The Three Peaks

On explaining that, on this occasion, we were not climbing the three peaks for charity, a friend asked "then why do it?" and I was a bit confused.

In case you are not initiated, the idea is to climb the highest mountains in Scotland, England and Wales within a 24 hour period. This may not seem a lot until you consider they are hundreds of miles apart and have a combined height of 11,178 feet (that's 3407m in metric, thought lets keep to imperial as it sounds more impressive). There is little I would prefer to do with a day then jump around some of the most scenic parts of the country with a couple of mates and some treks thrown in!

In the light of this, the best response I could come up with was “Why on earth not?”

BEN NEVIS 16:45

Excited, rearing to go, we pull into the car park at the foot of the Britain's highest mountain. Hurriedly throw everything out of the car and prepare for the climb. Mental checklist - sunnies (tick), rain-coat (tick), walking stick (tick), sustenance (tick)...... boots (bugger). Showing the talent that flows deep in my veins I had left my trusty decade old walking boots in the airport pub. Those beauts had accompanied me to 50 odd countries and been lost for the sake of an early morning Guinness.

My response to the not so impressed reaction of Christina and the laughing of Dave, was to jump back in the car, put pedal to metal and some how return within 20 minutes with a brand new pair just waiting to blister me raw. Total shop time 4 minutes, leaving behind £60 and some laughing sales staff. Always be prepared.
Sweating already and in a minor fluster we set off at 4.45pm. We had 24 hours and were off in a hurry, marching up the gentle slope of Glen Nevis in the muggy late afternoon. Climbing Nevis is at no point particularly strenuous and, on the marked path, is in no way technical. It is rather a case of putting one foot in front of the other for a few hours and keeping your fingers crossed that the heavens do not open.
After a short while the path cuts back on itself repeatedly as it begins to zig-zag its way up the lower slopes. The route crosses numerous little streams and, as you take the wide arching turn up to the mid-way plateau, small waterfalls cascade across the adjacent ravine. From the minor plateau you have your first sight of the wider Highland surroundings. Beyond a lake lie green mountain after green mountain stretching as far as the eye can see. This is all set off by a patchy, changeable sky. At one point we even had some sunshine!
As the criss-crossing started again on the ever more rugged slopes of the Ben proper, a chunky Rescue Helicopter blasted its way up the valley and lingered on the path just above us. Some poor fella had hurt himself and was winched up and away for treatment. A reminder that, on the one hand, even in Britain mountains can cause problems and, on the other, this is not quite rural Bolivia, rescue is close at hand.


Now really into our stride we lolloped up the mountainside, only stopping for evidence that the proverb "don't piss in the wind" has something to it. In the last km we even encountered the last snows of winter and plenty a trekker clumsily slipping on the sludgy, steepest part. A couple more false summits and we were on the top of Britain. 4406 ft (1344m) up and only at the final moment in the clouds.

A satisfying feeling, but with a mind to the ticking clock we only stopped for a “high funf”, some sugar and a photographic tribute to our naturism inclined mate Mik (available to friends, not family).

The descent was swift and dramatically beautiful. It is probably nothing to do with my Highland routes, but this part of the world really captures me and crashing one foot after another down the mountainside with views of loch, ben and glen was a complete pleasure. My mind ventured back to the strange question, “then why do it?”
Only slightly worse for wear we stripped off the sweaty clothes, grabbed a chippy and piled in the car. I took the wheel for the first couple of hours through the southern Highlands. As the light faded we skipped past Glen Coe and the desolate moors which lie to the South, before flanking Loch Lomand. Windy, dramatic roads all the way. By the time we made it to Glasgow I was happy to hand over to Dave and catch a couple of hour's shut-eye while he breezed the motorway to Cumbria and the Lakes of North-West England.

SCARFELL PIKE 03:45

I awoke with a jolt. Dave pulled over, gave me a whack, complained about listening to the same Foo Fighters CD on repeat for the past however many hours and clonked out. Still in the dead of night, a full moon glimmered over a landscape breaking up into hills. Another hour or so on, the journey took a surreal twist as we crossed into the National Park and onto an 8ft wide road strewn with sleeping sheep. Mild sleep-deprived hysterics ensued as I barely avoided playing DEATH with a black sheep via an emergency lash to the break pedal. Black sheep with the habit of sleeping in the road in the dead of night do not stand much chance in a Darwinian world, so come see them while you can.

Connecting back up to what can still only be called a minor road we wound through many a little village into uplands and slowed with the out of place three peaks traffic which frequents this part of the world at this time of year. Arriving at Wasdale head, we shoved our boots on, carbs in and set-off through a low rising field in the murk of pre-dawn.

In a slightly dazed state I pondered whether what was soon to be beneath our feet was really a “mountain”. I mean, a mountain, in little old England.

Over a common swing-gate and along a dribbling stream. As if as a punishment for my recent pondering, the terrain quickly steepened. As the path broke off from the stream, the calf-stretching incline did not relent and Christina muttered the first real questioning of the day's activities. She was not feeling well, but soldiered on up.
With every minute the light was changing, brightening and opening up a broody landscape before us. Looking back from a resting point, the narrow valley fell steeply and opened up onto an oblong lake surrounded by green, jutting hills. In the far distance, just visible, the ocean.
Eventually, the slope slackened off as the path wound round to the left. Thoroughly contended sheep munched on the thick grass as panting trampers trundled past. By this point we were starting to recognise many fellow three-peakers from Nevis. The occasional smile and odd word accompanied our steady pace up to the lengthy, rocky escarpment which leads to the peak.
For me, the highlight of the climb came as we crossed out of the narrowing valley and onto a saddle looking over the far side of Skarfell Pike. At that instant I fell in love with the Lake District. As far as my eyes could see, dramatic, immovable hills guarding shimmering waters. The delicate colours of dawn lighting up the mists and patchy, low-lying cloud.

Now rather exposed, we were buffeted by cold winds as we criss-crossed the rugged final ascent. As we stood atop Scarfell Pike a simply breathtaking panorama was serially opened and closed by fast moving clouds passing right through us. I was ready to call this a mountain! Only 3209 ft (978m), yet self-evidently a gem of wild mountain landscape.
We were in high spirits on the trek down, making time for the odd fuel break to take in the views. Apart from a couple of twisted ankles inflicted by the steep lower section, we were rearing to go when we made it back to the car exactly 4 hours after we started. 7.30 am.

One serious stretch, smelly walking boots off, a new set of underwear and we were off. I was happy to grasp a modicum of sleep as Dave took the wheel through and out the windy roads of the Lakes.

SNOWDON 12.45

A nudge awake, a bottle of caffeine and I was back at the wheel for the motorway. The nearest thing to a panic came and passed with a small section of stand-still traffic as we approached Wales somewhere near Chester. Once I was able to put my foot down the 24 hour challenge seemed very doable, but the small matter of an England v Germany football game was in some doubt. England's World Cup destiny was on the line and, thanks to my walking boots left in pub shenanigans, I was pushing my luck to get a look in. It was happening all over again... http://walter82.blogspot.com/2006/07/race-to-quarter-finals.html

Turning in from the Irish Sea, we parked in the village of Llanberis, jumped in a taxi and, having been dropped off at the bottom of the Miners Track, set off at a brisk pace along the flanks of Snowdon. It was 12.45, 4 hours until the 24 was up (and 2 hours 45 to the game).
I think we were all feeling pretty good once our muscles and joints had warmed up – the stop start nature of the three peaks does somewhat piss off cold body parts each time they are called in to action – and more gorgeous scenery made the task easier. In many ways similar to the last two back-drops with, to put it crudely, reasonable sized green chunks of rock towering over bodies of fresh water, it was refreshing how each peak differed in atmosphere and impact. Snowdon was all together more imposing than Scarfell, yet more tamed. Not as wild as Ben Nevis, but more sheep for company. Perhaps it was the full light of day and the knowledge that we had two peaks behind us, but the largest mountain in Wales breezed by as we took the circuitous track past imposing relics of mining days, small lakes and our fuzzy white friends.
The going got a touch tougher when we reached the high rock face which leads up to the summit, but we managed the zig-zag route without too much fuss once those of us with vertigo overcame their fears (perhaps vertigo is the wrong word, being as it was a rational fear of heights!). Fast, whipping fleeces of cloud and strong winds added an extra layer of interest to the very final part of the route, but we were soon walking past railway tracks to our goal.

I have to admit, the sight of a small white hair laden Victorian train passing by as you are about to reach the pinnacle of a “challenge” is a touch disheartening. A great feat of engineering no doubt, but somewhat out of keeping with a cloud covered mountain peak. Such oddity fitted in well with the sizeable sea-gulls which haunt the summit.
Putting this all to one side, we stood on the top of Wales and were pretty damn pleased with ourselves. Three peaks and a whole lot of driving in just a bit over 22 hours. No time to savour though, as the imminent football and a chocolate bar or two got us going.
Despite some wobbly knees, we made our way down as quickly as we collectively could. Thinking ahead, I had bought a small analogue radio, which relayed to us the first half of the so-built up football game. This added a nice dimension to the last hour as we fulfilled our new role of World Cup intermediaries to half the trekkers we passed on the way down. Unfortunately, except for a smiling German and the odd bitter Welshman, our news did not improve people's afternoons.
Putting in a final push and the hint of a jog we bundled into the car park from whence we began at 16.15 on the dot. Two pieces of good news. The taxi was waiting for us, ready to take us to a pre-warned pub for the last part of the match (Germany scored two goals during the brief 10 minute radioless taxi journey). Secondly, and in the long term far more satisfyingly, we had completed the three peaks challenge in 23 hours and 30 minutes. A little tired, but none of us asking the question “why?”

Schweiz in Spring

A plan to jump off the Verdasco dam with two Germans, a Swiss and a fellow Brit fell apart. The other Brit and I consequently found ourselves with a ticket to Zurich and no plans. A refreshing feeling. When squeezed by the pressures of work and responsibility that creep with the years it is easy to plan away every spare minute. It is done with the best of intentions. When time is precious there is a badly felt need to assure every iota of it is used to its max. A balance though has to be struck and landing in the stereotype of a regimented city I felt I had grabbed back something momentarily lost. Spontaneity.
Over a day and a night wandering around the sights of this tick-tock town it grew on me. From the gray, quiet place we first encountered, the sun broke through, the people broke out and scattered themselves on the banks of the [Zurich Sea]. Sunbeams make people radiant and change a city. You see it in London. The clothes get shed, the muscles relax and the smiles break out. Against its rigid reputation I ask anyone to walk along the Zurich lakeside for an hour or two in the early evening on a bright spring day and not be taken in by the place. Green park-side banks littered with people kicking back, watching the small white sail-boats skirt amongst the swans.
The town is blessed with a mixture of impressive churches, grand town houses, the odd ginger-bread street juxtaposed with bits of modern monstrosity. I suppose nothing out of the ordinary for a central European city, but, sipping a coffee by the side of its crystal clear river, I noted a distinct lack of stress. Just what I needed.
Or maybe that was the 'til dawner we pulled. Highlights include not even scoring a goal against the best table football players I have ever met (an obsessive people the Swiss), being nodded into a far too up its own arse night club by some random stylish ladies we met on the street and ending up in a thoroughly disgruntled, but welcoming Spanish bar. From the slurred banter it was clear Latin and Germanic culture do not always mix well. These flickering memories pale in comparison to a surreal moment of Alice in Wonderland proportions. Had someone slipped us some potent hallucinogens? No? The beerhaller was full of an ageing but energetic “oom-pa-pa” troop dressed as exaggerated Royal Box frequenters of Ascot. (think My Fair Lady on 'shrooms). Feathers, top-hats, boas, monocles the lot. Inane grins intimidated and Dave and I looked at each other confused. Apparently this was a traditional post-Carnival activity.

The Swiss are an odd but, in this instance if not others, entertaining people. Tradition has told them to be momentarily off their respective rockers, so, as good, conservative people that is just what they do. And in some style.

INTO THE ALPS

Somewhat under par, we jumped on a train to the hills. Where exactly? A place called Braunwald. Neither of us had heard of it before a Zurich'er had pointed us in its snow-capped direction the day before. Our passage took us along the long, narrow. glimmering lake, before skirting off into the rising, narrowing valleys. Before we knew it we were in postcard Alpine territory. Steep fertile valleys cut by carbolt blue glacial streams and sprinkled with wooden houses that combine a twee matchbox quality with necessary hardiness.

The particular selling point of Braunwald, apart from the stunning mountain scenery bit, is that is car free. Apart from the little John Deer Gator, a miniature fire truck and a diminutive taxi, the nearest thing to an automobile has four legs and goes moo.

On arrival, we made it all of 50m's to a cafe, dropped the pack, took some much needed refreshment and soaked it all in.

Simply, unashamedly spectacular. Peering down over steep green slopes, far below, to a valley floor scattered with mountain villages and rising up to the crowning glory. Approaching from our right, the valley climbed across the panoramic to a sheer end. Jagged, snow-capped peaks extended across the far side of the valley and cupped around its demise, increasing in their precipitous nature as they neared our very own piece of connected rock. Confused with the dullness of sod all sleep, a headache and non-diminishing elation, we sat for what felt like hours. To top off the scene, a herd of cow-bell clanging mountain bovines munched their way past.

The following day was spent trekking a circuit up and around the mountain-side. The views only got better. As we transversed up the hill-side we crossed fields carpeted with wild flowers. We had lucked out. The same breaking of the weather on our first day in Zurich had broken the winter hold. The snow had within a couple of days been banished to the peaks and spring bloomed in yellow, blue and red.

The inclined fields sloped up to a crown of sheer cliff, cutting up to the last of the forests. The water newly freed from the clutch of winter crashed over these cliffs in a multiple of waterfalls.
Passing (or being passed) by troops of healthy Swiss, we eventually broke off the main path to touch the snowline. A couple of km's high, the predominant flowers were now white crocuses. To my delight, an illusive marmot showed himself. Again, we sat and savoured.
Via a dodgy ice-strewn tunnel we broke out onto the other side of the mountain. A fresh, different panoram, leading down to an alpine lake. Perspective rammed home when, on commenting to a local how special this place is, he replies with a moustachioed smile “this is normal in Switzerland”. Lucky, lucky people. We trekked down and back to normality. Refreshed.

Cornwall

A few days in deepest Cornwall reminded me that you do not have to cross continents to find outstanding beauty. This outstretched limb of Britain, flailing out into the wild Atlantic to the island's most Southerly and Westerly points is as spectacular and awe-inspiring as any stretch of coastline I have seen around the world. Proud granite cliffs and jagged rock formations stand proud yet battered against high, violent seas. This show of force is broken by golden sand beaches. Some are small coves sheltered by arms of rock, others wide expanses stretching for miles. In all cases the waves keep rolling in.

Humanity has prevailed here for millennia. Ancient standing stones in green fields divisioned by Medievil stone walls. Crumbling 19th century mine-heads remind of tunnels reaching under the sea for copper. Picturesque fishing ports show rare instances of man taming the wilderness with beauty. Thoughts of smugglers abound.

I love this place. My great-granfather is bured just up the road and I feel at ease. A different country to where I abode. People take time, are humble and friendly. A reminder of what is important. Lying atop the wind-swept cliffs staring past the wild-flowers to where land and sea collide, my mind drifts with the swooping gulls.

New Year’s in North Africa

Leaving the dunes of the Sahara, we took a more easterly road back towards the Atlas, passing through hundreds of miles of arid land before reaching the momentarily lush Draa Valley. Flanked by red, white and cream striped hills, we took a short walk through the mesh of little tilled fields shaded by date palm. On departing, comedy ensued as Dave took the wheel. A close-shave, a shout of "pull-over" and a joke or two later Dave relinquished control.

The most spectacular part of the journey was saved until last. Climbing to higher ground we flanked a huge canyon, strewn out of brown-rugged rock. In the most shaded recesses, a puddle or two of water were all that bore evidence to the scar's culprit. Goats and their herder clung to the steep near side. The full moon hovered on the horizon as the last night of the decade fell.

On we plowed to the city of Ouarzazate, where we hoped to find some fiesta to see out the naughties.

Bon Anneé Morocco

The night really started when Ramsay arrived back from his hammam (bath) "experience" with Aziz. Few things have made me laugh more than the terrified, vacant look which hung on Ramsay’s cleanly scrubbed face. Anything that does that to an army man has to be interesting.

Knowing it was coming, I had been winding him up for a couple of days. It had been a truly unique experience for me a couple of years ago and I left him nervous as to what surprises could be at hand on entering those scorching men-only steam rooms. The answer, being scrubbed until your skin peels off, stretched and massaged by a huge barely-clad Moroccan man, while gasping for air in the close, vapour filled atmosphere. I had never felt so clean as when I emerged from the hammam, a sentiment Ramsay shared with his now baby-bum smooth face. Ramsay described it as a life changing experience and, for all his pale demeanour on returning, it was evident that he enjoyed it!

Time to tuck into the remainder of the beers which had accompanied us into the desert and back and psyche ourselves up for an unknown party venue of whatever type might be available in a North African desert town.

“Bob” was our chaperon for the night, starting at a strange bar/club which was approximately 90% men accompanied by limited atmosphere. Despite a couple of people strutting their stuff, the place had a weird feel of no-one quite knowing what they are doing. Clearly a percentage did not frequent bars and others were only their to impress. A distinct lack of comfortable charged vibe. We moved on…

Drink in hand we raced through the streets of Ouarzazate desperately trying to find a place that would (a) let us in, (b) not be bad and/or (c) if (b) was not possible then at least somewhere interesting. Despite some race-car driving from Bob and mad dashes to various closed or full places we celebrated the coming of the new decade in a car park. Still a nice moment.

Not the scene from our car park
With little remaining hope we managed to scratch together what dirham we had and obtained entry to a dark basement dance-floor. A good choice indeed. Our expectations were flipped wrong side up and satisfyingly blown away.

Good music, vibe and females in a mid-desert Moroccan club. OK, most of them were prostitutes - the unsubtle pimps removed any shadow of doubt with their greedy manipulation - but not all. I got the impression that many of the blokes splashing around cash were returning from France to see their family and friends. We spend so much time obsessing over how immigration is changing our safe little Western European countries but rarely consider the effect in the other direction – empty towns and reverse cultural influence on return.

Back to the ladies. Unless you have travelled in a country where many women are covered up and kept out of your way, it is hard to convey the interest of a place where females are out in the open, being sexual beings. For some it seemed unnatural, like this was their first time in such a club. The confidence of others showed it was there new way of life in a changing Morocco. The blokes were similarly split between tongue hanging-outers and too cool for school. The world is converging.

Snakes and Sweat

Once we had made it back over the Atlas by windy country roads, we had the pleasure of staying with Aziz and his young family.

After an evening dominated by a huge tagine, we awoke to trek the undulating hills surrounding his village. A beautiful place stuck in a past age. Shepherds tend their flocks, farmers plough their fields with beasts of burden and manual labour deepens the local quarry.

Long rambling conversations with Dave are rudely interrupted by an agitated viper. Rasping along with purpose, Aziz jumps after it brandishing a large stone. Crash on its back. Mightily pissed off it writhes fiercely, looking for something to pierce. I jump back. Another stone, another smashed vertebrae. I pick up a stone and with less skill or force land a further blow. Aziz with a huge grin goes to pick up the snake and offers it in our direction. Not funny. "Don’t you bloody dare!!" comes out my mouth and Aziz puts the snake back down with a big grin. A bit of adrenaline for the day.

The snakes been Aziz'ed!

As a just reward we go the local hammam, get skinned by a big Moroccan man and sizzled. I think you can be too clean. As on my last visit, a unique and rather terrifying experience.
As we head back to Marrakech I consider how everyone seemed to know everyone in this place. Wonderful hospitality and generosity. I feel humbled.

Discussions and thoughts

As this short Moroccan trip went on and I got more of a feel for the politics, we had some pretty interesting and thought provoking conversations with locals. For instance, on Israel. It was so interesting to hear Moroccans detail to me how the BBC is a puppet of the Jewish state. Strange, because most of my Jewish friends claim the BBC is pro-Arab. Can’t people please make up their mind which way it is biased!

They start 'em young on politics in Morocco.....

Later we moved on to the topic of women and what arose was a feeling of tension. Modernisation is slamming into a very traditional country. Once they are married, women are constrained to the home. They have their distinct role and it definitely does not involve doing the sort of things those ladies were doing in the club. I just wonder how bumpy the transitional path will be between these two different and clashing worlds.

Racially it is even more complicated. A co-existence of four tribes, all mixed up with the legacy of French colonial times. While in public locals expressed how well the Berber, Touareg, Arabs and Bedouin co-existed, in private there were references to high tension. The Arabs and the all mighty King hold on to power with a thirsty grip. Other are left with to make a life from the scraps.

My final night in Marrakech showed in all its glitz the juxtaposition of this diverging society. Everyone in jeans at a packed McDonalds. Guys and girls checking each other out on the street corners. Flashy lights and a "British Pub" that beyond selling alcohol had nothing in common with either Britain or a pub. This can not and does not easily co-exist with the very traditional country that surrounds it. Parts of the old town have barely changed for centuries.

A rich elite are leading a consumerist Western lifestyle. It is in your face and can’t but create tension with the majority squeezed out of the political system. A place of real potential, but little link to the masses.

In the recent past one person described Morocco to me as the progressive hope of the Arabic world, another as the next Yemen. To reconcile these two potential futures is beyond me.

Much to think about over a final cup of Arabic tea aside Djemaa el Fna.