CHAPTER 13
The year turned, the seasons shifted, and no doubt Doctor Derek and Mister Simes continued to fight for dominance in their bony cave. Caro and I simply carried on in that same traditional way, both of the clubs taking enough of our spare time to make life worthwhile in other ways.

Sundon and Cutenhoe continued to receive our custom when Keith’s shifts allowed, and our bikes and outdoor kit earned their keep. The climbing club’s Christmas dinner that year was in Langdale, a very decent spread put on by the Sticklebarn in Langdale, a row of holiday let cottages putting up our very motley crew and a minibus delivering us there. It was Winter, and we were in the Lake District, so the weather could fairly be described as ‘moist’. That didn’t really matter, for we had waterproofs along with a rather different approach to being out in the wet.

We bouldered on the rocks below Scout Crags, did a few easier ‘big boots routes’ on the crags themselves, and Caro and I spent a very wet day, even for the Lakes, walking up to Stickle Tarn and then down past Easedale Tarn to Grasmere and a solid pub meal before sod-it-we’ll-get-a-taxi back to our cottage and a shared hot shower. There was snow on the higher tops, but all we had was rain, thankfully without wind, and when the bus arrived back in Luton, almost everyone in it was asleep. Not my usual means of travel, but I was not complaining. I was home and dry, in both senses.

We had a night at the other club just before Christmas itself, which was entirely floor spots from members, with no paid guest artist. All the usual traditions were in place, such as silly Christmas jumpers in the worst possible taste, as well as a surprising quantity of food brought in my ourselves and other members. Penny surprised almost everyone by bringing in a real, and very solid, Christmas fruit cake, which didn’t last the first half of the evening before it was devoured. As the last slice disappeared, Pen leant over and whispered to Caro, who laughed happily, but it wasn’t until we were home that she showed me the package Pen had slipped to her.

“She made four cakes, lover mine. Said she was fully aware of the predatory appetites of our fellow lovers of traditional music”

“No she bloody didn’t say that!”

Another happy laugh, and she held up a hand.

“Guilty as charged. She actually said ‘I know what bloody gannets this lot are’. Four cakes, she said. One for us, one for Alan and Auds, one to keep at home”

Suddenly, she was completely serious, and I saw her insecurity asserting itself yet again.

“Love, what did we ever do to deserve such good friends? I mean, what did I do? You’re just you, just yourself, so yeah, that bit’s obvious. Just, well… Boy or girl, love? Which?”

Subject changed before I could reassure her, so I just went with the flow.

“Doesn’t really matter to me, love, as long as they’re healthy and happy”

“Yeah, but with a boy, you’d get the chance to take them climbing, teach them how to play football!”

“Football? Really?”

“Point made, yeah”

“And girls can climb as well. Don’t be sexist!”

Another grin.

“But you love it when I’m sexist! Well, something that starts with sex, and ---”

We didn’t get out of bed till after the following noon, and no, it was certainly not a waste of a day.

New Year was seen in at Keith and Penny’s, with just a few other friends, and then it was into the long grey weeks until the pussy willows started to bring a little hope to the world. We spent a few days in Capel Curig youth hostel, walking through the rain until it turned to snow at the higher levels, and on one horrible valley day we slogged up the CEGB road to the top of the Carneddau and out to the shelter on Foel Grach. Not only was it deserted that day, but the drift of snow against the door showed it hadn’t had a visit for some time. Even with our stove running to make a fresh brew, the inside was like an icebox. There similar conditions on Moel Siabod, when we went up to do some polybagging, and I almost broke a tooth trying to bite into a frozen Mars bar.

Bring on the better weather. We filled our time in other ways, which included the usual pedestrian excursions to Cutenhoe and Sundon villages.

We got so fed up with being locked in that we bit the bullet and endured the holiday traffic to spend Easter at North Leas. Keith was on the wrong shifts, so in the end it was just the two of us, joining Alan and Auds, who had made a longer stay by coming up the weekend before, as well as doing us a favour in carrying my climbing kit in their car. While three of us jammed our way up thug routes, or balanced across thin slabs, Caro walked the length of Stanage to the North, or south past Carl Wark and Higgar Tor past Millstone to Owler. The April weather was kind to us, and while the Little John was packed, they knew us and managed to find us somewhere to sit to tuck into their generous portions of tasty food.

The Popular End and Robin Hood area were heaving with group trips, all in identical helmets, queuing up Grotto Slab and Flying Buttress, so we ended up by High Neb, exploring routes that saw far less traffic, and avoided Froggatt and Birchen completely. One afternoon was spent on Higgar Tor exploring our personal pain limits, at least as far as shredded knuckles were concerned. It’s fifty-foot leaning block, the angle leaving to top overhanging the base by fourteen feet. Climbing is mainly by handjamming. The result should be obvious, which is why we left it to the very last day of our mini-holiday.

A last night in the Little John, and everything packed away. Alan came over as we struggled to get our tent into its bag.

“Mike, you doing anything else in the week?”

“Work, that’s all”

“Well, why don’t you leave your camping kit with us as well? Motorway’s going to be shit state, and filtering would be easier without so much luggage”

“You’re a star, Al! I can get all we need in the tank bag. What do you think, love?”

Caro grinned.

“No argument from me—more room to wiggle, no rucksack. Just make sure you keep the front door key, love. And the petrol money!”

The bike felt so much nicer as we made our way down towards Chatsworth, sure-footed on the bends and a delight to ride. We climbed onto the moor past the end of Chatsworth Edge, averted our eyes from the temptation of Birchen’s, and left the wildness behind as we entered the edge of Chesterfield. Brampton was as grim as ever, but we fought our way past the local traffic until we finally made the A617 and then the M1.

It wasn’t that bad in terms of traffic, apart from the usual bit near the edge of Nottingham, where everything slowed down. There was another hold-up as we hit the hill after Loughborough, lorries queuing in the middle lane to pass some old Commer van with a large trailer and a stacked roof rack as it ground up the slope.

I knew what was coming, so we took a break and a duel stop at Leicester Forest, Caro almost sprinting to the ladies while I ordered two teas and a couple of ‘two for the price of three’ sandwiches to tide us over until home. We had around seventy-five miles left, but that included the delights of the traffic arriving from the M6. We spent as much time stretching and relaxing as we could before Caro simply slapped my thigh.

“Let’s get it done, love, and bagsy the first bath!”

“Okay. I’ll just drain and then we’ll get rolling. We got any milk at home?”

“You go and pee, I’ll do the milk run. We need petrol?”

“Be a good idea. Not filling up, not at these prices”

“Get moving, then!”

I put a tenner’s worth into the tank before we rejoined the M1, and just as I expected, it wasn’t that long before we hit stationary traffic just before the two motorways merged. That was the bit I always hated, where there was a choice between filtering between the lanes of stationary cars and lorries, or sitting watching the engine temperature climb until the fan kicked in and blasted hot air over my legs.

Five miles of stationary or slow-moving lumps of metal, the occasional driver pulling to one side to let us through, along with others who did exactly the opposite. We were just coming up on some foreign-plated articulated beast when it happened.

It wasn’t one of the trailer tyres but one from the rear offside driving wheel, I saw it as it blew, and the chunk of rubber hit me full in the chest before I could do anything. The bike shimmied, and I only just managed to keep it upright as horns blared around me. I felt something missing, and reached behind me to check.

Caro wasn’t there.