Walking up the Mountain

In line with the last entry, this is another recycle of a piece I wrote for The ACRE FourThought.  The other guys contributions on the subject can be found here.


*****

Uppa Mountain

I don't often walk up the mountain, but it is an activity I have come to value highly, and is something I always come back to.  There are many reasons I've gone walking up the mountain, and many things I hoped to get out of it when I did so.  I plan on muddling my way through a clumsy explanation of some of these occasions and outcomes.

As a child I lived on a street that sat on a hill, with numerous pathways surrounding that led up the mountain.  From the age that I was allowed out to play on the street we, myself and friends, would extend our play up the mountain.  I grew up clambering up grassy slopes, weaving through tress, getting muddy and covering myself in bruises.  I knew the mountain.

Taking a walk alone, I would explain the aim as escapism.  Finding some time alone.  The slow work of walking up a mountain is the perfect backdrop for a change of pace, the perfect context for working through problems that are playing upon your mind.  Sat or lying idle, the mind is a maudlin thing, obsessing over the negative, allowing mood to fester.  If you're in a bad place; frustrated, depressed, angry or similar, idleness rarely helps.  Swimming or exercising are often used to the same ends as I use walking up the mountain, I suppose, I just happened to have a mountain up which to walk.

It was probably when exams started seeming more important that I first started walking the mountain alone.  GCSEs most likely.  They let you off school when the exams are near, and I'd been driven to meltdown due to day after day of housebound revision.  It's a type of academic claustrophobia that I imagine a large number of people go through.  So when I couldn't stomach any more, I walked up the mountain.

I wouldn't consider myself a very visual person; I find that though I look at things, I hardly ever really see them, I'm not being attentive in that way.  When I walk a mountain, my eyes tend to stick to the path, watching for where my feet are going, so that I don't slip on loose stones, or set off a trap, or startle a cave bear.  It's only when I stop and actually explicitly take a look around that I see much of anything.  I'd assume to some extent we are all awed by a huge sweeping perspective view from on high, and that's always a part of a walk that I find hugely satisfying.  The rest of the walk tends to remain in my mind as a blur of colour or texture; vivid, warm and green in sunlight, cold, abstracted and desaturised in the rain.

I tend not to have much in the way of exercise in my life, I suppose I value the mental over the physical and that has manifested itself in the way my day to day activities unfold.  This was particularly true for me as a teenager.  I read, played games and watched television, I'd fallen out of any sport.  Walking up the mountain was possibly the first case of me wilfully putting myself through, and enjoying, an experience that was physically arduous.  There's a different kind of sweat that comes from effort, as opposed to the sweat of being a greasy pudge eating chocolate and playing Vigilante 8 in an overheated bedroom.  I suppose I learnt that relatively late on, unfortunately.

My worldview is fairly ego-centric generally, and I suppose it's time I widened the scope here to include other people in my mountain walk reminiscences.

One of my fondest mountain memories is a ramble I took with a good friend on a scorching day on the eve of an exam (History A-Level, if I remember correctly).  We were both jaded from the exam period, and pointedly anxious about our place in the world, as all people (teenagers particularly so, I would argue) are.  On our way back down the mountain we stopped and sat on a ruin of a small old building, a corner of brick that jutted out from the hillside.  With the sun raging down on us, we sat philosophising and righted the wrong of the world, a friendship, already strong, forged yet stronger in the cloying heat of the hillside.  The next day, at our desks in the neat examination rows, we squirmed with sunburn.

In the summer post-school and pre-Uni, a group of four of us went for a walk up the mountain, reached the top, and carried on.  The usual pathways we walked were clearly defined, yet we reached any number of turn-back points and we found ourselves just carrying on.  Paths ran out, we ran into walls, fences and thick tree-lines, and we simply found our way around, over or through.  A casual walk become something more, and finding ourselves on the opposite side of the mountain, we guessed this was the effort of our entire day.  We hit paths again, and eventually found ourselves in a town at the foot of the opposite side of the mountain.  There's a lot to be said for the daft excitement of finding yourself in a town where you've never been before, a joy that would be ruined by even rudimentary knowledge of local geography.  You never notice how few signposts actually exist until you don't know where you are.  We came home around the base of the mountain rather than going up and back over, and by the time we'd returned, it was dark and we were exhausted through and through.  It was excellent.

The only time I've been comparably exhausted from a walk up the mountain was on a day trip, again as a group of four, to the Brecon Beacons.  We got there early, trudging up the, for me, gruelling first slope, wrapped in a morning mist that turned sunlight to a blinding, all-encompassing blur, was a thoroughly satisfying experience.  I don't feel we made particularly good time, but neither were we lagging.  It is somewhat dispiriting, on some level, to see other walkers passing you, but when they passed us again going the other way, we realised they were playing a very different game.  We didn't go particularly fast, but we kept going, and only realised the folly ambitionamazingness of our approach when we turned around and saw the size and sweep of the path back to the car.  I think it's safe to say I was wiped out at the end of that expedition in a way I've been few times in my life.  Struggling excruciatingly up the last slope before the final descent I unhelpfully made my friends laugh by forcing out the curse "Jesus fuck!" as I ploughed, aching, upward.  It was boiling that day, too.

Though I have these stories of walking up the mountain in which funny things happened, the actual benefit of walking with friends is the one I touched upon in the sunburn story.  Recently I went walking with a good friend on a whim.  Having reached a turn-back point we decided to take a side trail and check out a small forest we'd never been into.  Until that point the weather had been pleasant, and our unconsidered clothing choices reflected this.  It started raining, and we carried on.  We were in the middle of a discussion, a chat, a debate, there are so many ways to label the action of talking.  I was with a friend, up a mountain, having a walk and sharing my thoughts, my problems and sharing in his.  There's very few things I would consider being better than that in the entire world, it is a delightful pastime.  I would even go so far as to suggest that, very possibly, it is the best way to fulfil intellectual and emotional aspirations, swelling yourself in good humour and good company.

Walking up the mountain with friends is by no means the only way you can achieve this, but it is a very good way, I have found.  The views are at the very least interesting, and even if the company sours, at least you had a bit of exercise.

Everyone should make a point of walking a bit more, I think.  Unless they walk a lot already.

What I Did for My Summah

Since formerly responsible members of my family have deemed it necessary to go on holidays for the end of the summah, certain domestic responsibilities are currently resting on my shoulders.


One such responsibility is the task of exhausting the dog.  A dog is a very energetic organism, and this one in particular is an electric bastard.  The dog's favourite activities are barking incessantly and digging the settee.  Barking is an annoying and futile past time, and the settee is not a construction that reacts well to being dug, as it is made out of leather, rather than a more earthy substance that would lend itself slightly better to the scramblings of doggy paws.  In order to foil the dog's infuriating and illogical behaviour it is necessary to completely wear him out, which I do by dragging him in a circuit of the mountain.


There's usually no-one on the mountain path, but since it was such an idyllic sunny afternoon today, there were a few others navigating the mountain.  This was a slight nuisance to me, as I was scruffily dressed and needlessly self-conscious of this fact, and had chosen the mountain trail in order to pander to my isolationist tendencies.  The dog is a strange mix of bullying nosiness and cowardice, eager to bark at all and sundry and then hide behind me, behaviour which is annoying and embarrassing.


During the initial ascent, there was a young lady walking her dog in front of me.  I purposefully hung back, in order to ensure that my dog was far enough from hers that it wouldn't cause a palaver.  This was the reason, and not, as liars would have you believe, that I was attempting to ogle rump.  This was not my aim.  But it did occur, due to circumstances.  I was aware that it was likely that I would have to pass her at some point, because my plan was to undertake a gargantuan route, in order to fully knacker my dog, and no feeble woman would have planned such a grueling trek.  As I foresaw the moment of takeover, I became self-conscious, due to my scruffy clothes, my unruly dog and a plastic clamp I had attached to my shorts that contained a bag of my dog's shit.  Using my powers of recognition, I identified the woman from her hair and height, not as liars would have you believe by ogling, as someone I had known when I was but a small boy.  Her parents live up the street, and I was expecting to pass some inane banalities as we briefly crossed, while secretly we would both be considering what possible relationship we might have had if we'd been better friends as kids.  Or probably that would just be me, in my fevered imaginings.


She sat down on a large rock, looking out over the valley, with a look of deep philosophising on her face, I imagined from a distance.  She raised a cigarette to her mouth and I was, in my squeaky-clean life-view, disgusted.  I realised then that she was actually an older woman, and not the person who I thought she was.  I then retrospectively realised that I had been ogling a sexy assed quadragenarian, and not, as I had believed, a youthful beauty.  Moreover, this realisation changed my situation from one of being a completely acceptable virile ogler, to one of being depraved.  I believe that lusting after an older woman is a gruesome perversion.  That is what I 100% believe.  No lie.


My dog spent the ascent strangling himself with the leash, licking pooh and drinking dirty water.  I was, reasonably I believe, frustrated by this.  My dog has no respect for me, despite how much bigger I am than him, and my ability to beat the shit out of him should I choose to do so.  I don't know whether he finds my 100% genuine opinions on sexualising mature individuals abhorrent, but if so, his methods of expressing it are unusual and confusing.  At around the half-way mark, his tiredness resulted in an improvement in his behaviour.


I realised that taking my dog for a walk has the same narrative flow as a Stewart Lee or a Richard Herring show; initial excitement followed by overwhelming annoyance, levelling out to enjoyment and ending with satisfaction and the feeling that something positive has been achieved.  And in deciding to do it again (walk the dog/watch a show) the annoyance part is forgotten.


My final bullet point in the plan that started this post read: coming to terms with the cowardice/bullying/annoyingocity of my dog.  At the moment he is sprawled out on the mat in a way that could, hypothetically, if I was a different sort of person, be described as 'cute'.  I am aware, however, that he will wake me tomorrow with his selfish plaintive mewling.  And I'll have to take him up the mountain, again, if it doesn't rain.  I resent the dog, and his stupid dog face.


Pokemon raised my pet expectations (petspectations) far too high.  Damn you, Satoshi Tajiri.


This is no way to restart blogging after a summah's hiatus.  It is the way I have done it.

Felicitous Canada Day

As I write this the country in which I am currently present within is celebrating it's Day. It is currently 15:49 local time and the extent of the celebrations in the local town (Banff - lovely) seem to extend only to a general redness of clothing and various enthusiastic people wearing national dress (Canadian kit from various sports - hockey, american football, proper football, tiddlywinks) and also cruel/humourous parents putting the uniform of the Canadian mounted police on their overweight children (I am not in a Mountie uniform as I dressed myself today). Some particularly pro-Canadian enthusiasts have decided to wear small Canadian flags in their heads, which is either admirable or silly.

Since today is such a celebratory day I thought I would add a surreptitious burst of cynicism, by detailing a few of the observations that were observed by me in the course of my observing Canada so far. I certainly think there is an abundance of fresh-faced naivety and enthusiasm present in Canada (Banff especially) that isn't present in the UK. This may have a lot to do with their extreme weather conditions (blazing sun in the summer, snow in the winter) and also the abundance of actual wildlife (bears, wolves, moose, eagles) that simply aren't present in Britain, where grey drudgery is commonplace all year round and a curmudgeonly goat is the most feral of the indigenous fauna. As a native of the Royal Kingdom of Cynicism I find the chipper "hey there!" attitude of the Canadians (the ones I've met at least) refreshing, though mostly grating and aggravating. This lack of cynicism manifests itself most succinctly in the naming of the shops in the area, my particular 'favourite' being The Unique Rocky Mountain Souvenir Store Ltd, which is of course unique inasmuch as its products are indistinguishable from the products of every other shop in the area.

As a short aside I would like to vent my annoyance at a tube located in the bathroom of the establishment where I am staying which bears the words Green Tea | Conditioner. My problem with this product is that I feel these two items are mutually exclusive, it is either conditioner, and therefore for your hair, or green tea, and therefore for the bin. I used my powers of deduction and concluded that since it is in the bathroom it is most likely a product for your hair, but I feel nothing should be taken for granted whilst in strange lands.

One thing Canada has aplenty is mountains, you can't turn around without seeing a mountain. Because they are huge. I suppose if you are indoors, with the curtains drawn, you might not be able to see a mountain. Unless you live on top of one and have opted for a natural floor. But that would be stupid, and cold. My main problem with the mountains (apart from them being marketed as 'Bear Country', is it still Canada or not?) is the ample warnings you are given by jutting wooden plaques to "Stay on the Path". The justification given for this is that by not using the path, hikers will cause erosion of the mountain, and the signs also admonish that previous hiking has already left much scarring on the mountainside. My main issue with this is that mountains, as a rule, are made out of rock. As in from the phrase 'rock-hard'. I appreciate that erosion will eventually have an effect on the mountain, but from the rather harsh weather the mountains have had to withstand I hardly think a couple of monkeys clambering up its side is going to have such a huge effect. Especially since the mountains are the habitat of bears and goats. It is the term 'scarring' that I find quite intruiging aswell, as to avoid scarring, hikers are being advised to stay on the path, which is, unless I am very much mistaken, a huge scar gouged out of the mountainside. Instead of scarring the mountains, please use the scars provided.

Another aspect of Canada which clashed quite massively with Britain is its take on alcohol. To appreciate the death-grip of alcohol in Britain it really is necessary to travel elsewhere. Alcohol, in Britain, is sold almost everywhere, in Canada, almost nowhere. Convenience stores in Canada do not supply alcohol, though the age limit is not far different from the one in Britain (though this varies from province to province). I also got ID'd in a restaurant, despite having a beard. I was most annoyed by this because of how amused my mother was, there's nothing like a hysterical mother to entice a thunderous lock-jawed grimace onto a face. If you want to buy alcohol in Canada, you can't. That isn't actually true, I just thought it would be amusing to write. Is it? Off-licences and liquor stores are the only stockers of alcohol (that I have found, I could be wrong) in Canada, and what dens of strangeness they are. The liquor store that we have discovered here in Banff is named A Liquor Store, which is either idiotic or brilliant. There was roughly an inch of moving space in the store, as the vast majority of it had been fenced off with a chain. The delights that hid behind the chain were bog-standard alcohols, which is disappointing for me as a Brit. If alcohol was restricted through the use of chains in Britain I would expect nothing less than the presence of a monstrous carafe-melting brew, guarded over by a denizen of the underworld. Ironically, the creature serving in the shop was certainly from a different realm, possibly arriving on direct link from the imagination of Bill Bailey. This is not to say he looked like Bill Bailey, more that if Bill Bailey ever got thrown into the children's TV show Penny Crayon, this was the sort of creature that would be born thereof. One word that Canadians cannot handle in a Welsh accent is 'Cider', which is inconvenient for me, as a cider drinker. Restaurants simply do not serve cider, and if you ask for any the serving people give you an incredibly perplexed look. The look you receive is the one I imagine I would receive if I had ordered "A drink of televised justice in a decanter of dreams". The strange hypocrisy of Canada however means that it suffers from a Cider Dichotomy. Not even knowledge of cider in restaurants, every cider ever conceived of in the off licence (and even some that were never imagined, that's Off-L Space for you). Apple cider, Pear cider, Peach cider, Blueberry cider, Blackberry cider, Lemon cider, even Bread cider (No). I was intrigued by Glacier Berry cider, and dutifully bought some to sate both my curiosity and my liver. Upon returning to our place of sleep, I utilised the wonders modern technology to do some speed research into glacier berries. What I found was startling; they do not exist. Somehow, the amazing alcoholiers of Canada had concocted cider out of a concoted fruit. I feared there was cidermancy afoot. My eyes darted as swift as a swift using the pokemon move swift to the side of the bottle, scanning as fast as a really fast scanner to discover the ingredients of the drink. I was worried by my findings. Ingredients: Cider, Natural Flavours, Carbon Dioxide. That list is surely not exhaustive, and almost certainly in contravention of rules somewhere along the way. "What's in your cider Gilder?" "Well to be honest, mostly cider." If you are interested, in Canada play-doh is made out of play-doh. That's secrecy Willy Wonka would be proud of.

That is it for now, as I have been supping on my Fakeberry Cider during the writing of this and I am now in no fit condition to continue.

I hope you had a nice Canada Day, I did. Well, it was alright.