Raging Against the Dying of the Light.

 

‘Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.’ Jennifer Yane

 

‘Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.’ Samuel Ullman

 

‘For age is opportunity no less than youth itself, though in another dress, and as the evening twilight fades away, the sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.’ Henry Wadsworh Longfellow.

 

‘Peter Pan had the right idea.’ Jake Barton.

 

We’re parked up. Free camping, which sounds so much more acceptable than wild camping, I always think, on the shore of the Mediterranean. Ten metres from van to sea, give or take a centimetre or two.

I swam in the sea yesterday. A hot, sunny day and the blue water was SO inviting. I managed about 100 strokes and slithered ashore like a beached blue whale, chilled to the bone. This morning I woke early and sat on the shore to watch the dawn. When it was light enough to see, the source of the splashing I’d noted with some curiosity was revealed. Way, way out to sea, a lone swimmer was churning the water into foam. Early mornings aren’t good for me. I make rash decisions with the arrival of a new day. So it was today. I slipped on my swimming attire – not to be found in any exotic swimwear catalogue – and headed for the same rock from which I’d plunged bravely into the water yesterday. The water looked and even smelt cold. I looked again at the undaunted swimmer in the distance and did what every red-blooded male would do: sat on the rock and lowered myself slowly into the water. That tricky depth, twixt waist and chest, and certain effects were swiftly noted. The water was cold. Very cold. I’ve swam in lakes fed by glacial water in New Zealand. Not a wimp. Even so.

Extreme cold sends messages to the body of an adult male. Half the readership will know what I mean. Those delicate yet necessary gonads don’t like the cold. They retract to a place of safety. Without overstressing the extent of this retraction, it was the first time I’ve had three Adams apples!

A gentle pace or two was quite enough. I stood as if impressed by the majesty of the deep, just in case anyone was looking and watched the swimmer draw near.

‘The bastard’s wearing a wet suit,’ I muttered through chattering teeth and wended my way ashore.

The lone swimmer was from a van parked twenty metres away from our own and had arrived on the previous day. We’d shared a beer last night. Jimmy. A good bloke. He waved as he walked by, unravelling the top of his suit.

Male, bearded, tall, young, slim, lithe, fit and in my wife’s view, very good-looking. Rather like myself.

Oh, come on. Two out of eight ‘aint bad.

They’re a couple from Sligo, ‘doing’ Europe on a shoestring. The best way. Their van’s crap, but they don’t care about stuff like that. Neither do I. Vegetarian, possibly vegan, they appear to only eat anything that’s brown. Dark bread, the weight and feel of a house brick, pulses, lentils – you get the picture. I swear I heard them farting from 20 metres away last night.

I made tea for my lovely wife who is a delicate creature and has to be eased gently into a new day and donned my usual sartorial splendour.

‘You needn’t imagine I’m going anywhere with you looking like that.’

Hmm! I rummaged around, found alternative choices which gained grudging acceptance, and stepped outside to check on the sun.

My swimming partner (ahem!) was seated on a canvas chair, tying shoe laces. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy a bit of a climb, mate?’ he called. ‘Me and Susan are off out for the day with a couple of mates. Wanna tag along?’

“Sure,’ I replied, for some reason. ‘Where?’

He pointed out to sea, to the left of where we were parked. The Penon de Ifach dominates the coastal resort of Calpe and I’d climbed it before. Twenty years ago. It’s a sheer cliff, rising out of the sea, with a gentler, but still demanding rear ascent being far less strenuous. They’d be meaning a hike up the easy side, I reckoned, but didn’t say any more, just popped inside to say what I’d arranged.

‘You mad old bugger,’ was the initial response.

‘Not going to be doing anything stupid,’ I responded.

‘Oh yeah? Remember last time?’

Oh. That. Yes, I had conveniently forgotten. Twenty years ago, I realised serious climbing was not anything I ever wanted to do again. I’d climbed the sheer face of Penon de Ifach without any problems. If you call a first visitation of vertigo and being very glad of the company of three expert climbers, not a problem. There are probably worst places to have your first attack of vertigo than dangling several hundred feet up a sheer cliff, but if they exist I don’t want to know about them.

‘Susan’s going, so no way they’re going up the cliff.’

‘Never mind bloody Susan, just make sure you don’t.’

As ever, it was wise advice.

Just over an hour later, three men and two women stood gazing up at the rock. ‘Bloody hell, it’s big from down here,’ I thought.

Three wise men or two real men and a big Jessie?

A tough call.

I abandoned any pretence at a heroic mien and announced I’d be taking the easy route to the top. The men stared in disbelief and one of the women sniggered. I pointed to my conveniently damaged toe, still slightly swollen and spectacularly multicoloured. Four pairs of eyes gave it the brief glance that was all it deserved.

‘Right, so it’s just the three of us up the rock and Jake and Emma going the long way round,’ announced Jimmy. I’m sure I detected a sneer when he said ‘Jake and Emma.’

Bloody Susan, ace mountaineer, peeled off her top and revealed a tee-shirt bearing the logo of a climbing club of some renown and the sort of physique that would make her a viable candidate to play the part of Lisbeth Salander. Even the tattoos were in place, although I couldn’t see a dragon image amongst their number.

Emma and I trudged off to begin our walk of shame while the others prepared to do battle with that dauntingly sheer wall of rock jutting hundreds of feet in the air.

‘Didn’t fancy it, did you?’ Emma asked. ‘Even without the toe, I mean.’

I shook my head. ‘I climbed it a few years back, but no, I didn’t fancy it.’

Note the deliberately vague ‘a few years back.’ Emma, it transpired was nineteen and I was hardly likely to say ‘I climbed it before you were born,’ was I? She already assumed me to be prehistoric.

We walked through the turnstile, just to keep count of numbers as it’s free to climb, and began to walk uphill. Now I’m not saying the ‘easy route’ has anything like the severity of the ‘direct route.’ That’s practically vertical with a couple of tricky overhangs thrown in for good measure. I remembered that second overhang very well now I was actually here.

I had a good head for heights and had done a fair amount of climbing up until then. When vertigo hit me it was like being hit over the head by a shovel. One minute you’re fine; the next you’re whimpering, clutching precious hand holds and trying not to look at the dizzy drop to the sea pounding against the rocks far below.

Emma was young, fit and excellent company. It’s a steep climb with a few sheer drops but there are handrails and, at the tricky bit crossing a crumbling piece of rocky outcrop, a very welcome rope to cling onto.

We reached the top, at last, and Emma took photographs of the surrounding area while I lay on my back and watched my chest going up and down. The toe was fine. It was throbbing a bit, but no more. Apart from lacking a bit of puff, the rest of me was fine too. Even the much operated upon knees were doing okay. Not great, but okay.

 ’Arty-farty’ photo taken from inside a cave partway up the rock.

After a considerable period of time, the triumphant and decidedly smug ‘proper climbers’ arrived and we had a drink and ate the food Susan had not only thought to bring, but also carried up a sheer rock face. I was rapidly going off Susan.

The walk down, all five of us taking the gentle route home was easy enough and four of our number managed it with the ease of youth; laughing and joking all the way. My knees began to hurt twenty yards down the path. By half way they were creasing me and by the time I fell into the back of Jimmy’s van I was a dead man walking.

My wife wasn’t remotely sympathetic. ‘Silly old bugger,’ was the gist of it. No more mountain climbing, I decided. Not even little humps of rock sticking out of the Med. I still love mountains, but from now on I’ll stick to just looking at them.

I used to have a mountain in my back garden. Well, almost. I lived for several years in South West France, a dozen miles from the Mediterranean, but only a few miles from Spain, as the crow flies. Mount Canigou dominated the view from our terrace. A proper mountain, well over 9,000 feet high and snow-tipped even in summer.

I took this photo a few weeks ago when we passed through the area. For some years I woke up to that view every morning. The trees in the foreground are peach and apricot trees and at blossom time their splendour set against the mountain is stunning.

Canigou isn’t just any old mountain; it’s the spiritual symbol of Catalonia. As newcomers to this village on the border we were told by locals, ‘we’re not French, not Spanish, we’re Catalan.’ They take it seriously. My lovely friends who live there have three children at local schools and they learn Catalan, as well as French and English, from the very first day. Catalonia, from Perpignan to Barcelona in rough terms, evokes a greater loyalty than either France or Spain, the notional ‘host’ countries and young boys wear their Barcelona shirts with equal pride on the French side of the border.

This national obsession with all things Catalan reaches a peak at the summer solstice when thousands descend on Prades for the Festa de Sant Joan (Catalan Spelling). Thousands of people climb the mountain and remain there overnight, congregating around an enormous bonfire and watching the dozens of similar fires burning brightly on every hilltop for miles around.

Ten years ago, I made the last of my three ascents of Canigou for the Festa. We climbed past two ancient monasteries, recently restored after being damaged by an earthquake well over five hundred years ago, yet still accessible only by hiking up a brutally steep path.

From the summit the lights of Barcelona were clearly visible and the feasting and drinking went on all night long.

It’s a long slog up the mountain, but not really hazardous and even quite young children make the ascent. Could I do it today? Of course I could. Would I notice the difference between now and ten years ago? Absolutely!

None of us are what we once were, but that doesn’t mean we have to accept it without question. There are certain things I don’t do any more, like playing competitive sport, and I came to terms with that quite recently. I coach a rugby team, occasionally, and in my mind I’m still a player. The writer’s adage, ‘show rather than tell,’ has never been more appropriate than when I’m on a rugby or football pitch. I can still do, of course I can, so why do I feel as if I’ve been run over by a truck afterwards? I never used to feel like that.

Age creeps upon us all. It’s inevitable. I’ll fight it though. Keep pushing my battered body to do things it doesn’t really want to do in the knowledge that the cardigan and slippers years cannot be deferred for ever. I hope it will be long time before that fateful day dawns. I’m travelling. Doing what I love to do. Having adventures and loving every minute of every day. Just don’t ask me to climb any bloody mountains. It’s my sore toe, you see?