Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 30

Being without a bike, I took a taxi home. Vanessa had given me the rest of the day off after calling me to her office for a debrief. She has a very raucous laugh, and when Nigel mentioned the “I know where it’s been” comment, she brayed.

“Do yourself, and us, a big favour, Steph. Don’t ever, EVER, try a comment like that in Court. I shall await the report from IG with interest, but you will remember I did mention bigotry last year. I do believe you are learning what that means. I hear you had another incident a couple of days ago.”

I did know what she meant. A flight in from Tel Aviv had brought a group of Hasidic Jews, and when I went to examine the luggage of one man he had objected, on the grounds that I might be unclean. By that, of course, he meant menstruating. I am sure he thought I was mad when I grinned happily and called Stinky Pete over to do the bag search (and seize 4,000 cigarettes)

“If you can understand my reasoning, I took it as a compliment. You may not consider me to be a woman, Vanessa, but he did!”

Vanessa looked at me for a little while, then said softly “Prove me wrong then, Ms Jones. Prove me wrong. But for now, well done with IG and just go home and wash the stink of that scrote off you. As long as my staff do no wrong, I look after them, and you know that. See you back here tomorrow. Sign for the full day.”

As I stood up to go, she astonished me by hugging me tightly.

“I value you here, we all do, more than you seem to realise. You just carry on being yourself and there WILL be no problems”

“Being myself is all I ever wanted, Vanessa”

Once home I made a simple sandwich and then busied myself doing a few bits of housework, but my mind was still spinning, so went out into the conservatory with my fiddle and started to play. Every now and then, my right arm would brush my breast and remind me of Vanessa’s words, and those of the old Hasid. In just under a fortnight I would be 35, half of my Biblical “allotted span” and I jokingly wondered if I could have a refund for the first half.

I flashed through the “Mooncoin Jig”, then tried to remember Peter Knight’s “Robbery with Violins” but that needed a lot more work, so I dug out the Northumbrian Pipers’ Association tune book, and Bewick’s, and just went through those sight reading for an hour, or so I thought.

A fingertip drawn slowly down my spine brought me back to Earth, and I lowered my fiddle to kiss him home.

“What would you like to do for your birthday, love?”

I had thought about this, and really, really wanted to go away somewhere, and not Sá®r Benfro again. It may sound odd, but I also did not want bikes there. Geoff’s training for PBP was getting intense, and most weekends he was doing either a 400 or a 600, and that meant nights away from our bed. I also wanted to do some climbing, or at least hill walking, if possible. April….Peak District or North Wales? Many more short routes in the Peak, but proper mountains in Wales. So, watch the weather forecast, pack the camping kit and rock gear, and hope.

I cooked a tartiflette for our evening meal, with, of course, a salade savoyarde, and Naomi had found from who knows where a couple of bottles of Apremont, so everything was very Alpine. I had to go through the interview in detail, and then fetch a towel for Geoff when I got to the bit about knowing the wife. I should have let him swallow first, I suppose. We finished with a pavlova from Naomi, just to break the food chain, and then we were off to our beds, Geoff being very friendly. Hmmmm. Camping means tents, tents have no soundproofing.

Before we went away, I was due my appraisal meeting with the surgeon, so it was going to be a busy fortnight. The next morning I passed Geoff the Ogwen Valley guide book and suggested he look up a few routes that might interest him. Easter was going to be a late one, so we would be up there before the holiday madness started, and could fit in almost a week away.

I was early for my appointment. To say I was nervous would be more than an understatement. This was going to be worse than the IG Suits, as I could always have found another job, but getting another life tends to be difficult. They are in short supply, only one to a customer, and I had already had a couple of near-total-loss moments. I don’t know how well I can explain it, but meeting this man was like being a prisoner on death row and seeing the pardon arrive, and wondering if it would get to the death cell in time. That may sound like a rather dire simile, but I already considered Steve dead, and the longer I lived after rebirth the more I realised how close I had really come to losing it all. Death row was fitting. I had lingered there for years and years, just waiting for recklessness or alcohol to throw the switch.

Now, you know I don’t talk about certain aspects of my life, and I certainly will not be going into details about our discussion. Suffice it to say that I had enough of the necessary tissue to form what was needed and wanted, and he went into a rather long and gory explanation of the risks, which he seemed to enjoy detailing. I have always wondered how many surgeons actually relish the whittling, loving the fact that they get to slice and dice real people and get paid for it.

Put those thoughts away, Steph, not really the sort of thing to be considering pre-operation. He did give me one boost, though, which was to agree that as soon as Raj signed me off he would be “delighted” (his word) to remove what Raj called my “nads”

Apparently, that would give me something to look forward to at Christmas….

The van was packed, after a last argument about “just one bike, please” and we were off around the M25 to the M40 and Wales. The forecast was mixed, and while I love climbing on gritstone, places like Stanage are miserable in the wet, whereas at least Eryri would offer serious hillwalking whatever the weather. Geoff had also done very little multi-pitch stuff, and there are some lovely low-grade long routes in the Ogwen to try him on. I wanted to see what his balance was like, so I thought we might hit some thin slabs rather than just jug-pulling. Failing good weather, I would take him along Crib Goch and see how his head for heights was.

The M40 is, oddly, a motorway I enjoy, but for one very good reason. As you pass High Wycombe and head for the big rock cutting seen on the opening credits of the comedy series “Vicar of Dibley, you are in kite country. Red kites, Milvus milvus, a bird of prey once extinct in England and only just clinging on in mid-Wales. They have been reintroduced in a few places around Britain, and along the M40 they are thriving. I once counted 15 in the air at one go from a coach at 70mph.

No, I wasn’t driving at the time. I was, er, misbehaving. There is a way of relieving one’s bladder on climbing club trips by coach that involves donning a sit-harness, clipping some slings and karabiners onto the stairwell rails and getting the driver to open the door while moving….

Please forget I told you that one….

Apart from the usual crap around Birmingham, it was a smooth trip, just a stop at Oswestry services on the A5 to stretch our legs and change drivers so I could do the twisty bits I know so well after Geoff had done all the motorway work.

We did, however, pull over before then, as we were both having a major Little Moment passing the place where we first met, and we needed some form of open display of affection, and didn’t feel that road safety was best served by full-on French kissing at 60mph.

After Oswestry there is the countdown of junctions to the bridge at Yr Waun, and the border. Croeso I Gymru, yn wir, ac yn iach i ti, hiraeth. I decided to take the old road rather than the new bridge, so we could look up at one of the two canal aqueducts in the area, and soon we were climbing the long hill from Llangollen with Dinas Bran and the Eglwyseg to our right. I had a favourite spot to treat Geoff to, if the weather was clear, and it was. After Cerrigydrudion and the long undulating straight, I pulled over by the Geeler Arms and showed him how the whole of what the English call Snowdonia is laid out in a panorama from that bend in the A5. We could even see where we were going to be camping, almost.

After Pentrefoelas the hills close in and there is some twisty narrow stuff by a river gorge, until Y Ffynnon Arian and the descent to Betws y Coed. Over the Waterloo Bridge, past the tourist tat shops, swoop the bend by Rhaeadr Wennol, the zigzag over the bridge by Ty Hyll, the pubs at Capel Curig, which I noticed Geoff filing away for future reference, and then the great and classic view of Yr Wyddfa and Cwm Dyli.

I think the view in the Ogwen is finer, though, and as we passed under Pen yr Helgi Du and Gallt yr Ogof, the pure visual drama of Tryfan came into view, towering over Arthur’s lake. I turned into Gwern Gof Uchaf , we pitched the tent, had a brew, and then just sat drinking in the beauty of the place. As well as our tea, of course. Afterwards, we stretched our legs properly by a walk down the road caught between the foot of Tryfan’s North Ridge and Llyn Ogwen, home of the Lady of the Lake. I pointed out some of the routes on the Milestone Buttress and Bochlwyd we would try, and then we arrived at the Idwal car park, where we grabbed another brew.

“Dau te, Dafydd, heb siwgr, os gwelwch yn dda”

“Dwi’n eich nabod chi?”

“Dwi’n Steph, Dai, Steve….?”

“Duw! Rwyt ti’n ferch rwan?”

“Merch o hyd, merch am byth, dwi’n gobeithio”

“Bugger….heb siwgr, na?”

And that was it. A paying and regular customer remains exactly that to a businessman. We took our teas and I led Geoff out of the car park to the viewpoint overlooking the waterfall. I had a secret place to show him; we crossed to the North side of the road, where a small slate stile let us cross the wall and come back under the bridge built by Telford on Roman foundations. Tucked inside the modern road bridge is an old packhorse bridge of jammed slabs. We sat with our tea, as the water thundered and foamed underneath, watching a dipper working the outflow of the lake just above.

Even in my worst moments as Steve, how could I have left all this?

The sun was low as we walked back and cooked up some pasta and meat stew to dump on top, and, as it was too early in the year for midges, left the tent open to allow us to watch the light change over Y Garn and Foel Goch to the West. We had eschewed sleeping bags this time, as we had the van, so our bed became a wonderful softness of duvets over a couple of sleeping mats. At this point, dear reader, I will draw another veil over the sight of two happy people snuggled up together. And pray for no rain.

Translation:
Two teas, David, no sugar, please
Do I know you?
I’m Steph, Davy, Steve…?
Ye gods! You’re a girl now?
A girl always, and a girl forever, I hope
Bugger. Without sugar, you said?

http://www.sandrock.org.uk/Images/tryfan.jpg is the view from Gwern Gof Uchaf campsite.

http://www.heartofsnowdonia.co.uk/gwernuchafcamp.htm

http://www.regweb.co.uk/HTdocs/Packhorse%20bridge%20Lyn%20Og... the packhorse bridge

http://www.livefortheoutdoors.com/upload/461198/images/Crib%... the classic view of the start of Crib Goch, Yr Wyddfa (Snowdon, 3,561’) in the background

http://www.terracirca.com/Walesweb/Ed%20Crib%20Goch%201.jpg the narrow part of the ridge