instead start our way back, retracing our steps.

And we just about made it to the pub, too.

House arrest

Saturday morning, sunny. At home instead of in a tent somewhere, due to this elbow. Seeing the doctor Monday morning. So I've resigned myself to a weekend at home. If the weather holds and Sarah wants to climb, I'll be the belay bunny. Someone's coming around tomorrow to look at the house with the view to rent it whilst we're away. It would be very good to get this sorted, so we may do some tidying up - at least remove tents and climbing gear from the floor - and catch up on the garden.

Chris

P2250135
Originally uploaded by hvs.

Continuing leafing through my photo collection, I found this. This is Chris. He'd had his head cut open by the steel edge of his ski after he fell on his face trying to 'get da big air'. Chris didn't seem to mind, and was later seen in the bars as normal.

Sonnenkopf

P2240103

Hehe, this makes me laugh. A brilliant day in Austrian Sonnenkopf in Feb.

Finale Groove

The fun thing with owning an iPod is that one discovers music one had forgotten that one had forgotten. So now I find myself listening to Cure's excellent live album 'Concert' from way back when. When I was writing up my PhD I went through phases of listening to Cure and other cheery bands like Manics, which didn't exactly do my mindset any good at the time.

Quite a few years back now, my first time at the Ruckle. I'd been a few times at the friendly Subluminals, but as any connesseur knows, this isn't where it's at. We'd driven down the night before and stayed with Sarah's parents. Finale Groove had been on my hit list for some time - a long single pitch, beautiful strong line bridging up a gradually narrowing corner. At HVS it should be within my grade, but my lime stone experience at the time was limited, and just the thought of Boulder Ruckle scares the bejeezus out of me. We eventually locate the abseil point, a long, freehanging drop onto a tidal rock platform. I rig a prussik backup, and spin my way down after Sarah's landed. Committed. Easiest way out is now a notoriously nasty 3-pitch VS, 'Tatra'. This place spells epic. We walk around the corner to the base of the route. The corner stretches into the sky. At least the weather is nice and sunny. I psych myself up and set off -- it's steep, but briding takes the strain off the arms. Gear is everywhere, and the holds are sinkers. I move quickly, remembering the similar 'Cenotaph Corner' -- the drain sneaks up on you. Suddenly, up by the small roof, the route swings out slightly to the left, up the suddenly very blank-looking wall. This is clearly the crux. My calves are tired, and my arms are drained. A few sketchy moves sees me at the small 'cave', where I can take a cramped semi-rest. I look down and see -- nothing. From out of nowhere the sea mist has rolled in, and is sitting like a fluffy lid about ten metres below me. I shout down to Sarah. She's cold. I assure her she'll soon be warm. Above, the corner narrows, and although I have about a third of the route to go, I know that it's in the bag. I carry on, and soon scramble my way up the shelving, loose finish in true Swanage fashion. Slinging the stakes, I shout 'SAFE' at the top of my voice and start pulling in the ropes. Communication is virtually impossible. The sound of the sea drowns out voices, and the mist below means that visibility is zero for Sarah. I'm cheesily pleased with myself, and above the mist, I'm enjoying the sunshine.

Sarah takes an eternity, eventually weighting the rope. The mist is gradually burning off, and when she comes into view, I can see that she's not had a good time. At all. She's flash pumped from cold starting after belaying me, and having done battle with several stuck pieces of gear, fighting valiantly to maintain style. She wants to head back. We wander back to our sacks, and have some food and water. Sarah's never done anything of this magnitude before, and rarely anything of this grade. I lay out some second's tactics. Of course, it's preferable to try for good style even on second, but pragmatism is important especially on big, inescapable routes. Don't burn yourself out trying to dislodge stuck gear whilst holding on. Ask for a tight rope, or if that's impractical, attach yourself first to the piece, and then place another one if possible so that you can rest when getting a stubborn piece out. And judge when a piece is actually irretrievably stuck. It happens.

We decide to have a go at Tatra. It's a real biatch of a route, and I wouldn't hesitate to say it's actually harder than Finale Groove. I wobble my way up the first pitch, an overhanging but juggy crack, and Sarah takes the second - a slopey traverse with dubious gear. I think to myself that I wouldn't like to be a freshly baked VS leader on my first Swanage visit on this route. The last pitch is an overhanging, smooth corner with an uncomfortably wide crack in its apex. Yup, sure - VS territory, this. Not. I udge my way up to what seems like a wide ledge, when I hear an unsettling noise. I poke my nose over.. two mahoooosive seagulls complete with chicks three feet to my left, and shall we say they're not exactly impressed with my presence. Not one iota. I creep down the crack a few feet and wish I'd placed an extra piece of gear below me. The crack's too wide for what I've got left. I realise this will have to be a sprint, but the mantle required isn't exactly conducive to sprinting. I remove my #10 hexentric on cord and hold it in my right hand, poke my head over, and swing the hex. The gulls take off, for a second, but then come back. I swing again, and go for it. The high-speed mantle goes, and I leg it to the top, the angry gulls cackling loudly below me.

"When you get to the ledge, don't stop to think, just move" I shout down.

"Why?" comes the puzzled response.

"You'll see" I say.

Wouldn't want to spoil the Swanage experience.

Sports fans

So England got embarressed by Northern Ireland in the football World Cup qualifier last night in Belfast. The customary calls for the manager's head were heard echoing around the stalls before the full time whistle, and the pundits in the morning press are baying for blood. Belfast would have been the place to be last night. England really looked a sorry side, which is kind of weird, seeing the wall-to-wall £100k/week superstars that was fielded. Maybe it is the fault of the manager if a team chock full of talent can't gel? Sweden won their away fixture in Hungary (go Zlatan!), and are now top of their group. Main rivals Croatia lost a point, too, so qualification is almost certain.

More interestingly, the final Ashes test starts today. Paceman Simon Jones is out of the equation with injury, and Aussie Glenn McGrath, one of the world's top bowlers is back. It should be riveting. England is Cricket-mad for the first time in a generation. A win or draw means England will win the series. A loss means an overall draw, but the Aussies will retain the cup. Weather's forecast to stay dry today and probably tomorrow, too. I really hope that we'll see five full days of uninterrupted play, as to not give the Aussies the weather excuse.

Pål

My father would have been 61 today. He died in a boating accident a few years back. The thought of it still makes me feel so empty inside, his life cut short. Sometimes, life is just incredibly unfair.

Anyway, a glass to you in Valhalla.

Lateral Epicondylitis

I've had a niggling pain in my right elbow for some time now, probably getting on for five or six weeks. It's not debilitating in any way, but I feel it especially after bouldering sessions, and funnily enough, when shaking people's hands. I finally sought the advice of a sports physiotherapist recommended to me by Paul, and her diagnosis is tennis elbow, or Lateral Epicondylitis. This is bad news indeed, seeing that it's notoriously hard to shift and can take months of inactivity to heal. I was given some ultrasound treatment and acupuncture (neither of which has any proven clinical benefits, my friend doctor Will informs me), and a few stretches and shown how to massage the hotspots, but was advised to go see a doctor for a potential cortisol injection to have any chance of recovery in time for hitting the Bishop boulders mid October. Not to mention the Yosemite cracklines.. I'm not a cussing man, but an expletive or two feels strangely appropriate.

Pavey Ark

I was all set for the Peak when Sarah gets a text from Jen Thursday evening, wondering if we fancy joining them in the Lake District for the weekend. A friend of Bruno's mum's owns a cottage near Coniston, and they're up for a week. This is somewhat of a dilemma. The Lakes is normally beyond my pain threshold in terms of weekend warrioring. The AA route planner suggests a 500 mile roundtrip, and five and a half hours each way, sticking to speed limits. On the other hand, it's a chance to play in some of the finest mountain scenery of the land, weather gods willing. Sarah's keen. I'm more hesitant. Looking at the AA thingy again, it's actually only another 60 miles further than a Peak trip to Hathersage, and most of it is actually motorway. I reluctantly agree.

We set off around 6.30pm Friday evening. We take almost nothing apart from climbing gear. I don't own any guide books for the Lakes, bar one section off the Rockfax Northern Lime Stone on Cumbria, but it only includes road-side crags. Sarah drives. The journey is actually not that bad - M5 to Birmingham, M6 to Lancaster, and four hours later we're within the boundaries of the park. We get a bit lost on the last section of micro navigation, but after we miraculously manage to find an inverted eon-flux of mobile reception in the middle of the dark nowhere, Bruno puts us back on the right track, and soon we're holed up in front of a log fire.

The slate cottage is magnificent, all low wooden beams and rustic charm. We say hello to Bruno's mum, Helen, and thankfully wolf up some food. Around the table we soon drift off into the somewhat trainspotty speak that climbers do, discussing routes, swapping long tales, occasionally pausing to explain terms, grades etc to Helen. "It's like a foreign language" she says.

There are so many historic crags around here, and I've never climbed in the Lakes. In fact, I've only ever been here once before, and that was way back when, years before I actually started climbing. But as the climbing geek I am, I am familiar with names like Gimmer, Pavey Ark, Dow, Raven Crag etc. This is as far away as one can get in the UK from the convenience climbing offered by roadside grit. Bruno suggests Gimmer or Pavey Ark, as they're both within a short drive (and a long walk). We settle for Pavey, as the walk-in is a bit easier, allowing Helen to join us to the foot of the crag.

The next morning we wake up to blue skies and sunshine. The view from the cottage is simply breathtaking. It's easy to forget that countryside like this exists on these densly populated isles. We stop off in Consiton for supplies and I purchase the Langdale guide book. As we drive Bruno points out all the crags along the way. So much rock. We park at the New Dungeon Ghyll hotel, and begin the sweaty slog up the hill. Some 40 mins or so later the imposing expanse of Pavey Ark comes into view and we set down our packs on the edge of Sickle Tarn. We eat some of our provisions, and flick through the guide book. Sarah and Jen are set to do a 3-starred, 3-pitch VS on the right of the crag. I'm no match for Bruno, with a trad onsighting grade eclipsing mine at least four notches. He suggests a 5-pitch E3 which apparently is soft. The E3s I've led before are easily counted on one hand, not even requiring the use of all fingers, and none of them have been on-sight. As this is a new crag, and rock-type for me, and I don't really want to be the reason we have an epic. We settle on the 3-star E1 'Capella' up to the mid-height rake, and then pick another route once we get there to get us to the top.

The first pitch is mine. It goes up a blocky groove next to a tree before sepping out on a blank-looking slab. The climbing is great, little shallow finger pockets keep appearing, as does nut slots. You can't see them until they're right under your nose. The pitch is 32 metres, and I'm enjoying every one of them. It seems clear that at least so far the route is low in grade. I rig a belay on the wide ledge from a nut and a sling around the sturdy holly. Bruno soon joins me, and we swap the rack over. His pitch starts off to the left, trending slightly right to avoid an overhanging wall, and then straight up a set of grooves and short walls. He soon disappears out of sight. He's really moving fast, and before I know it the safe call comes. This pitch is very unbalanced - a few interesting moves right off the belay, but the rest is an easy romp that feels out of place. I join Bruno at the bealy, and we scramble up the grassy bank up to the half-height rake after the customary cheesy belay photo with camera at arm's length. I certainly picked the plum pitch, it seems. From the rake we have options. Just above us another E1 called 'Aardvark' (**) heads up to the top of the crag. This one has a tech grade of 5c, so should be more interesting. As Bruno's pitch didn't really involve any proper climbing, he takes this one. Not that a route of this grade will stretch him, but still. This one climbs a soaring arete after some steepness and a step to the left after a rusty peg. A cam goes in, and a sling around the peg - it's not looking that healthy, so a tie-off seems the safest option. The crux is a short traverse under the roof and a mantle onto a sloping shelf to its left. Another cam at the end of the traverse, and he's standing on the shelf. Tip-toeing rightwards onto the arete, he soon vanishes out of sight. My go now. Getting to the place from where Bruno tied off the peg, I can't reach it. I step up a bit further, holding on with my left on a sharp little spike, managing to untie the peg. Swapping my hands over, I also retract the yellow alien at the end of the roof. The mantle itself isn't that bad. The arete itself is awesome, the rock being almost conglomerate-like, shallow, but positive holds everywhere, and, to use a guide book cliche - in a fine position. At the top of the pitch it's actually quite cold. We scramble up the last vdiff pitch unroped. We look for the girls at the summit, but don't really expect to be seeing them - we've moved efficiently, and they had a party ahead of them just starting out. We amble down Jack's Rake back to our packs at the foot of the climb. The rake itself is a curious feature - a diagonal path cutting the width of the crag left to right allowing an easy walk to or from the summit.

While we wait for Sarah and Jen we sit down for some post match analysis. On reflection, we could probably have gone up a grade or two. Bruno's keen on trying another one, but it's already gone five. We've just finished packing up when Sarah and Jen joins us. They've had a nice climb, with Sarah leading two pitches and really enjoying it. They'd had to wait around for ages at the base, and at every belay, waiting for an incredibly slow-moving party ahead of them, but this doesn't seem to have distracted from the experience. Sarah loved the whole multi-pitching mountain route thing. We walk down to join Helen at the Tarn, and start the descent. The descent follows a stream punctuated by pools and small waterfalls from the tarn, and in the heat every step makes the thought of a quick dip more tempting. Nearly at the bottom Jen, Bruno and I jump in. The water is chilly without being freezing, and very refreshing. Bruno tries some hand traversing across a fallen tree trunk that spans the stream. We've attracted a bit of a crowd of walkers viewing us with a puzzled look. We dry off and wander down for a well-deserved pint. Back at the cottage, Helen cooks us dinner (Swedish meat balls no less), and we crawl into bed, tired but contented in the way that only a day in the hills can make you feel.

The next day we decide to go bouldering. The weather looks good, but thunderstorms are forecast for the afternoon, so we'd rather not be half way up some multipitch when that hits. After a brief excursion looking for a small bouldering venue nearby (Virtual Crag) we eventually give up and head for the Langdale boulders. The heat is stifling; not ideal bouldering conditions, but we have fun. Sarah's doing well, beating me to the small slab at the back with all chips eliminated. I have a few half-hearted goes at some of the slightly harder problems after Bruno demos, but I'm contented working the easy circuit up to V2 or so. At five there's still no sign of the predicted weather, but given the drive Sarah and I have infront of us we pack up and head back to the cottage. Bruno's sister Katie has arrived, and Helen's prepared a backberry pie for us! We'd picked loads of them in the morning, as they're growing literally everywhere around the cottage and next to the road. We have a cup of tea and a slice of pie in the garden before we pack up our stuff and head off. Bruno and Jen are staying until Thursday before heading east to Yorkshire where Bruno's got his mind set on some grade 8 routes at Malham and Kilnsey. Jen's keen on some crack practice in the Peak, so we might even see them next weekend.

The drive south passes without incident, and we're back in Bristol at 10.30pm, four hours almost to the minute after we set off. The Lakes are clearly within reach for a weekend, with a bit of luck with the traffic.

Confessions of a (former) grit stone addict

I've spent the last decade or so climbing my way around these isles, but for one reason or another always gravitated towards the grit stone edges of the Peak District national park. There's a near mythical aura around these rocks where the first ascent lists stretching back a century reads like a who's who of UK climbing and mountaineering. The film 'Hard Grit' did its bit, too. Climbing on grit is different from any other rocktype found in the UK. Its predominantly rounded, neatly sculptured shapes require sublime friction-only footwork and open hand strength. Rough cracks splitting both horizontally and vertically demand jamming skills hard to acquire elsewhere. Although the edges rarely top 15m, routes are almost always bold, powerful or both. The Peak is the ultimate climber's playground.

Lately, I've climbed almost exclusively on lime stone. The trip to Sardinia last Easter was the catalyst. I never used to 'get' lime stone, being the antithesis of grit: lower friction, crimping edges rather than slopers, fewer cracks, typically steep, few natural lines. The few trips clipping bolts at Portland just reinforced my view that 'sport climbing is neither', and that lime stone is a tottering pile of loose rubble. I realise now that this blinkered view has hampered my development as a climber, but also led me to miss out on stacks of quality routes both here and abroad.

In Sardinia, with a group of climbers aeons ahead in terms of ability I started to rediscover the joy of climbing steep limestone, and the way that the sport ethic allows you to climb right up to your technical and physical limit without fearing for your life. Gritstone is largely a mind game, and E-points are almost without exception awarded for the boldness of the climb. This has made me happy to run it out where required, but also cemented a respect for the grade in my head leading to an unwillingness to gradually try harder, more demanding routes. Lime stone is different, even on trad gear. There is almost always gear opportunities, and E-points are more often than not awarded for the technical effort, rather than how likely you are to die.

I have a very skewed perception of the UK trad scale. It is the most useful grading system around, once you get used to its quirks. Foreign visitors usually sneer at it, failing as they do to appreciate its duality, aiming to capture both the physical and mental aspects of a climb. I learnt to understand it climbing on grit. For grit it makes so much sense. Even mild E-grades frequently mean big falls or even the deck if you fluff it. I subconciously expect this when climbing on lime stone, but it's just not the case. Topping out on lime stone routes of grades I'd never attempt on grit I end up feeling almost cheated (but in a good way, if that makes sense) - no adrenaline surge, no pounding heart due to fear, but just sustained, physical climbing. Of course, the trad scale allows, and is capable of representing, both E-for-bold and E-for-hard, but it is just that grit stone is the natural home for the former, and lime stone for the latter.

Last night Paul suggested I try 'Papillon' (E2 5b). The guide book made it out to be super-bold, but Paul assured me that this wasn't the case, and he was right. The soaring arete had stacks of gear on it up to the crux where the bomber gear was roughly in line with your ankles for the stretch to the jug and mantle to the top. Very nice.