Colouir 1

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Sarah admiring her tracks.

On the Ridge

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Just a short scramble left.

Sarah and Krister roping up

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Short-roping for a short scramble.

Blueberries galore

Sarah: New favourite apres-ski snack - croissant, warm, with locally made blueberry jam.

Day 3 with Krister (couldn't see a bloody thing)

Wednesday morning, and the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Still, two days out of three of blue skies was better than we'd hoped for. With a white-out and snow fall, this would be a different kind of challenge. We met Krister for the 9am lift, and he started by extracting a climbing harness from his pack, and handing it to me with a "you may as well carry this". We did a warm-up run cutting across from one of the pistes and dropping down something that given the conditions felt steep and scary. Next time around we side-stepped up a snow arrete to drop into the Gipfel Colouir, "an area classic". Even given the white-out, I could see Sarah's face taking on a slightly paler shade of pale, looking down the rock-strewn mouth of the narrow, steep chute. We'd looked up at this many times from below, and although probably an optical illusion, it looks as it defies the laws of physics in that it shouldn't be able to retain any snow, given its angle. From above, this feeling was amplified, although Krister said that it was good that the visibility was so poor, or we'd probably be worried. The first 20 metres or so is a matter of sliding or scrambling down exposed rocks, trying to get onto the first proper snow. The first few turns felt claustrophobic, almost as if the tips and tails of the skis were about to touch the sides at the same time. It then slowly widened to a width more comfortable, but still scary steep. We re-joined the Sonnenpiste, and then boot-packed up a near-by knoll dropping back into the main open bowl under the Gemsstock. Next run we exited the Sonnenpiste above the drop-in to the Felsental run and donned the skins. It was now blowing a hoolie. After a short, but very steep climb of about 30 mins, we reached the knife-edge rim of the bowl next door. We quickly roped up for a bit of a scramble along the ridge, and then dropped into the bowl proper. The snow here was weird - like sugar, and Krister wasn't happy with the situation. He armed his avalanche airbag, and wove an intricate path close to the rock band to mimimise the risk of a slide. As the angle eased, so did we, and we could open up a bit - at least as much as the limited visibility allowed. As we dropped altitude, we entered the cloud base, and we were hard pushed to see just about anything. We joined the Felsental valley from the left - we'd done this bit numerous times, but in this condition, it was a challenge. And so the final run of the day was upon us. Again we headed for the Gipfel area, but dropped in about half way up the arrete into a triangle-shaped hanging snow field. At its apex, in a rather improbable situation, we managed to scramble back into the Gipfel just where it widens, and followed it back down. We boot-packed up the knoll, but this time roped up for the scramble up left along the ridge to the summit proper. We were greeted by untouched powder at an improbable angle. At this altitude, the visibility was actually reasonable, but we could see the cloud below us like a lid choking off the whole valley. Sooner or later, this would be an issue, as we suspected that Krister wasn't really the type to catch the last gondola down from the middle just because a bit of cloud. The single piste reaching the valley floor was a 'joy' of iced up moguls and rocks which we essentially tackled blind-folded - we could not see from one marker pole to the next, and followed Krister's whistling. Three action-packed days had come to an end, and we celebrated with a beer at Der Alte Apothek (where these words are being committed to electrons).

Day 2 with Krister (touring the light fantastic)

Second day was touring day, and we headed to Disentis up the valley on the train. The plan was somewhat vague - go to the top of the Disentis lift system, climb up a further 500 vertical metres, and ski down the other side to some other village, and get back using public transport somehow. At the top of the third lift, we mounted the skins under our skis, and released the heels, and set off up what appeared to be a smallish snow field ending in a vertical rock band. Somehow we skirted around to the right, and a long, slowly rising traverse ended in a hacked-out snow platform over a massive drop, and a set of rungs drilled into the rock leading up the face. I was knackered already, just as Krister informed me that according to his altimeter we'd completed the first 51 vertical metres. My heart sank. We put the skis on our packs and headed up the rock face on the via ferrata rungs. As we reached the top, the view was simply breath taking. A valley opened up, with our main objective in clear sight on the other side - a beautiful, massive snow face leading up a mountain. The initial thought was how good it must be to ski down it, immediately followed by the sobering reality of the fact that we were supposed to skin up it. We stripped the skins, snapped our skis into downhill mode, and quickly lost every single one of the 51 metres we'd so far gained, and then some more on the way down to the glacier at the foot of our climb. In ski-touring terms, 500 vertical metres of gain is small-fry, but standing at the base looking up it looked immense. At 3000 metres of altitude, I was certain that I'd look worse for wear pulling onto the summit plateau. Krister set off, with Sarah hot on his heels. I knew from the outset that I stood no chance keeping up with them. Skinning has its own almost hypnotic rhythm. I settled into 50 steps, short breather, 50 steps. Krister and Sarah seemed unstoppable ahead. About half way they waited for me, and after that I tried to keep up, forcing myself to keep to the (now reduced, for my benefit) pace. After about 90 minutes of hard slog, I finally pulled up over the top, to be greeted by Krister and Sarah, and a bunch of cheerful Swedes that had been ahead of us. We sat down in the snow and had our lunch. Krister commented that I seemed to take the fact that the wife kicked my arse on the uphill in good spirit, unlike some other (mainly American) clients he'd worked with in the past. I assured him (quietly) that my good spirits were only for show. And so for the down. We'd been promised four metres of descent for every metre climbed, which sounded just like my kind of ratio. The story of the descent is one of two halves - the first (and now obviously running out of superlatives) was probably the best run I've ever skied, and all the sweeter for having slogged up hill by own steam. Bottomless Champagne, 30-35 degrees, no tracks, totally awesome-dude-rad, 1000 metres of blissful vertical. The second part was... rather different - well, imagine climbing trees over steep ravines, in full ski gear (including skis). Eventually we made it down, not really skiing, but picking our way down dense vegetation, rocks and steep gullies, until we hit terra-firma, and a long, but surprisingly pleasant run-out along a river into the village. A people carrier had conveniently pulled up, touting for business, picking up stranded skiers between the infrequent bus departures, which suited us just fine - 15 francs well spent to get back, spent but happy, to Andermatt. Back country touring really is it - in fact, you don't even need to go that much back country to get some fresh tracks. We staggered into bed by 8:30pm.

Day 1 with Krister (aka Colouirs 'r us)

Krister Jonsson (www.alpinemadness.se) is a Swedish mountain guide nowadays living and working in Chamonix. We met him heli-skiing in arctic Sweden a few years back, and he is in fact the main reason we chose to come to Andermatt in the first place - he mentioned back then that he used to live and work here, and that it's a superb off-piste base, as it has the terrain, the annual snow fall, but lacks the mod-cons that draw the piste'n'party crowds. We contacted Krister when we knew that we'd be here, and he was happy to set aside three days to ski with us here in Andermatt, which by Swedish standards is a mere 'out for coffee' drive from Chamonix. Skiing with a guide is an effective way of maximising your experience when discovering a new place. It is also an effective way of minimising your wallet, but hey - you only live once. We're reasonably seasoned skiers, but Krister is in a totally different league. He spent 150 days on snow last year, and soloed the north face of the Eiger a few winters back. Last Sunday dawned a whiteout and snow, and we took a day off in preparation to restore our legs in preparation for skiing with Krister on Monday morning. On Monday, we woke up to blue skies and lots of fresh. This is both good and bad - good because it's ideal skiing conditions, and bad because it is also ideal avalanche conditions. Today's young hotshot free skiers with fat and rockered skis and resort-honed skills tend to forget that last bit when the snow's been falling.. Although we hadn't seen Krister for a couple of years, he was instantly recognisable at the base of the lift - his hair and beard is proper mountain-man still it seems.

Sarah was convinced from the start that Krister would take us on something that she wouldn't survive, which wasn't helped by the fact that I may have failed to mention to her that I'd told Krister that steep colouirs was high on my wish list. We spent the day doing three big drops around the Gemsstock, the first being a variation of the classic 'Giraffe' - amazing open fields of perfect powder, still largely untouched, and exiting in a colouir. The pole-out was part of the one we'd spent hours on a few days before. The second run took us down the Guspis into neighbouring Hospental after a twenty minutes boot-pack with skis on our packs up the next peak off the top of the Gemsstock lift. More powder, with some wind polish to keep us on our toes. The afternoon saw us in the higher bowl off the Gemsstock lift. The traverse into this drop required some gentle encouragement from Krister in order for Sarah to commit. The fall three inches to the right was unthinkable. We entered through a colouir which opened up into a very steep untouched field of snow and a long run down to what looked like a funnel into an unfeasibly narrow slot between rock walls and only air visible beyond. Well, we (I) asked for colouirs..

Andermatt pain & pleasure

There's some serious off-piste here, which is good as there's no piste to speak of... The average level of ability here seems higher than many other places we've skied, bar possibly Riksgransen. The nu-skool skis are everywhere - wide as barn door, and rockered at both tip and tail. How do I convince Sarah that I need a new pair? This place consists of a massive, north-facing natural bowl, almost like in Fernie. A single gondola lets you access it, in addition to two token pisted runs back down that few people bother with. There are very few skiers here during the week, meaning that the place doesn't seem to get tracked out very quickly. The last significant snow fall was Tuesday night, and there is still plenty of tracks to be had. On Tuesday we dropped off the back of the top station after the random Swedish boarder (aka Martin, like Sarah also here as he was made redundant) advised that it would be fine on skis, but the exit a tad on the flat side on a board. The top looked too alluring, with untouched powder and clear blue skies. And the top was as good as it looked, but.. the exit was rather flat on skis, too. At least we could release our boot heels, which we were more than thankful for after an hour and a half's worth of poling. We met a band of Norwegians en-route, and two of them had piste bindings. They did not have such a fun day out, cursing their pals with telemarks. The scenery was breathtaking, and some very inviting skinning tracks led up the faces on the opposite side. Yesterday, Martin took us down the Geissberg in poor visibility, as the top gondola was out of action for a few hours. Steep, cut up and bush-lined, it was certainly a challenge. Kudos to Martin for doing it on a board. Later on the weather cleared, and we had the first ace condition access to the main powder bowl. We finished the day down Felsental which is an awesome run back to the village, and eventually we found a place where we could get a gluewein. The village is mercifully free of bars, cool hangouts and apres-ski places. Perhaps this is why there are no Brits here?

All this powder has taken its toll, and the word of the day is 'pain', or in my case possibly 'old age'. Should have gone to the gym more. Hopefully, after a few more weeks of this it subsides. In the mean time, we've retired to the sofa to recover for the afternoon.

Andermatt

So here we are, lots - and I really mean LOTS - of snow. And -22 to test your mettle. Andermatt really could be taken off a hand-painted Swiss chocolate tin. Our apartment really is shiny - it looks brand new, and all IKEA-furnished. In fact, almost everyone here seems to be Scandinavian, too - it's just like home - people speaking Swedish, -22, and IKEA. First day was spent finding our legs in stacks of powder, but poor visibility. Second day - Sarah befriended a random Swedish boarder, who showed us some of the back country - of which there is lots around here. Powder legs coming back. We have a couple of days now to 'warm up' before Krister arrives to show us some of the tours around here - the potential is amazing. Gotta love the Swiss - the trains really are ridiculously punctual, clean, fast and - ok, not that cheap - but the journey here went very much (pun intended) like clockwork.

On The Road, again

We're about to take off again for a bit of a road trip. Recharging batteries. Making sure we don't go soft. The house, although upside down with packing etc is still rather less upside down than it has been for a while. Winter kit upended on the floor, skis, boots - now where did the skins go? Harscheisen found stuffed in the boot bag. Avalanche tranceiver at least in its rightful place, in my rightmost sock drawer. Four weeks of the white stuff.

After that, a week in Rjukan for some frozen waterfalls. Never climbed ice before, so really looking forward to that. Then a month in Font. Would really like to get back to V6 again. Actually - to get to V6 full stop, as the only one I've done was down-graded. Will has kindly gone out of his way to produce the mother of all tick lists with detailed beta. After that, the idea is to head down to Provence to clip some bolts for the remainder, and come back ripped and with a set of trophy routes to our names :)

Come on a coaching holiday for a few days and up your grade three times!

Such was the promises for various companies offering trips with - to be fair - often more or less 'famous' climbers. I used to believe that such a promise was obvious hokum - I know my grade, and no matter what miracle workers went to work on me, improving even one grade would take significantly more than a week. Not that I've been on any such trips, but actually - such a promise, at least for a certain segment of the climbing populous in the UK is a very safe bet. Let's say that you're a typical UK weekend warrior of average talent and fitness. You have a full-time job, and you've climbed mainly trad for the last 10 years. You pootle along happily on HVSs in the Peak, and the odd mild E-grade in Pembroke or Cornwall, wind on your back. You climb down the local wall a couple of days a week. You've been bolt-clipping at Portland a few times, wobbling your way up the odd F6b, but also failed on easier ones. You understand intellectually that sport climbing is different from trad, but it feels strangely unsatisfying - cheating, almost - to rely on bolts. Also, you've heard that 'redpointing' means practicing, and you can't really see the point - if it's not onsight, it's a fail, and you move on. After failing on some F6a+ that you think you should have had, you pour scorn over the whole thing: "sport climbing is neither", and vow to spend the next bank holiday weekend at The Roaches instead, back on some proper grit HVS.

The big realisation for me was that to enjoy sport climbing you need to leave your trad mentality at home, with your trad rack. Sport climbing is all about the redpoint. If you sport climb to onsight, you're always climbing far below your level, and both missing the point and losing out, reaping no rewards. Sport climbing is about practicing the moves, to enable you to climb the hardest route you are physically able to do. This is very different from trad where the mental game is very, very different - placing gear where the rock allows, plus the uncertainty of its viability essentially adds up to a very conservative approach - nothing wrong with that, and essential experience for the all-round climber. However, with sport climbing, much (not all) of the risk element is removed. This isn't the same to say that sport climbing is reduced to a purely physical game - redpointing introduces its very own brand of mental frustrations. Top-roping to work out the moves before the lead attempt? Sure thing. Fudging your way up, bolt-to-bolt with a clip stick to rig up a rope? You bet. Trying the same route five times to fine-tune your sequence before finally sending it on lead? Absolutely. Attempting a F7a+ when you've only ever previously managed F6b? Well within reach.

Coming back to the coaching trip promise of grade gains - it's easy, if you've never really redpointed with intent before. You obviously won't become '3 grades better' - you will only have realised your potential by climbing properly at the right level. Suddenly, sport grades aren't barriers anymore, they're a measure of the time it takes you to do the routes. If you onsight at F6b regularly, you will almost certainly redpoint F7a within half a dozen attempts. If you stick with it, you'll notice a few interesting effects - as you start redpointing more routes above your onsight level, your on-sight grade will start to creep up much quicker than you'd dared to push it if you only ever climbed around that level - you're improving your skills. Also - your trad level and confidence will grow, as your fitness and technical skills suddenly jerks upwards. And you didn't need to go on a coaching trip either.

Botanising the bookshelf

"Pick out a few books for me" she said, so I stood up, and ran my finger along the rows of books. It first came to rest on Michael Ondatje's 'The English Patient' - a modern master piece in every sense. The prose is as sparse as the story line is moving. One can almost smell the desert. Peter Hoeg's 'Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow' is a more left-field choice - part murder mystery, part philosophical treaty, perhaps a tad overly intellectual, but still richly rewarding. Hoeg's subsequent writing just got a little bit too weird. Kazuo Ishiguro's 'The Remains of the Day' is an astonishing snapshot of a lost time, and a sorrowful, restrained romance. Nobel price winner Doris Lessing's 'The Democratic Terrorist', a story of idealism and misguided yoof, is all the more pertinent today. Milan Kundera's 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being' made an indelible mark on me as an impressionable 20-year old - love, war, idealism. Arturo Perez-Reverte's 'The Fencing Master' is a book I would have loved to be able to read in its original Spanish. A murder mystery, and an insight into the Zen of the bladesman in a life-long quest for the indefensible thrust. Most of Perez-Reverte's earlier works are great - but his latter ones went a bit.. wanky. Finally, Umberto Ecco's 'Focault's Pendulum' - a challenging read with untranslated stretches in Greek and Hebrew, but a very interesting history of the Masons, a sort of Da Vinci Code for grown-ups.

Chris

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Chris was feeling the cold, and decided to embrace the fireplace.

Sarah skinning

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A hard slog it was, too.

Matterhorn

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The Matterhorn shrouded in cloud, from the top of Rosablanche.

Summit of Rosablanche (3336m)

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At the summit cairn.

Ski Verbier

Easter saw us on a mini-break in Verbier with friends. Or Le Chable, rather, a less rich & famous village just below it. We seemed to hit the jackpot, with oodles of powder, blue skies and acres of off piste to be had for the price of a bit of boot packing or skinning. Switzerland really is amazing. Expensive, but amazing. The second-accurate train runs from inside the airport terminal, and stops (on the second, naturally) two minutes walk from the hotel in Le Chable. We flew from East Midlands, and met Chris and Nana at the airport, coming from Heathrow. Tom and Tasha, the boarders, had arrived earlier, hoping to maximise the snow time. Lorne, a friend from Bristol lives in Le Chable, working as a ski instructor, and her partner John was out, too. They have a lot of local knowledge between them.

Our hotel was basic, but clean and functional. Le Chable isn't really a ski resort in any way - just a local village that happens to have a gondola running to the top of its more famous neighbour. The weather forecast said that our first ski day would be the most stable, with masses of snow to follow. John suggested that this may be our only opportunity to tackle one of the many celebrated ski tours available in the Valais. He proposed an ascent of Rosablanche (3336m).

The following morning we were greeted with blue skies, and Sarah and I quickly packed tranceivers, shovels, probes, lunch, water and skins. The ascent would take somewhere between 2.5 and 4 hours depending on fitness and snow conditions. We met up with John, and took the lifts as far as we could, and after a bit of a traverse, donned the skins and set off. Skinning is sweaty work, but usually not super-strenuous - you settle into a kind of hypnotic rhythm, more like hill walking, rather than fell running. The first bit took about 20 mins or so, and from the top a traversed descent took us into a different world, away from lifts and any sign of other people. The views were out of this world, and untouched powder everywhere for the adventurous. The next climb was longer, but gentler, and before long we reached a ridge at 3000m, finally revealing the full extent of the glacier that would form our descent, and the main objective, the summit of Rosablanche. We could now see other parties approaching from all sorts of directions. The Rosablanche summit is on the Chamonix to Zermatt Haute Route. Another long traverse, and then the final 336 meters of ascent.

Something weird happened here. Suddenly, all other parties were overtaking us. Instead of the previous 100 steps, 5 sec breather, 100 steps, I was now on 10 steps, 1 minute breather, 10 steps. I'm obviously rubbish at altitude. Getting to the summit ridge rewarded us with breathtaking views of the Swiss alps - with the Matterhorn poking through the clouds. It was now desperately cold - I was unable to retain the heat in fingers and toes. We quickly peeled the climbing skins, and scrambled up to the summit cairn for the full tick.

The way down was over all too quick, with wonderful powder on top of the glacier. We are thinking of doing some touring for the honeymoon, but Sarah offed that idea on the way up. It was on again on the way down though.

On the Sunday we did the full 4 Vallee traverse, that is we tried to cover as much of the piste system as our lift passes allowed. Chris and Nana came with us, and they did a remarkable job on some of the steep blacks that need negotiating. We ended up in a lovely slopeside restaurant, devouring some of the local dried meats. And a cheeky pint.

A lot of snow fell, and due to the fact that we had the advantage of local knowledge, we got plenty of fresh tracks and crazy drops. On the last day we climbed up the Stairway to Heaven, a quick boot pack up to a hidden, powder-filled bowl of magic.

Verbier really is an off-piste heaven - skins open up amazing terrain, and even short walks gets you away from the crowds in minutes.

At the top of Face Lift

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Sarah going for gold

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Knee-deep

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Out on our Cat-ski trip, knee-deep in Fernie's finest.

Ski Fernie

So, the main event of this ski season, two weeks in the Canadian powder paradise, Fernie. We got picked up from Calgary Airport by Tom, after a long, but uneventful flight out of Gatwick. Tom provided a running commentary on North American skiing, and Fernie in particular. During January and most of February they've had a sequence of big powder dumps, snowing on average twice a week - until now, two weeks without snowfall. Our hearts sank a bit a this tidbit of local knowledge. We pulled in to the Chalet, and got greeted by Susan, the owner and manager - she's Canadian, but lived for many years in the UK, and she sounds much more English than Canadian. The first week the chalet is onlly half-full - there's Ken, a keen ski-tourer and long-time visitor to the chalet, and Gordon and Helen, another English couple. The Chalet is very different from your youth trips to the Alps - beautiful wooden interior, massive open fire place, hot tub, large bedrooms. We settle in, and try to stay awake.

Fernie ski hill is anything but a hill. It consists of 5 large alpine bowls accessible by lift, and about as many again, technically out of bounds, but accessible by foot or by skinning. Part of the draw of staying with Canadian Powder Tours was that they will guide every day, and no pandering to the weakest link - keep up, or peel off. We covered some impressive locals only terrain, thanks to Susan. She did not guide us into Fishbowl, she just happened to be there by accident :)

Although the hill was in excellent groomed condition, and virtually empty by Euro standards, we had come for the powder. Susan was sure that we'd get a bit of a Fernie 'flurry' before we left - that's 40cm over night, and she was right - when it came, it really came. We had two days of the most amazing powder skiing - in the bowls, in Fish, between the trees, on the piste, off the piste. On the Tuesday the skies cleared, and we were at the lift before opening - the locals evidently only ski on powder days, and for the first time we actually had to queue for a minute or two. Two opticians from Slough, Dave and Mark, had joined us a few days before, and thus timed it immaculately.

It's amazing how quickly the powder gets tracked out, at least the accessible bits. Come 3pm our legs were jelly, but it didn't really matter that much as what was left was pretty choppy. We retreated to the bar, and decided to go cat-skiing the next day in search of virgin snow. Cat-skiing is sometimes referred to as a poor-man's heli-skiing - it's still pretty costly, and can't quite cover the same terrain. The 'Cat' is essentially a piste bashing machine, and we got 8 drops done. Unfortunately, we were slightly let down by the temperatures, in that the snow was getting the full brunt of the sun, and being more akin to wet concrete than Champagne powder in places.

Fernie is a most excellent place to ski. By Euro standards the infrastructure is primitive, but there aren't any crowds. Susan's chalet is a real home-from-home, with a really good bunch of like-minded people. Even the boarders.

Oh, and I proposed to Sarah.

Ski Tignes

Happy New Year, sports fans.

As the early season snowfall in the European alps was the best in 20 years, Sarah and I decided to cancel christmas and head for the mountains on a cheap last minute jolly. We ended up in Tignes, in the Espace Killy ski area in France. I'd never skied there before. Tignes is connected with the perhaps more well-known Val d'Isere - not that I'd been there either, but still. Our 'club hotel' overlooking the frozen lake was well placed, but somewhat reminiscent of 'Fawlty Towers' - great staff, but the rooms were quirky, heating didn't work, and the beds were falling apart. Still - we grew fond of it as the week progressed. A 'club hotel' is basically a slightly bigger chalet, operated along similar lines.

We had hoped to get off the pistes, but the big snow dump that had fallen a week or so earlier was pretty comprehensively tracked out unless you were prepared to don skins and climb for it, so we decided to focus on tuning up our skills for the new season. We booked two half-day mogul sessions with The Development Centre, a UK-staffed outfit focusing on the right-hand side of the bell curve of skiing ability. It proved to be a challenging, but rewarding couple of days. If you're in the Killy area, and have skied for a while, I really recommend seeking out TDC.

The Tignes-VdI area is a cool place to ski, and I'm keen to go back again.

Be healthy, live longer

A report out the other day lists life style factors that contribute to higher cancer risks. A long, and extensive bit of research has concluded that smoking, excessive drinking, obesity, insufficient exercise, and excessive consumption of red meat means that you're more likely to die earlier.

That is such an unexpected result! Clearly, there is a Nobel price for medicine in the wings here.

Permanent vacation

We have a bunch of students living next door. To be fair to them, they are generally reasonably considerate. We've asked them once on a Sunday (or Monday, actually) to keep it down a bit at 3am, as we need our beauty sleep in order to get up for work. However, Rich, the builder installing the bathroom relayed the following story.

Whilst Sarah and I were diving in Egypt, Rich started work around the 8-8:30am mark. A knock on the door, Thursday morning around 9am. Pyjama-clad student on the door, clearly marked from the night before.

"Hey, man - you think you can keep it down a bit?"

"Not really, no. This is the time when people generally are at work"

"Yeah, but Thursdays are the only mornings I get a layin, and generally go out the Wednesday"

Rich is somewhat unsympathetic to the man's plight. The student carries on:

"Can you do something about it?"

"I can lend you a pair or ear defenders."

"But the couple here asked us to be quiet one night..."

"Well, perhaps now you understand what it feels like?"

Sheesh. Stoodents, eh.

The return of the one-armed man

I went back to the wall yesterday for the first time in about 6 months of forced absence due to tennis elbow. Today I feel like I've been through a full spin cycle - everything hurts. Everything but the elbow, that is. For me, that's exceedingly good news, which I'm doing my best to focus on, instead of the fact that I'm weak as a new-born child, somewhat inevitably.

Now, it's of course hard to be excited about indoor climbing, but I have to admit to having missed the testosterone-fuelled posturing (and that's just the girls..), the misfits, the acres of naked flesh, the almost unbreathable, chalk-filled, sweaty atmosphere, the clubby soundtrack, the who's doing who rumor mongering. And of course the latest set of boulder problems. The irritating thing is that when I injured myself, I was probably at the strongest I've ever been. I did go upstairs to give the campus board the evil eye.

Wedding Final

We had a wonderful time at Nick & Jo's wedding on Saturday, complete with a barn storming barn dance, and RWC final on in a cupboard next door. Nick and Jo's first dance was truly spectacular, and I just wished I'd have the sense to pick up my jaw and find the camera to video it. Straight out of Strictly Come Dancing.

Usually, I like to moan about how the English love to love the plucky loser (hi Tim), but the RWC silver medal really is an outstanding achievement by a team that was 80-1 at the beginning of the tournament. Was it a try? Who cares - Ashton said it well - speculation is pointless. If the ref says so, then so it is.

England remembered how to fight, and although the Boks took the silver ware, England did their dirty work for them by sending home the Wallabies and Les Bleues.

Dive the Red Sea

We've just come back from a week's diving from the Red Sea 'resort' of Marsa Alam. The word resort is perhaps a bit misplaced, in that it's a hotel plonked where the desert meets the sea, and if you're not there for the diving, you're not there. Given the landscape, we might as well have been on the moon. Still, the hotel is very nice. This trip represented a lot of firsts for me - first time in Africa, first time in a Muslim country, first time in Egypt, first time in the Red Sea.
We had wavered between the thought of a live-aboard and day tripping out of a hotel, but to get the most out of a Red Sea live-aboard you need to have at least 50 logged dives in order to access certain of the more remote marine parks. Before this trip, neither me nor Sarah had reached that level. Besides, it's actually quite nice to be able to return to a proper room with a proper bed in the evenings.

The diving outfit, Emperor Divers, displayed the effortless air of multicultural professionalism we've come to expect from dive centres around the world. The diving community is a nomadic tribe, and we ended up diving primarily under the guidance of Mo and Chris, Egyptian and English respectively, and a motley crew of primarily UK divers. The Coral Beach Diving Hotel has no beach, but it does butt up to the harbour, meaning that we had a 30-second walk from the breakfast table to the boat in the morning, which was great. Each day of diving
followed mostly the same pattern - an hour or so on the boat to access a particular reef, and then two dives there, followed by lunch on the boat. The boat would then take us to a different reef, and we'd do a third dive, and then a mad rush to get back before the sun was two
fingers from the horizon; some local regulation. We'd signed up for a few extras - in fact, we signed up for all extras it seemed, seeing the bill - Enriched Air qualification ('NITROX') and trips to the Dolphin House and Elphinstone off-shore reefs, both of which included
ridiculously early starts. The Dolphin House reef somewhat unsurprisingly houses a resident school of dolphins. Access to this reef is commendably regulated to give the dolphins some space, meaning that the number of boats is limited, as is the diving area and the
time for the last dive set to 2pm. The dolphins had obviously cottoned on to this, and typically made their first appearance at 2:05pm. Still, we had some fantastic diving none the less. The Elphinstone is a demanding dive site, with potentially strong currents to contend
with, and with a significant proportion of it around the 30m limit, not a place for first timers. This is a good place to encounter hammer head sharks, but we were slightly too early in their season, so we were unlucky in that regard. Diving on Nitrox 33% I also found myself
focusing mainly on my computer at that depth, paranoid to stay above the 32m O2 partial pressure deck. Second dive at Elphinstone was out of this world though. A perfect drift dive along the seemingly endless wall reef with Nature's full range of Darwinian evolution on glorious display from Barracudas to Nudibranches.

Diving on nitrox appeals to the geek in me - hacking one's own gas mixture. It seems to be where recreational diving is heading, allowing as it does the no decompression limits to be extended such that they no longer run out before your gas does. Table calculations are
slightly more involved, but with a dive computer to handle that for you, most divers don't seem to bother anyway. With more oxygen in your mix, you also seem to settle down quicker into a calm breathing rate, and I found myself lasting longer on every nitrox tank.

The whole of the Red Sea is fringed with reefs, and to the Red Sea rim states, it represents a staggering income opportunity. There are signs that things are being managed in a responsible manner from the dive operators - fixed moorings to limit anchor damage for example, and the 'no gloves, no touch' rule. However, the level of on-going pollution is worrying. The locals appear to treat low tide as the bin man - simply leave all your rubbish on the beach, and the next morning it's gone. It may be gone from the beach, but it's evident on the reef. All boats have the 'short length of pipe' approach to toilet flush, and the general rule is don't flush if there's divers underneath, and bog roll goes in the bin, not the toilet.

But saying that, in the best moments, it's just magic - unsurpassed, perhaps only rivaled by Belize of the places I've dived.

RWC

This is rapidly turning the script on its head. England was supposed to be without hope, and the games before the All Blacks finally lifting the trophy a mere formality. Northern Hemisphere Rugby was comatose, out of contention.

Funny how things turn out on the field. England sends the Wallabies packing. France, having lost their opener to Argentina, dispatches the All Blacks after some genius turns from Freddie Michalak (and admittedly a forward pass, but still). The All Blacks have now been dismissed twice by France in the RWC. The 'most enigmatic side in world Rugby' indeed - the French really can step it up for the big games, where the All Blacks seem to choke. Much as I enjoy the All Blacks normal display of peerless Rugby superiority, I vocally backed the French. They wanted it more, and for the All Blacks, another agonising, soul-searching four years until the next chance.

The real revelation though are the Pumas. Argentina have long been the punch bag that everybody always beats, but quietly they've put together a quality side, with some truly world-class players that would feature in a tournament XV. Gus Pichot, the former Bristol scrum half, confidently claimed that Hernandez would pip Dan Carter to the All Blacks number 10 jersey if he'd been a New Zealander. Their pack is brutal.

And then there's England. Jonny's back, and although not quite back to his former glory, he just seems to tie up the loose ends and make the team work. Andy Gommersal has been the real eye opener though. Fast, precise service has made the backs start believing again. And then there's Paul Sackey - how come he hasn't had any air time before?

So, France-England. Argentina-South Africa. I wouldn't like to call either of the games in advance.

!

The 'weakest champions in rugby history' just kicked the Aussies into the high grass. Absolutely remarkable, defying all the odds. Bring on the All Blacks.

One

Great tune. Great band. Great guest vocalist.

Argentina!

Argentina just kicked Ireland out of the World Cup, winning their group against all odds. Hernandez is arguably one of the best all round players in the tournament.

My RWC sweep stakes ticket suddenly looks like a hot prospect. And with a date with Scotland in the quarters, it certainly looks like they're not done yet. England showed some back wheels and put up a spirited performance against Tonga. England's looking like the quality side they should be. Almost. Next game the Aussies - a somewhat different proposition, sure, but all bets are off in the knock-out stages.

RWC: England 44-22 Samoa

Finally England's looking like they can actually play some proper Rugby again. Argably the best game so far in the RWC, and England showed that they're not quite out yet.

Sarah's arrived in Font, and for the first time during my forced time off from climbing I actually feel a bit sorry for myself. Saying that, I'm actually symptom free, and I'm itching to get back in. But I'm forcing myself to wait, as tearing up the injury due to a premature return would be impossible to bear. Still, I've contracted some infection, so couldn't have gone, anyway.

At least I have a few days where I can store my clothes on the floor without risking repercussions.

This is Rock & Roll

Mourinho

Jose' Mourinho has left Chelsea by 'mutual consent'. A real shame. For someone who's relatively uninterested in football, Mourinho was to me a refreshing change from the usual dull fayre of inarticulate former players dressed in tracky bottoms. Superbly arrogant, unsmiling, but with the goods to back it up.

"I can honestly say I'm not one from the bottle. I am European Champion. I think I am special"

Awesome.

The Failing Continent

My brother gave me a copy of Aidan Hartley's book The Zanzibar Chest a couple of weeks back on a lightning visit back to Sweden. Mathias works at the Africa desk at SIDA, the Swedish government's development agency. I readily confess to knowing preciously little about Africa, its history, its wars. This book was a fascinating eye-opener. Hartley's book is part memoir, part history lesson, depicting his life as a front line journalist for Reuters, but also recounting the footsteps of Hartley's father, a pioneer from the dying days of the British Empire.

Primarily, the book details a couple of Africa's 'dirty little wars'; Somalia, Rwanda, Burundi - the unparalleled cruelty by which they were fought, and the West's ineptitude, or rather disinterest, to do anything about it. On the flip side, it is also a raucous, blokey story of the hypnotic draw of life in the dirt as a journalist, the camaraderie, the excesses, the hedonism - but also the staggering emotional cost of witnessing massacres and cruelty first-hand, as it happens.

Aidan's love for Africa shines through, as does his sadness and anger. It's not always clear if one should laugh or cry at the bungled ways that the West has meddled, and made things a million times worse. Especially telling is the Somalia wars, how they were run - pretty much for sport - by a bunch of qat-fuelled gangsters, and how the West played into their hands by pouring in aid, immediately, and routinely robbed and sold for profit to buy more arms by the war lords. The battle of Mogadishu, detailed in the also excellent Black Hawk Down is largely left out, as it's so well covered elsewhere. One is left with a feeling that Somalia is a failed state in the truest meaning of the word - it's never really had a state during its existence, and war is what they do, conquerors beware.

Hartley's own descent into the Heart of Darkness concludes in Rwanda, with a genocide of industrial proportions, that barely registered in the western media. Hundreds of thousands of Tutsis were slaughtered by crude means, dull machetes primarily it seems - a no mean feat, practically.

Gremolata

Some flavor combinations, no matter how outlandish, just seem to work. Lemon rind, flat leaf parsley, olive oil and garlic? What sort of kitchen chemist discovered that?

Grate the rind of 5 unwaxed lemons.
Finley chop a generous bunch of flat leaf parsley.
Crush a clove of garlic.
Mix it all up with a good tot of olive oil, and a few turns of the pepper and salt mills.

Drizzle over meat stews.

Ten routes that rocked my world

I have climbed thousands of routes over the years, but looking back, some stand out more than others. It's hard to define what makes a route memorable. It can be its situation, the partnership, the line, the achievement; many factors play in. Even more interesting, perhaps, is the variety that a decade of memorable routes will throw up. How do you compare a full-on multi-pitch route in the mountains with a 3-move boulder problem? You can't, of course, except perhaps by the elation felt on completing them. My most memorable climbing experiences seem to coincide with junctures in the climbing journey. Perhaps this is not so strange; the first lead at a new grade is likely to stick in the mind for the added degree of commitment or mental reserve required.

Right Angle Variation, Gurnard's Head, Cornwall, UK (VS 4b, 4c, 4b)

Still one of the best routes of its grade in the UK, and a fantastic example of real 'adventure' climbing. The situation is truly spectacular - a narrow zawn gashing into the coast line, and a long traverse in over frequently crashing waves into the apex, and then, from a hanging belay, straight up a corner on jugs. From the opposite side of the zawn one can get an amazing view of the whole route, and it looks gut-wrenchingly intimidating, at least five grades harder than it really is. The rock - Killas Slate - is of exceptional quality, and the gear is great apart from a 5 metre section of the traverse leading into the hanging stance. I climbed this route during my first season of climbing, and leading the last pitch was my first proper lead. I remember belaying Pete on the second pitch watching two seals playing in the waves beneath us. A gem of a route, utterly inescapable, totally memorable. I went back with Sarah many many years later, and even as a much more experienced climber, it's still a top route.

Valkyrie, The Roaches, Peak District, UK (VS 5a, 4c)

A benchmark VS, and a rite of passage for any aspiring Gritstone climber. This is probably the most gibbered-on route on grit. Climb the crack up to the obvious stance. Now, up, and then down the massive flake. Step out, and then - yes, then what? 'That' move. You look down between your legs and see nothing but air. You try to find anything to hold on to, and there's nothing. Your belayer first tries encouragement, and then ridicule. You're stuck, no matter how much beta you've had, say, tales of hidden foot holds. It's only one move, and it's all a matter of balance. Suddenly you decide to commit, and it's easy. You look back and wonder why that took you so long. Out on the nose, and some glorious break-to-breaking later you're taking it all in from the top, with an exceptional vantage point to mock your second. If you took care with the ropes, your second will essentially be on a top rope.

The Hunk, The Buttermilks, Bishop, California (V2)

Bouldering, US style. This boulder is a real high ball, higher than most parts of the grit stone edges in the Peak District. A huge lump of granite with a sequence of Barclaycards stuck onto it. The crux moves are close to the ground, but as you move higher and higher, and the holds only marginally improving, it's a real test of character. A real achievement for Sarah aswell, overcoming her natural aversion to soloing by slapping a 'bouldering' label onto it.

Ordinary Route, Old Man of Stoer, Northern Scotland (VS 5a, 4c, 4c, -)

James and I were doing a lightning road trip around Scotland, and on our last day ended up climbing the beautiful sea stack Old Man of Stoer. Everything was perfect that day - even the weather. We'd been midged to hell for a few days, so walking in along the coast with a gentle breeze was a great relief. There was one party ahead of us, but they were almost finished. First man has to swim across, unless you have a boat. We weren't particularly well prepared for this. I stripped to my boxers, and sum across with a rope. The water was rather refreshing, shall we say. Not a long swim by any means. We set up a tyrolean to pull our gear over before James swam over. We pulled the roped through a belay device to get the water out, and set off. The stack itself is a kind of hard sand stone, very much like grit, in fact, of exceptional quality. The route itself is never very taxing, but on a stack we soon found that route finding was surprisingly hard without a topo, and only a vague guide book description. Pulling over the top we found that a crowd had gathered on land, giving us a healthy round of applause in the sunshine. Getting off was a real trouser-filler. We abbed off some old bleached tat at the top, landing on a ledge at the top of the second pitch. From here, you have to solo out along a break to a cluster of dodgy pegs, attach yourself to some more bleached tat and ab off. Firstly, soft-iron pegs in a sea cliff is a bad idea in general. Secondly, once these pegs are 40 years old and wobbly to the touch, you get a niggly feeling in the stomach. Still, there were lots of them, and it's body-weight only. No problem.

Serenity Crack/Sons of Yesterday link-up, Yosemite Valley, California (5.10d)

This was (and still would be) right at the limit of my ability. Fortunately, I was climbing this with a very capable partner, Bruno Marks. Essentially, 9 full rope lengths of crackwork, thin fingers to flared fist and off-hand. Technical crux (supposedly) the end of the final pitch of Serenity, but for us Euroweenies, the first pitch of Sons was the meat of the day. Flared off hands, as the expression goes. The crack is too wide to get any jams to stick, and too flared to be able to lay off. Every move a struggle to hang on. At the time, the sun was starting to get hot, and the chalk was never quite enough to keep your hands dry. Higher up things eased, and some of the best crack climbing I've ever come across anywhere was found. Once we abbed off, both Bruno and I were totally spent. A long day.


Crescent Arete, Stanage Plantation, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b or V0)

Small, but perfectly formed, the Crescent Arete boulder lies next to the path up to the main edge itself. The Plantation boulder field is packed with classics of all grades, and Crescent Arete marked the culmination of a very personal journey. This problem has everything. Impeccable line, with a very balanced difficulty. A landing that's awkward enough to demand commitment. You need a good grasp of arete technique to get up this one. I'd stood beneath it so many times, always in my mind walking up to the edge, wandering if this is the day. Feeling the starting holds. Trying the first few easy moves, but always putting it off. A bit too warm, or too damp, I kept telling myself. I've seen good climbers flounder on it. Then, one solo-marathon weekend I'd stared off doing Pebble Arete, another highball nearby, taking a fall from the last move landing on my arse on the mat, and then topping out on the next attempt. I soloed another 50 routes that weekend, and packing it in for the day wandering up to the Plantation boulders to meet up with Sarah. She and a bunch of others were trying Crescent Arete. After watching for a bit I decided to have a go, with a bit of encouragement and beta from Airlie Anderson I suddenly found myself first grabbing the 'thank God' notch and soon after pulling over.

The Arrow, St Govan's Head, Pembroke, Wales (E1 5a)

For some reason, it took me a long while to get to grips with limestone. This is a bit ironic (in the Alanis Morrissette sense), seeing that there's hardly anything but limestone around Bristol where I live. I learnt to climb on Gritstone, and it's a very different beast. For a gritstoner, limestone feels sustained, and cams won't stick very well. On the other hand, the grade scale feels much more linear on limestone. Harder grades mean harder routes, not necessarily more dangerous. Pembroke is arguably one of the few noteworthy cragging venues in the UK, on a world scale. Ok, it's certainly not Ceuse, Yosemite or Akh Su Valley, but it's got a certain something for the discerning adventure climber. The Arrow is sometimes touted as a soft touch for the Extreme, and perhaps this is true. It sees its fair share of epics for this very reason. It's got a poorly protected start over an iffy landing, but once the gear starts appearing, it's a fantastic romp. Never desperate, but interest is sustained to the end. For the non-limestone afficionado, it's a race against the pump in your fore arms.

Cenotaph Corner, Dinas Cromlech, Llanberis Pass, North Wales (E1 5c)

This route represented a first for me. Many firsts, in fact. First E1. First 5c. First lob on trad gear. First, second, and third lobs, actually. Me, James, Pete and Mel were camping and climbing in the Pass one of my first seasons, and I defy anyone to walk up to the Cromlech and not want to climb this route. It's the most striking line in the UK. A perfect open-book corner, one big mother of a pitch. It just begs to be climbed. Of course, I wasn't good enough to climb it clean, and looking back, it should have been obvious, but I don't regret for a second giving it a good go. It's deceptively easy the first third, and the temptation is to absolutely stitch it up, which I did. Two thirds of the way up, as the climbing starts getting harder, and the arms a bit weary I found myself out of gear, and had to downclimb to retrieve some of the more unnecessary pieces I'd placed. This could only go one way, and after running it out a bit, the lob came. After a few more attempts, I was spent, and lowered off. James set off on my gear, and managed to complete it, and I seconded it cleanly. It's an amazing place though, so many ultra-classics compressed into a small area.

Nutcracker, Manure Pile Buttress, Yosemite Valley, California (5.9)

Oh, the irony (again) of the name - Manure Pile Buttress. This 'pile of shit' would have been the star attraction had it been situated anywhere else but at the foot of El Capitan, the most famous rock face in the world. Nutcracker is perhaps the most classic of the easy Valley classics. Five or six pitches of glorious granite, and an amazing day out for me and Sarah. The route surprised with a crux mantle that felt exposed. Pitch after pitch of perfect hands and run-out slabs makes for pretty much the ultimate punter's route.

Flying Buttress Direct, Stanage Popular End, Peak District, UK (HVS 5b. Or is it?)

The iconic grit stone route, soloed by players in trainers, fallen off by punters and on everyone's grit tick list. The grade is a joke, really - an anachronism from the days when men were men, but it's stuck. A gentle-angled, but unprotectable slab leads up to the huge roof. A good nut can be placed, and a moment's respite whilst contemplating what's coming next. The span required to reach the lip of the roof feels enormous, but there is a nak to it. What follows next is the wildest sequence on grit. At full stretch, you get the left hand's fingers in the break to about second joint; good hold really. As you match, you're committed - come off now, and it's the slab below. Now cut loose and latch a heel up out right at the same level as your hands. If you're tall, you may have been able to place a crucial cam from underneath the roof, but for us sub-6-footers, it's easier placing the cam from the outrageous, but reasonably secure position hooking at the lip. A wonderful sequence of further hooking and stretching between the breaks enables you to reach a standing position, and onwards to glory. Peerless.

Finale Groove, Boulder Ruckle, Swanage, UK (HVS 5b)

The Ruckle is one of the most intimidating places to climb in the UK. The long free-hanging abseil access. The tides. The unstable nature of the rock, especially the exits. One single, massive pitch, Dorset's response to Cenotaph Corner, and although not as iconic, it certainly packs a punch. On the day Sarah and I climbed it, the sea mists rolled in soon after I set off, and put a dense lid between us, making it impossible to communicate. The loneliness of the lead was very apparent. The route's sustained, but never desperate, and puts to shame the ferocious reputation of the crag. The open book corner starts out wide, and gradually narrows to the top. An uncharacteristically strong line for limestone. Sarah had a terrible time following, as she struggled with extracting some of my pieces, and me being unable to see or hear her, was unable to offer any assistance.

So there you have it. Ten routes that rocked my world. Or eleven, actually. I could as easily pick a different ten.

The Great British Toilet

I've been living in the UK for many years now, but certain things you never quite get used to. The design of bathrooms is one of them. For the love of Christ, who's idea was it to have bog doors swing inwards? Just picture it - you're desperate to go, having just come off your plane, so you rush to the toilet cubicle - all 1 square metre of it. You have your bag in one hand. You push the door open, and it crashes into the seat. You have to squeeze in through a gap that's about 9 inches wide, and then do the tip-toe dance around, desperately trying to get the door shut again. After mission completed, it's back to more of the same. Now, the puzzling bit is - why? The problem must be obvious to anyone who's ever been to the toilet, and the solution bleedingly obvious - so why do toilet doors still swing inwards? Anyway - you managed to get out. Now wash your hands. You have two taps - ice cold, and scalding hot. The rest of the world cottoned on to mixer taps a generation ago, but here they are only just creeping into the consciousness. In the home, the height of fashion is to have a luscious wall to wall carpet fitted in the bathroom. Let me repeat that: Carpet. In. The bathroom. In households that contains men. Moving on to the toilet itself - one would think it's a solved problem by now. In the rest of the western world, it is. In Sweden they usually come with two flush buttons, one for big jobs, and one for little jobs. They use very little water, and just work, quietly and efficiently. Here it is so different. The most common model has a sort of lever that you need to push down hard in a pivoting kind of action. This mechanism just about never works. You push down hard, and get rewarded by a slight gurgling noise, but no water. You wait for the lever to slowly return to its starting position, and try again. The same result. After pumping the lever half a dozen times, if you're lucky, the contraption will sort of flush - a long-lasting trickle consuming lots of water, yet strangely inefficient in terms of the job it was designed to do.

Fast goose

A Barnacle Goose has smashed the North Sea crossing record, previously held by Godzilla at 8 hours. The goose Barbow completed the Scotland to Norway in a mere 5 hours; an impressive feat indeed.

The green dilemma

So, we need to be green. CO-2 levels are hockey-sticking, global temperatures are rising, polar ice caps are melting as a consequence, and the Maldives are sinking. To combat this situation, we're installing Argon-filled double glazing units, which may cut heating bills with up to 15%. Every little bit helps, eh.

In terms of energy generation, the choices appear to be pretty simple, really. All the greens agree that we need to stop burning coal, oil and gas. So, let's build some wind farms! Eh, no. The same greens complain that they represent an eye sore in the environments where you can conceivably expect some windy conditions. Well, let's make etanol from rapeseed or sugar beet, and burn that - it's carbon neutral. Sorry. Taking over farmland to grow energy crop will impact global food prices and make starving people more hungry. Fair enough. Let's expand the civilian nuclear program and get super-clean, efficient, safe, zero-carbon energy capable of supporting the planet's energy needs for generations to come.

No. The same greens are opposed to nuclear power for reasons that are a bit muddy at best, and at worst based on outdated dogma with no basis in either science or fact. Even the godfather of green, Mr Gaia himself, James Lovelock advocates the use of nuclear power for the good of the planet, but the hippy green movement resists on dogmatic grounds.

Cuddle a polar bear. Embrace nuclear power. Save the planet. Stop the west's oil dependency. Install Argon windows.

Choose life.

Vision thing

It takes a lot to impress me on the web nowadays, but this one left me slack-jawed:

http://flickrvision.com

Exchange

So, the house saga is actually nearing its completion - exchange today, and Well Done Sarah for doing all the heavy lifting. We're looking at moving a week today. This process was started in October..really looking forward to move now.

Meanwhile, there's been a push at work to join the various social networks that abound, both to be seen to be active around the web, but also to - eh, find inspiration for our own projects. Facebook is actually very good at what it does - streets ahead of Myspace and a bit more jolly than LinkedIn.

Chris's Swedish stag do was survived by the stag, and a good time was had. The water was cold, but we all managed to swim to Ayres Rock and back. The stag himself swam to the other side - it was touch and go if he'd manage to return by his own steam, and he looked remarkably blue when he came out.

Me and Sarah are spending the weekend back down at the Hatch ranch for some more gardening duties in preparation for the Hatch-Ayres wedding real soon now. I'm still suffering with tennis elbow, this time on my left, and a dodgy right shoulder that harks back from a fall skiing in Sweden.

Stef's whatever's in the cupboard pasta

Start boiling the pasta.

Slosh a generous amount of olive oil in a high-sided fry pan and pun on medium heat.

Chop a shallot super-finely and chuck in. Crush a clove of garlic and pop that in, too.

Two heaped tea spoons of capers and a handful of greek-style black, pitted olives (not the horrible waxy type).

Grind some black pepper and salt, and add a heaped teaspoon of Sambal Oelek.

Stir and simmer for a few minutes until the oil takes on a uniform reddish tint from the Sambal.

Drain the pasta, and pour the sauce over and mix. Serve.

52 km

We spent the warmest day of the year so far cycling to Bath and Back, 52km in all, from the house to my office door and back again. It took less than an hour there, and slightly longer back, due to an en route pit stop. Amazingly, that is quicker than my commute on public transport. However, 50k in the saddle has left my derriere somewhat tender.. I might need a pair of padded shorts in order to get the most out of this.

Norddalsfjall

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Sarah and Krister on the climb up Norddalsfjäll

Acres of powder

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Sarah ripping it up

Heliskiing the Arctic

P4050107.JPG
Originally uploaded by hvs.

We look down the steep gully. A rock ridge curves down its right hand flank. Krister, our guide, points up and over to the left. It's been snowing heavily the last few days.

- That slab will go if you sneeze. Do not veer out left, no matter how tempting it seems. It's just too perfect. Follow the ridge closely.

He pauses.

- Stay on your skis.

We're heli-skiing way above the arctic circle in the north of Sweden. Riksgransen is a skier's ski resort. There's nothing here, really. A small hotel, a ski shop, half a dozen lifts. Oh, and vast amounts of mountains in every directions. The off-piste opportunities here are unsurpassed, and being where it is, it's a bit of a secret. Compared to your average ski resort, this place is different. The skill level on display is by far the highest I've ever come across. Most people wear avalanche trancievers, shovels and probes, and that's just at the bar. This is a place where people come to ski, not to pose or to party.

We've travelled here firstly by flying into Stockholm, and then spending 18 hours on the overnight train, covering pretty much two thirds of the length of Sweden. You can actually fly from Stockholm to Kiruna, which would dramatically cut down the travel time, but it proved impossible to get a flight that would connect in a sensible way with our return flight to London. The train jpurney proved a bit of a drag, and for next time, if we can't fly, it's worth the extra spend to get a slightly less shared cabin. Ours was designed for six, but due to some loop hole, apparently you can cram however many children you want under the age of sixteen. Sleeping on a moving train is hard enough as it is.

Still. We arrived safely at Riksgransen, tired, but with high expectations. Although I'm from Sweden and have skied all my life, I've actually not been here before. They have two metres of snow here, and the season is really only a month old. Yet, it rains. It rains above the arctic circle, at Easter. Our hearts sink as we lug our skis and bags into the reception. The resort is shut due to high winds. It's lunch time, and we can't check in until 3pm. We're informed that normally we wold have been able to go skiing, but alas..

We spot a guy that sports the coveted UIAGM badge - a qualified mountain guide. As qualifications go, that's as qualified as it gets, regardless of field. We chat to him about the options for the following day, and he suggests half a day of off pisting from the lifts, such that we can get a handle on the resort, the snow conditions, but also so that he can gauge our abilities for any further fun and games. There are some awesome off-piste runs you can either get to from the lift system or by short walks or slightly longer skinned ascents.

We meet up the next morning at 9am. It's been snowing all night. Winds are still high, and the resort's shut. Krister appears and suggest that we drive a bit and go for a short tour - skinning up a hillside for a few hours and then ski down. We load our skis into his van, and are greeted by his dog, Vanja. We drive for about 40 minutes towards Abisko, and park up next to the road. Both Sarah and I have alpine touring bindings on our skis, meaning that we can release the heel. By attaching 'skins', that is sticky-backed strips of fabric, underneath the skis, you can 'ski' uphill. You can slide the ski forward, but not backwards. It's sweaty work, but not outrageously demanding - more hill walking than running. It's still pretty windy, and our ascent is punctuated by icy streaks that are hard to negotiate on skins. Vanja, the dog, is loving it. The aim is to reach the summit ridge, traverse out left to reach a colouir that should provide for some good sport on the way down. About two thrids of the way up it becomes clear that the weather is taking a turn for the worse. The wind is picking up, and the visibility that was already ropey is not becoming any better. We lock our boots into skiing position, and our bindings into downhill mode and set off. Two hours uphill effort is dispatched in 15 minutes on the way down. Even if conditions are not ideal, you get carried away by the remoteness, the feeling of solitude on the mountain.

The heli-skiing operation here holds near mythical status amongst Scandinavian skiers. There are literally hundreds of skiable peaks that can be accessed by helicopter. I've held the ambition to heli ski here for as long as I can remember, ever since a relative told me how he spent three winters here, heli skiing his savings and degree away. Unfortunately, the weather is still stormy, with horizontal snow, and flying's out. To add insult to injury, the lift system's shut as we amble into the lobby at 9.
Ski patrol is busy blasting, trying to make the piste safe, and an hour later the lifts open. We ski with Krister who's plan it is to show us some of the accessible off-piste. However, the weather is shite, and our moods sink. Then, at coffee, a gap opens in the sky, and Krister suggests an 'amble' up Nordalsfjall, the huge mountain next door. It's too steep for skinning, and at some additional 500 meters of vertical, a significant climb in ski boots and skis on the back. We ski on the flat to the base of the mountain. The weather is actually looking up, comparatively speaking, but we're the only ones here. We dismount and strap our skis to our packs, and switch our boots to walking mode. We set off up a steep, icy streak of hard snow studded with rocks. Krister is breaking ground, and we cover some impressive scrambling ground, occasionally diverting around cornices. We reach the summit plateau sweaty, but awarded with some impressive views of the Swedish and Norwegian alpine range for the first time. We lock our boots and set our bindings in downhill mode. The descent is pure off-piste ecstasy. Half a foot of fresh powder on top of whatever fell yesterday and the day before. There are many possible ways down from here, ranging from the insanely steep to the more pedestrian. We choose the classic route 'The Saddle' which follows the shoulder of the mountain down to the col and then follow it down to the north. It's perfect in every way. Perfect snow conditions and visibility. The whole mountain to ourselves. Skiing does not get much better than this.

The next morning the weather looks so-so, but Krister looks hopeful that flying may happen. There's a bunch of Brits here with SnoWorks who have been sold three days of heli skiing in Lapland, 15 lifts guaranteed. So far they've had nil, and they're getting itchy feet. Sarah and I decide to explore the resort, but by the time we've got our skis out of the locker we run into Krister who's had to cancel the flying as the weather's rapidly taken a turn for the worse. Sarah and I ski for about half the day, but it's no fun in a gale with zero visibility. At 1pm we start to head back and by the time we reach the hotel the resort closes.

Thursday, and I wander to the lobby just before 9. Weather's looking, well - I can see the peaks around, which apparently is the litmus test. The board says that the lifts are due to open at 10, once blasting work after the night's heavy snow fall is complete. Krister is not there. I go back to the room, and gear up. Sarah goes to the lobby, and I go to the ski locker to pick up our skis. As I come back up, I meet Sarah in the corridor, heading the other way, informing me that we're on.

Jan, the German heli pilot is already busy getting the machine ready. There are two groups of us, the SnoWorks crew and us. We, as in me and Sarah, won't fill the helicopter, so the remainder of the places have been taken by staff from the nearby ski lodge, Meterorologen, including Patrik, the sommelier. Sarah's never been in a helicopter before, and doesn't like flying on the best of days. We load up, and take off. Sarah's in the front between the pilot and Krister, and Krister's dog Vanja at her feet. She's looking worried. Krister points up to the left at our first objective; a huge rocky crest of a mountain that doesn't look skiable. After a short flight we're deposited at the top of the mountain, and huddle kneeling as the helicopter takes off to pick up the other group. As we put our skis on, Krister turns around and says, jokingly, as he faces the impressive vista in front of us.

- What do you think poor people do today?

We all giggle nervously, considering the hefty chunk this game has taken out of our wallets.

What follows is impossible to do justice like this. Acres of untouched, perfect powder, shared between six people and a dog. This takes skiing to a different level, and there is no going back. Krister and Vanja sets off, and we all pick our own patch and follow him down the mountain. Questions like 'is it worth the cost' are meaningless at this moment in time. Five drops blend into a seamless whole of powder, and we return to base for a beer.

Come Friday, and the weather's crapped out again. After yesterday's high, it's an instant come-down seeing, well - nothing, really - out the window in the morning. We spend the morning honing our avalanche transceiver skills. We manage most mock burials within the set 15 mins, but with one 22-min blot on the protocol. In the afternoon we meet up with Will and James, two Brits here for a heli-weekend, minus the heli it would seem. In the blizzard, we skin up a green run on the piste, and amble down. Yet, as Sarah and I have settled down with a few drinks and some Bittorrent-TV, the skies clear, and two groups manage five lifts in the dying light.

Saturday, and the weather's marginally better. Heli seems out, so we decide to head to the Norwegian side for a touring ascent of a suitable peak. We take off with Krister and a friend of his, Anna. As we park up the car, the skies are blue, and an incredible display of fiords and peaks is on show. We don skins and wander up the 800 metres of vertical up Rombakk Stotte, to be rewarded by possibly the best off piste run of the whole week back down to the mini bus. We head back, and go for a beer in the Meteorologen lodge. Jan's just come back from taking the helicopter for its monthly service, and suddenly it's on again. One space left.. after some haggling, I graciously volunteer.

Skiing will not be the same again. Nor will the bank balance.

Toys out of pram

After beating Andorra, England manager threw his toys out of the pram at the press conference, railing against the harsh words he'd received as the worst performing England manager of recent times. Fighting against the windmills in the traditional England manager fashion.

Qualification chances now on par with the England Rugby Union squad retaining the World Cup.

In other news, Norn Oirlnd beat Sweden to top their group. Outrageous.

The beautiful game

After England's dismal performance against Israel, manager Steve McClaren came out with the following words of wisdom:

People in football who I respect have phoned me and said the only thing wrong with our performance on Saturday was that we didn't get a goal.

So now you know. To beat the other team, you need to score more goals than them. That's the bit missing.

Bureaucracy

Coming from Sweden, I know a thing or two about bureaucracy, you know like - banks actually work, trains run when they are supposed to run, tax returns are returned, houses can be bought and sold without a year of infinite pain, estate agents don't lie..

Almost all of the above is true. I just put in that bit about estate agents to make sure you're still with me.

Anyway, the UK has many good things about it, but a working bureaucracy it has not. Which is kind of funny, seeing that they invented the modern civil service. Still. One of the many incredibly painful things one has to suffer here is the annual renewal of the vehicle tax disk. To get this in perspective, in Sweden we also pay road tax - no surprises there I hear - and display a tax 'rectangle' that sits in the middle of the back reg plate. Every year you get this delivered in the post box automatically with a pay slip that you can pay over the counter or on line. The authorities know if you've had your vehicle MOTd, taxed and insured.

In the UK the process - until now - was somewhat more involved. Get the car MOTd on time. Fair enough. Get the car insured for the same time. Car insurance is almost as much pain as buying a house. Instead of having car insurance being a standard commodity of very little variation, the market is complex, enormous and with a huge variance. The thrifty can save quite a bit if prepared to spend a few days playing insurance companies off against eachother. Wait for insurance certificate to arrive by post, together with reams of paper. Wait for the DVLA to send you a notification that your vehicle needs to be taxed. Now the fun starts.

In any other western civilization, the licensing authority will know if a vehicle is taxed, insured and MOTd (inspected). In the UK, it's up to a post office clerk to judge. Only some post offices have the authority to issue tax disks. So you trundle down in your precious lunch hour instead of going to the gym, queue for ages, and get to deal with grumpy and incompetent spotty-faced yoof, alternatively sour-faced old hag with God complex behind the desk.

It shouldn't be that hard. Three pieces of paper that has to match, and be covering the same date range. But it is.

- Wrong insurance certificate, mate.

I look at my certificate. It's got the car reg. It's got the policy number. It's got my name on it. It's the right date range. It's paid for.

- The one you need looks exactly the same, but has a stylised signature by the insurance company chairman at the bottom.

I look over my shoulder at the long queue forming, and at my watch, now 45 minutes of queuing apparently wasted. I plead to the man's sense of good will. The form needed looks exactly the same - it's got all the details required, can't we just chalk this up as a mistake on my behalf, slap my wrist and don't do it again?

Apparently not.

So I go out to the car, swearing, to pick up the other bit of paper that I accidently left on the passenger seat, and join the back of the queue.

After 30 minutes of queuing I hand over the papers to the man again, who studiously examines the same papers - bar the insurance certificate. He looks satisfied. He rings the till.

- That'd be 180 ponds please. Will that be cash or cheque, sir?

I've already got my VISA card half way out of the wallet. Somehow, I'd failed to recall that the post office (at the time) was a credit-card free zone.

- There's a cash point just around the corner, sir. You can just about see it through the window, just beyond the end of the queue.

Anyway, those were the days.

Today, I ordered - and paid for - my new tax disk on-line. Long live the DVLA who finally entered the modern era.

Vigeland Sculpture Park

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

We walked around the fascinating Vigeland Sculpture Park in Oslo. Hundreds of sculptures in cast bronze and granite depict primarily naked humans in all shapes and forms, culminating in a huge monolith made up of human forms. The theme is the 'circle of life', and the park is the frequent scene of both protests and frat boy pranks. Recently, some religious organisation walked around the park covering up all the 'nakedness' in a protest against the growing sexualisation of society. Curious in itself, given that the park is nearly 100 years old..

One of the smaller bronze casts of a boy is often stolen, apparently.

And, no, the photo is not upside down.

Will and Hilde

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Originally uploaded by hvs.

Will and Hilde got married in the lovely Maridalen Kirke just outside Oslo.

Water on Mars

An enormous amount of water ice has been discovered on Mars. Let the terraforming begin.

England-France

So this strange six-nations is continuing apace. Wales lost to Italy after some refereeing confusion in the dying seconds of the game. If it wasn't for if, eh. The Welsh may carp, but the stronger side won. Had anyone guessed before hand that Wales would be taking the wooden spoon, most would have laughed out loud. Good for Italy, and good for world Rugby. After the shoeing that England suffered in the hands of the Irish last round, no one expected England to be able to stand up to the French. Much had been made in the press of the return of 35yo Mike Catt to the team, and to the captaincy. Fair to say he shut up his critics after an emphatic win at Twickenham. Moreover, after a few years of dysfunctional play at number 10, suddenly Ashton's got three world-class players to choose from, given the performances of youngsters Flood and Geraghty. The forwards that got so beat up at Croke Park suddenly showed some grit and determination to totally dominate the field.

Is England back in time for the World Cup?

Leif G W Persson

Continuing my mission of trawling through the Swedish canon of crime writing on my daily commute, I've just finished Leif G W Persson's "Mellan Sommarens Langtan och Vinterns Kold" - approximately "Between the longing of summer and the mid-winter cold", a story that starts with the apparent suicide of an American freelance journalist, but eventually tells the story about the murder of the Swedish prime minister. Persson, like his friend Jan Guillou, writes about real events and real people with a paper thin disguise which makes it amusing for the reader that is aware of the comings and goings in Swedish politics. This book paints a very bleak picture of the Swedish police, and especially its security forces. Persson is a professor in criminology and a renowned expert on crime and the police, which makes it even more disturbing. In Persson's Sweden, the police is rife with racism, misogyny and incompetence. The book mirrors the very real murder of prime minister Olof Palme, complete with the incomprehensible obsession with Kurdish separatists that followed, which any thinking individual found ludicrous at the time. In Persson's novel the prime minister was killed by a psychopath heading up the external operations of the secret police.

I imagine that Persson's description of the daily grind and jargon of the police is fairly authentic, but it left a bitter aftertaste. The bad and incompetent float to the top, and the capable people look for early retirement.

Same as everywhere else, I guess.

Scarpa Spirit 3

Scarpa Spirit 3
Originally uploaded by hvs.

My new Scarpa Spirit 3 ski-touring boots. They have insets for Dynafit bindings (see the little metal indents at the toe), and a toggle allowing the foot to bend. Complete with thermo-fitted inners, they ski really well downhill and climb well uphill.

Skiing in the land that music forgot

Leysin, Switzerland, off-pisting with ISM. No snow when we arrived, and our hearts sank. We finally found the chalet and got to bed around midnight. Sunday morning and the situation looks no better with a gentle rainfall. We walk into town to pick up some touring boots - they're hard to come by in the UK, and we walk out with two pairs of Scarpas and a lighter bank balance. Rental skis with Diamirs, skins and ski crampons complete the kit list, and now it's started snowing - a lot. With zero visibility and half the day gone, we retreat to the chalet and in the evening we meet up with the rest of the people on this jolly and Steve Jones, our main guide. A diverse, but easy-going crowd. John A we already know from Bristol. A couple, Suzi and Jon, from Gloucestershire. Gordon, a pilot with BA. Robin, a (former) partner with one of the big accountancy firms, on a year's (!) gardening leave before taking up a position with another big accountancy firm. Steve's been living here guiding for 25 years. He looks the part - a wizened mountain man.

When we wake up the next morning, the Alps are covered with a foot and a half of fresh powder. We get introduced to Alex, a Swiss ski instructor, who's job it is to assess and tutor our powder skills. He's a very enthusiastic fellow with that polished style that only ski instructors have. We have a fun day in the fluffy powder, including a sobering session in the avalanche park where we try our hands at locating 'victims' using our beacons. It's difficult, and we don't manage to find any within the stipulated 15 minutes. The bell goes, signalling time's out - for the victims. Effective beacon search requires practice.

The next day Steve has to shoot off to London for a funeral, so we're left in the hands of another Swiss guide, Yvon, for the next few days. Yvon is first and foremost a guide - he takes people on remote and spectacular mountain days, rather than teaching skiing - eventhough he is is a qualified ski instructor.

"I can either ski powder off piste every day, or teach kids the snowplough" he said, and I can't say I disagree.

Yvon takes us to neighbouring Diablreret and we head off on some proper drops in a full on tempo. Excellent skiing indeed. We finish off with a long powdery run through the trees into the village of Villars before heading back. Next morning sees warmer temperatures, and Yvon takes us on our first ski climb to the summit of Tour de Famelon, 2137m. I've never used climbing skins before, but I have done lots of x-country skiing in my youth, so I'm familiar with free heel skiing. It's a strangely hypnotic experience, and we've set off in a moderate tempo with Yvon breaking trail. It's steady, and sweaty, work without being as aerobically taxing as say running. We climb the 500-odd metres in about 1.5 hours. There are some significant skills and fitness differentials within the group. Add to that a factor 4 avalanche danger, Yvon chose the easiest possible descent route. We wound our way back down into the valley in complete alpine splendor and solitude. Reality hit us with a bang when we're about to head for a Vin Chaude and look up towards where we'd started our climb - one side had totally disappeared in a slab avalanche - a safe distance away from our tracks, but still. Yvon says with a wry smile that he'd seen it go but thought he'd better not mention it until we got back down.

During the night I appear to have contracted some stomach nasty, and sadly skiing is over for me for this time. Thursday saw more rain, and I didn't miss much by all accounts. Today, Friday, Steve's taken the group to Diableret for another skinning ascent.

And what is it about the Swiss and the poodle-haired 80s krautrock heard at every lift station?

So, in summary, ISM is cool. Conditions started out great, but deteriorated into slush and rain. Ski touring is definitely something I'd like to do lots more of. Avalanche beacons require lots of training. Diahorrea and puking go poorly with skiing.

Warney

I've talked a bit about Shane Warne, the world's best spin bowler in the past on this blog. Here's the evidence:

Swimming

Due to my weekends now being planned out until the beginning of the summer, I've had to abandon my Saturday front-crawl clinic at the Bristol Uni pool. I fully accept that I will never be a great swimmer, but the lessons have been most excellent, and I wish I could carry on. I got to a point where I can actually swim from one end of the pool to the other - and breathe. Several things have struck me in this endeavor. Firstly, learning a complex physical skill is actually quite hard as an adult, which has opened my eyes and I feel humility and respect towards the number of friends I've dragged up and down the ski slopes over the years with claims that it's really quite straight-forward, honestly. Secondly, it's effing hard work, almost certainly as a consequence of my rubbish technique. One lap in the pool feels harder than a 10k run - I don't seem to be able to swim in a relaxed fashion.

A new gym has opened very close to work, with the added bonus of a swimming pool. It's only 20m, but that's perfect for me to paddle up and down at lunch times trying to put to practice the lessons I've had.

Weekends

Weekends are too short to make up for the suffering that is the working week. Spending the last few nights on an air mattress in near arctic conditions, my dreams were remixing the Arn Saga - which has been my commute companion for the last few weeks - and several of the angst-ridden projects running at work. Most peculiar.

The Truth

We were driving up the motor way towards Leicester when Sarah suddenly exclaims:

- I love the fact that you're Swedish. It's a challenge compared to an ordinary boyfriend.

What can you say to follow that?

Friday

It's Friday again.

On the news this morning there was the astonishing revelation that the secret to staying fit and healthy is to eat a healthy diet, do exercise, cut down on booze and fags. If nothing else helps, cosmetic surgery. A new magazine has been launched to that effect. Another magazine is to be launched based on the observation that bears do indeed shit in the woods. Plans are afoot for the one-legged duck swims in circles edition.

Elsewhere it was revealed that the UK is the worst country (just after the US) in the western world for children to grow up. Sweden came in second after Belgium of all places.

Ski trip is drawing closer. Snow situation still iffy, but plenty of 4k peaks available from where we're based. Can't wait.

Gold

If you're of a certain age, you may remember the seminal New Romantics Spandau Ballet. All frilly sleeves and gold jackets. Moves are afoot to make their perhaps most loved creation, Gold, be the new National Anthem for the UK.

If you're a UK resident, support the petition here.

Valentine

So, Valentine's Day - the height of imported commercialism. Just Say No. Sarah and I are going down the wall for a spot of climbing, hopefully reaping the benefits of everybody else being out, thus having the wall to ourselves.

Had some good friends over for dinner last night, and W told a story from the front line of the anesthetist's working day. A colleague had been trying in vain to give a pregnant woman an epidural, but she was thrashing about making the procedure dangerous.

- Now, if you don't hold still, I might miss your spine and stab the needle in the baby's eye.

She held very still after that.

House of Cards

How's this for freaky coincidences - spotted the 'House of Cards' box set on a friend's book shelf the other day and borrowed it. Been enjoying it over the last few evenings, and then today it's reported that Ian Richardson has passed avay suddenly.

House of Cards is a masterful display of Machiavellian cunning and political scheming of the highest order. Ian Richardson is (was) superb as Francis Urquhart, Tory Chief Whip, in the post-thatcher years. Used to shady back-room deals, he decides to take on the PM by fair means or foul. Mainly foul. He is an obviously evil man, but with the weird charm and charisma of a Greg House or Richard III. What he doesn't know about wielding power is not worth knowing.

Yet another outstanding BBC production.

Strength, power, power-endurance and endurance

It's difficult to train for all-round climbing, as the demands are sometimes conflicting. Become stronger, and you'll lose your endurance. Train endurance and you'll end up weaker. But the sticking point is almost certainly 'power-endurance' - that is, being able to do moves repeatedly just under your max without pumping out. The hardest boulder problems I've done are aeons harder than anything I've ever encountered on a route. There are of course other components playing into this - a long trad background has lead to an aversion to anything but onsighting, and I've had to actively repurpose my brain to a sport-climbing mentality. But I've never attempted anything harder than UK Tech 6a on a route, say about V1 or V2, yet bouldered up to V6. That's an astronomical difference, and I'm not even a boulderer.

I can only conclude that I probably have sufficient power, but lousy power endurance. Or, somewhat less palatable, maybe I'm simply too scared to climb to my limit on trad, and too lazy to work sport routes?