Packing up

by Nick Bullock

The back windows of my Citroen van run with streaks of fresh, clear rain. The image outside is blurred as if looking through melting glass. Heavy rain drops boing and bounce from the steel exterior of the van, the noise echoes and increases a thousand fold inside. The constant pounding of the rain is interrupted by the odd heavy drop that has collected on the thin Pine needles of the ancient tree my van is parked beneath.

A clap of thunder and a flash of lightening give Boy Wonder and myself a visual treat. The gloomy wooden and cramped, stuffed and smelly, festering interior of the van is lit for a second and then, in an instant, returned to gloom. A car passes by on the small lane we are parked at the side. Tyres swish, cutting Parrelli furrows. Headlights turned on, bright, even though it is only 11am. The yellow-sodium glow of the lights, spotlight the bouncing of the water from the hot tarmac road.

Spain, the land of promise. The land of sun, hot rock, sizzling skin, San Miguel, browned-beach beauties, armed robbers on the run and cheap red wine.

Boy Wonder and myself had escaped from the end of a winter season in the Chamonix valley in France and all that the melting ski-slopes bring. We had driven for 9 hours, passing tollbooth after tollbooth. Passing the turning for the Ecrin. Passing the turning for Briancon and Le Grave and the ice falls. Passing the turning for Gap and the miles of sun-bleached limestone. Through the centre of Grenoble, fighting the traffic, constant glances into wing-mirrors. The outside, the inside, behind, the French driving manual’s opening paragraph of anything goes, goes!

South, to the land of shorts and flip-flops, fish and chips, Costa del this and Costa del that, south, 9 hours without a break, the Citroen gasped as the temperature increased, nearly as much as our anticipation. We escaped the brown patches in the middle of white ski runs and the white patches in the middle of brown faces belonging to ski-bums. South, 24 hours of solid sunshine and a haven of warm rock, time to get strong. Time to get thin. Time to get bored sat in the back of the van waiting for another rainy day to end.

I didn’t foresee this when I packed up. The picture I conjured in those dark days of imprisonment was one of freedom, sun, fresh pine, brown skin and long hair. I left my home of 15 years and allowed strangers to move in, quit my job as a P.E. Instructor in the Prison Service, quit a pension, holiday pay, sick pay, security, routine. I didn’t imagine rain when I gave up £25000 per annum, regular training in a gym with M.T.V. Brittany, Kylie and Christine all strutting their stuff.

Boy Wonder and I drove the steep winding hillside deep in the heart of the Spanish countryside. The olive groves dripped with the fresh rain. The vin yards terra-cotta pan tile roofs ran gushing water. The Citroen struggled to turn another hairpin, struggling, climbing the hill to reach our final destination of Siruana. The promised land of orange, golden, red, white sun bleached, lizard crawled rock.

I didn’t expect the rain. I didn’t foresee this when I gave in the regular pay-cheque of £2000 per month, the gripes and moods of the boss. I would walk the streets of Leicester, to be bumped and jostled, avoiding the litter and dog turds, avoiding another ex-convict who despised me, not for who I was or what I stood for.

I didn’t imagine the rain when giving up a wash, a shave each morning and a regular hair cut. Deodorant, toothpaste, council tax, water rates, phone bills, blocked drains, T.V. License, hoovering, dusting. Cleaning the house, cleaning the car, fighting for MY car park spot.

I didn’t foresee the rain when I returned home at night from 13 hours of imprisonment, without sun or light, without wind or rain, without space, but with anger, hostility, tattoos, aggression, pain, aggression, aggravation, intimidation, aggression, aggression, aggression….

I didn’t foresee the rain as I battled the British motorways through jams and crashes. Following the caravans along the narrow twisty lanes of the Peak District and the Sunday drivers along the coast road into North Wales only to arrive in bad weather, to sit and wait and then return having done nothing but spending a fortune on the tax-inflated price of fuel.

Boy Wonder and I sat in the van that first day. Between downpours we checked the crags. We called into the camp-site and in stuttered Spanish ordered 2 Espresso Coffee’s, bought a copy of the climbing guide, talked to fellow climbers, found a place to park and call base. Sorted the food and kit. Sorted the climbing gear. Read a little and dreamt a lot.

Day 2 at Siurana the rain stopped. By midday the mist that had swept up from the deep heavily forested ravines surrounding the plateau that the tiny, ancient village is perched upon, thinned and cleared. Brakes in the swirling cloud revealing the most stunning rock walls, orange, Tiger striped, rippled, pocketed. Free standing rock pillars, acres and acres of spruce, pine, larch and shrub. The woods dried and in doing so the wild Rosemary and Thyme gave off a heavenly scent. Small birds twittered and large birds soured high into the clearing sky.

Boy Wonder and I skipped puddles and climbed. Not well, but we climbed. Day 3 dawned clear and we climbed and explored the miles of open countryside. Day 4 dawned and we climbed and climbed in sun, donned shorts, donned flip-flops and climbed. Day 5 and 6 dawned hot, clear, sunny and warm and we climbed.

Day 7 dawned even hotter but thin skin, aching muscles and smelling arm-pits begged for a rest so we moved the van to the side of a large blue lake and washed away the grime from 4 days of climbing. Shoulders hurt from the exercise and the searing sun. We re-stocked on green food and bread, without the hustle and bustle and the super market tussle.

We returned to our spot beneath the pine at the side of the lane. We cooked a meal with fresh veg and added fresh herbs growing all around the van. We ate fresh olive oil bread and drank red wine. We walked to the campsite for an evening coffee and checked out the hand scribbled topo’s describing the newly developed crag we had mistakenly climbed on day 3.

We returned to the van in the dark and we laughed and scoffed at the supposed grade of the climbs we had thought a lot more difficult on the new developed crag, then we retired for the evening ready to return to the fray in the morning. Only the clouds had now returned and in the distance the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightening was cause for concern.

I didn’t foresee the rain all those months earlier, it never entered into my dream, but sitting out the second day of rain in a week, maybe it’s not so bad after all.

The End.

Nick Bullock would like to thank Mammut and D.M.M. for supplying gear that withstands the wet.