Thorung La - "Follow Your Dreams"

Upon retirement many dads become rather staid, set in their ways, and become, well not wanting to squander words, dull. Not my Pa. It is quite amazing to see someone finally becoming the person they were destined to be all along. I often wonder what life would have been like for him without the pressures of family and a job that, although he was amazing at, was never in his heart. He sacrificed so much of himself to make sure we always got the best.

My Pa is a Boy Scout who had to grow up. Regression has most definitely occurred.

After dabbling toes with trips with Ma to the Dolomites and snow shoeing without much snow retirement meant that further afield beckoned. With trusty sidekick Derrick not only was Kilimanjaro scaled, but Mount Meru thrown in for good measure on the same expedition. They basked in the glory round the pool of being the old buggers who'd kicked much younger butts into touch. I think they rather enjoyed the adoration.

I was really ill at the time of this trip and had sent Pa a letter asking him to wave from the top and I'd be waving back. I love that photo. I could never have imagined then that I would be well enough to be contemplating expeditions of my own. It was so far fetched and out of the question that I never even considered it. A photo wave was good enough for me. Pa really struggled with altitude sickness and yet he didn't give up. I remember him saying that it was the hardest thing he'd ever done, just putting one foot in front of the other, add to that nausea and dizziness and it actually sounded quite familiar. He said he finally understood what day to day living must be like for me. It was hard to listen to that, realising that someone's out of the ordinary horrific experience was your run of the mill existence.

A trek round China and a spell in the Atlas Mountains later, the Big One beckoned. I was so happy to see Pa go (trusty sidekick in place again) and this time it was so different. Ma had just had a knee op, but for once he didn't have to worry or postpone because I could be there for her. The 3 weeks plus he was away was the first time in 8 years that I've been able to be reliably relied upon. It felt rather good.

I sent Pa with a letter explaining this diary.

This is his story;


'The letter was opened on the plane from Heathrow to Abu Dhabi; the piece of material was vaguely familiar, my tears were very real when I learned of its association with dark days.

The Annapurna Circuit in Nepal is dubbed “the classic trek, one of the great walks of the world…” and the high point is Thorung La at 5416 metres above sea level – “the world’s biggest pass”. So the location for the bit of dressing gown was decided.

Inspired by the prayer flags that abound in the Himalayas (Himal means snow mountain) I made a slight modification to the task in hand. The material was cut in two – one piece to be buried at an appropriate spot, the other was cut into lots of smaller pieces to disperse in the wind.

The trek lived up to its billing – with a wide diversity of scenery and cultures. The climb up to Thorung La on 11th November 2008 was not over strenuous and the slight altitude sickness was quickly forgotten amidst the splendour of the surroundings. There is a famous cairn at the head of the pass adorned with prayer flags (lots and lots of them) around which people gather for the photographic proof of their achievements. That was to be the burial site for the larger piece of dressing gown, but it didn’t feel right. So look up – and above the main cairn to the south there is a small hill on top of which is another forgotten cairn covered in older prayer flags, visited only by a few, but somehow grander. The walk up was splendid and therapeutic – the location was peaceful, looking down on the triumphant melee below. The piece of material, along with those bad memories, was laid to rest overlooked by the splendid glaciated peak of Khatung Kang (6484m, 21273 ft) – or was it Thorung Peak that was visible? Looking down to the east was a frozen tarn. Pictures were taken of a glorious panorama and part of a tearful task completed I descended to the main cairn to have my picture taken!

Before leaving the pass a few more private moments were taken to scatter the remnants of my piece of dressing gown into the wind to join the mantras from the prayer flags – thank you Derrick for videoing the event; and understanding.



Later after re-joining the rest of the group I looked down to see a piece of dressing gown by somebody’s foot – they wouldn’t know the significance, but I did. '

Solo Expotition

It was an absolutely beautiful morning and as those are rather few and far between at the moment I was determined to get out and about. This may seem like such a small thing, but it's years or maybe even forever since I've gone off and done what I've wanted to do by myself. In the past by the time I'd planned it all out rigidly I'd scared myself silly or run out of time and therefore didn't go. Or I hadn't been well enough to even contemplate going anywhere by myself. Well, in the words of Bob, 'the times they are a changin'.

Hat pulled over bed-head hair and a quick splodge of make-up and I was off. I only drove down the road to a new sculpture park, but the fact that I was making that decision and it was something I wanted to do meant a lot. The second day after I'd been struck by lightning I came up here with Mark and the hounds. It was such a huge achievement and it's become a special place.

I ran up the hill like a nutter, luckily slowing down before I reached the brow of the hill as one man and his (daughter's) dog were at the top. Now that could have been embarrassing. I sat on this bench and got my camera out and that started off a compact v slr, digital v film conversation with said man (but not the dog). I finished by asking to take his photo - I love the new me.

I just felt so free and not at all self-conscious, it's amazing what weight that puts around your neck. I headed over to one of the sculptures and spent so long taking photos from different angles, even doing a few self portraits with the timer. The light was beautiful. I headed off up hill and down dale (well, back down the hill again) clicking away.

When it was time to head back (cold fingers and a hankering after a decaf earl grey) I left a square behind. I wonder if anyone will find it?

In Which We Get Thistled

Yesterday I buried my first square. It was so cold I wished I'd remembered my scarf so I could wrap it round my face burka style with only my eyes peering out. Mark had brought his and so was chuffed that he looked like a ninja - the stripes only slightly dampening the effect. We started on our way up to the farm. I'd never got that far before so had stuffed dressing gown in pocket before leaving the house.

They've planted a new community woodland which we walked through. At the moment it's a field with hundreds of saplings which I'm sure will be more interesting once they're more than a foot high. This didn't stop Milly getting ridiculously excited to the point that sniffing became more complicated due to wagging her tail so hard her ass was nearly falling off. The choice was to exit via the stile and follow the path or leap the brook.

I have to say that this photo does not do it justice, it did look rather larger, especially when your legs are as short as mine. This was not helped by Mark (considerably longer legs) getting a wobble on when he reached the other side. Had there not been the ridiculously steep bank it would have been a doddle, but this now involved a running leap, a firm plant of feet, remembering to lean forwards during the descent, grabbing Mark's arm in the correct manner (as demonstrated by him), avoiding Milly who tends to want affection at inopportune moments.... It was all getting rather complicated. Flashbacks of being little and at St. Mary's Lighthouse with Gran and Grandad came flooding back - was this where the fear began? I was certainly brave then, perhaps even somewhat cocky. Out amongst all the rockpools, beautiful blue autumn sky and me telling Gran that I could definitely leap that far; "Just watch me". That sky may have been blue, but the sun was not warm. I spent the rest of time there with a freezing cold soggy bottom having made the jump and forgotten the 'lean forward on descent' technique.

The longer I lingered the harder it got. Dicky dancing on the spot, "Should I push off from one leg or two?"

"One Lizzy, you'll never make it with a broad jump."

A what?! - see, getting far too technical. "Where am I jumping from?"

"Do your run up and aim to plant your right foot on that mound there, push off and crouch FORWARDS when you come in. I'll have my arm out to get you. Make sure you grab on this way round so I can hold you."

I get confused just walking in a straight line. By this point I'd got myself in such a pickle that I was about to head off for the stile, tail between my legs, head lowered in defeat, but there were dressing gown promises refusing to be silent in my pocket. I turned away from Mark, composed myself and then went at full pelt straight at him. In my head I had the full Braveheart soundtrack roaring but don't think I did any yelling as I went for it. I flew over and landed smack into the bank on the other side, hands in the mud. Granted, not the elegant crossing we had discussed, but I was there and I'd done it!

As we walked on I kept asking Mark how I'd looked as I'd come hurtling towards him, had I looked cool? He said yes, bless him.

I thought that maybe my hands were warm with all the excitement. Having never succesfully surpassed such terrifying challenges before, maybe this was what all athletes faced during their cool down. But they were getting hotter and hotter and incredibly painful and spikey when I rubbed them together. I checked out the landing site. I'd landed in the only patch of thistles for miles around.

We buried the square in the ploughed earth and headed back for tea and biscuits, not holding hands because my prickles hurt.

The Rules

To some people dressing gowns mean lazy happy days, not to me. Dressing gowns signify non-clothes days, where the act of dressing is so inconceivably monumentous. They do not denote happy, or choosing to be sloth-like, but instead endurance and waiting for another day to be over and hoping that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be the day when I can advance towards clothes that are acceptable to be worn outside of my four walls. Dressing gowns tie you down.

Therefore dressing gowns are banned. Slouchy pjs, boyfriend's zippy top with chewed-by-dog-sleeve and big blue jumper are all acceptable replacements so do not fear, I shall be warm through these chilly winter evenings.

But what to do with the offensive item - bin it, burn it, charity shop it? None of that felt right. Binning was boring, nothing really final or fitting. Handing it over to the binmen, unless they were in disney type dress with trumpets sounding a fanfare, doesn't really have much flair. The neighbours wouldn't enjoy the burning and I think it might be toxic (cheap from Primark - possibly scarily flammable too and don't want to lose eyebrows). What if it's cursed? You just never know and I'd feel dreadful if it became the thing of urban legend.

I pondered.

Lots.

And then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Well it didn't. I don't think I've ever had one of those. It actually kind of wandered in and decided to make itself comfy. We had a bit natter, got on quite well and then came to the conclusion over tea and custard creams that this was a darned good plan.

Said dressing gown would be cut into little squares and buried, sunk, hung, posted, pinned, scattered or hurled in places that dressing gown days prevented me from reaching. A promise would be left behind with each and every piece. A vow to always look forward, never back, and to honour that time of fear and grit with laughter and bravery.

When needed these squares can be passed to those who witnessed the dressing gown days, to let them say goodbye, move forward and to make their promises too.

And so we begin...