sticky.

It's too bloody hot. There are workmen upstairs, drilling through thick concrete in order to install a radiator system. Somebody outside is burning something. A teacher has just come in, complaining that a student's aunt called her on her mobile at 7 this morning, wanting to discuss her niece's academic progress. The cross-college computer network is playing silly buggers. I am waiting for key information regarding fees and courses to come in, without which I can't complete the work I need to do before going on holiday. I feel like crap. Everything is currently stalled.
I am strongly tempted to just pack up and go home.

Habits...

...and what would we do without them? It's a serious idea: How would life be different if we didn't do such-and-such a thing? I was flopped out in front of the TV, glass of wine to hand, a few snacks in front of me, watching some godawful shite, and I that is what came to mind. How much more could I achieve, how much more money would I actually save, if I didn't spend most evenings quaffing and watching bollocks?
Unfortunately, habits are precisely there because they're, well, habit-forming. I don't actually need to drink wine, but I do so because I enjoy it; I don't need to watch tv, but it's because I'm already slightly pissed from the wine and it's difficult to work up the enthusiasm and energy to do anything else. I don't need a cigarette, but it goes nicely with the drink. Bad habits, in short, tend to foster other bad habits. I particularly noticed it this week because I haven't done much exercise; it's been far to hot for starters, and my bloody bike is on its last legs, the rear wheel having more or less become rusted to buggery.
What I want to do is this: where possible, replace my bad, time-consuming habits with new, better ones. The one trouble is, identifying exactly what it is I shall do to fill the time.

pics from 3 peaks.

A rainbow; A view from Ben Nevis; On the top; coming out of Fort William; On top of Scafell - the smile is really a rictus of pain.

Boycott?

From, the CIA world factbook, a list of Israel's main exports:

Exports - commodities:
machinery and equipment, software, cut diamonds, agricultural products, chemicals, textiles and apparel.
So, if you want to boycott Israeli goods, check your fruit and veg and flowers at your supermarket; look at the labels in your clothing; find out where your company gets its software from.
However, direct imports to the UK are minimal, so the effect would not be hugely significant, and even if it were so, its direct impact would certainly be upon the poorest people in the country, rather than the warmongers.
As for direct boycotts of companies that support Hezbollah, I haven't the foggiest.

Loose cannons.

Yep, Israel and Lebanon/Hezbollah once again. Can anyone explain to me exactly the rationale behind Israel's military strategy? They claim they are fighting Hezbollah, but how does destroying a country's infrastructure and forcing hundreds of thousands to flee actually eradicate a terrorist group? If Hezbollah were a large, formal army, deploying large numbers of troops around, then the bombing of roads, bridges and other transport links makes a perverse sense, but as it is, it consists of small, highly mobile units that are not going to be particularly fazed by the wholesale razing of towns. On the contrary, I suspect they welcome it: More willing recruits against an oppressive neighbour.
The Israeli foreign minister has noised about invading and occupying Lebanon. Under what right, apart from the fact that Israel is being allowed to act with impunity? And that is the most sickening, that the US, accompanied by a meek and emasculated UK, is permitting this atrocity in the spurious name of The War On Terror. Even more sickening and cynical is that we are permitting this to happen until the number of civilian casualties becomes unacceptable, after which, presumably, we will swagger in under the auspices of a UN resolution.

Loose end.

I'm in an increasingly lazy mood at present, something that isn't good for me. With the hend of classes, and most of the paperwork done in preparation for september, I'm fairly much left to my own devices. And as each day drags on in the heat, it becomes easier and easier to do little, then slope off early. There are still things to do, like course proposals, research, ordering materials, creating new stuff and templates, but when the sun is shining as it is, and there's a cold pint waiting in a pub somewhere....
The trouble is, it's no good for me. I slink into bad habits and end up feeling shitty and lethargic. I need targets to aim at continually, something that was brought into sharp focus by the 3 peaks. I'm at my most creative, intelligent and skilled precisely when I am busy aiming towards something. When I was younger, I would lope off down the pub almost every night, as I put it to myself and others, in order to think. Of course, I was just fooling myself; beating down the ennui and playing at being creative, and achieving bugger all.

EFL/Linguistics geek moment

...crikey, a serious post regarding my actual line of work. It's just an idea that came to mind while considering how children acquire language:
Do siblings tend to make far more spelling mistakes and errors of form and pronunciation than first borns? How much are learning styles and their implications for language acquisition influenced by one's birth, i.e. does a first-born have a different learning style from later siblings?
will a sibling tend to be more vocal and fluent than a first born? will a first born tend to be more analytical, and therefore find the grammar of any given language easier to comprehend?
I can't remember where I read it, but apparently first-borns will generally acquire language from adults, giving them a greater range of vocabulary and a more analytical form of language, whereas later children will acquire it from their peers, making them more chatty and able to get on better with people.
Hmm. Comparing myself and my younger sister, there may be something in the idea. I ceratinly have a more analytical approach to language, and she will happily admit to being a mediocre speller. Also, she is much more voluble than me.
Discuss, dissect, drown me with opinions and vituperation if necessary.

killing a country?

What's the word for the deliberate killing of a country? Patriacide? It's happened before of course, or has been attempted, and now the whole sorry cycle is going on again with Lebanon. Hundreds of thousands of people are reported to have fled; the infrastructure of the whole place is being pummelled to dust; warships are evacuating their own nationals; and Israel has promised to grind Lebanon '20 years back'. So, is that back to the shameful massacres at Sabra and Shatila refugee camps then, led by that blood-boltered bastard Ariel Sharon? Is that what you want, Mr. Olmert? To wallow in another people's blood to attract votes like flies?
If Israel is attempting patriacide however, let us not forget that what Hizbullah are doing is the equivalent of self-immolation, or the eating away of a land from within. Each time they fire a Katushya into Israel, they are equally responsible for the deaths of innocents, both Israeli and Lebanese. The moral vacuity that lies at the heart of their actions is reflected and amplified by the cynical and over-the-top reaction of their opponents.

meanwhile, at the BBC's cloning department...

Hmm, we need another BBC Breakfast News Anchorwoman....let's see...first, we'll have a dash of Sian....
...now, Fiona's eyebrows....
....and a soupcon of Natasha's smug grin...
...et voila! Kate Silverton!

An evening full of the joy of raki

Or rather, the first anniversary bash for the Reading Turkish Society, held in the rather wonderful Island Bar on Piper's Island, Caversham. Raki was available (at �3 a shot - ouch!), and the food, created by Burc Tuncel, was mostly classic Turkish dishes, served buffet-style: Stuffed peppers and tomatoes, Icli Kofte, sea bass, Midye Dolmasi, Cilbir, various Aubergine dishes, white cheese and baklava, to name a few. Music was courtesy of a saz player and an organist, and there was a belly dancer, who managed to get most people dancing. Overall, it was a successful evening, inasmuch as the majority had a very good time. Behind the scenes though, there was another story going on. Jealousy, the deliberate spread of misinformation, allegedly missing tickets and money, people not doing the jobs they'd promised to do, mutterings about why were English people allowed to come to a Turkish event, and a late-night visit from some council officials, investigating why the restaurant was operating outside its licensed hours, why the restaurant was open at all, and a flagrant breach of the rules regarding playing live music.
Overall, though, it was a bloody good evening. I think my wife, who ended up doing the most organising, was glad to see the end of it.

Bullies.

You know the type of kid; There he is, in the playground, a bit scrawny and stunted, tie askew: he's probably ginger. His face is scowling or vacant mostly, except when he finds someone younger or smaller than him, and his face lights up with the joy of bullying them mercilessly. He'll punch them in the face for no reason, except to see the look on their faces; He'll trip people up as they come down stairs; he'll stab them in the arm with a pair of compasses, or steal their lunch; most of all, he delights in attacking people when their backs are turned.
Now you would think, considering his size, that he'd be a prime target for bigger, harder bullies. But no - take a step towards him, and suddenly, his brother, the biggest, meanest, brick-shithouse-built bully in the entire school appears from nowhere and leaves you as a bloody spot of ground. So little scrawny goes on, bullying and stealing with impunity, because he can. What someone has forgotten to tell him, though, is that one day, his big brother won't be there at his side any more....
....and that is precisely how I see Israel. A jumped-up, paranoid, ridiculously macho little country punching far above its weight thanks to big bro America. Its over-the-top offensive is vile; its claims that it is targeting only terrorists preposterous; its ongoing persecution of its enemies, dangerous and destabilising. How can it seriously say that it wants peace, when all it does is exacerbate the situation? If people are starving; if people cannot travel to work; if people cannot access their fields; if people have to wait hours for water, while over a fence, their neighbours wallow in swimming pools; if they are fenced in; if all these things, how can you dare to expect them to accept your version of peace?
This is not to excuse Hamas or Hezbollah, or Ahmedinijad in Iran. They are equally bullies - they just don't have the firepower that Israel does.

three peaks - a few thoughts

So, would I do it again? I honestly don't know. Maybe. I'm glad I've done it - it's been something I've thought about for a while - but I think I'd prefer to do each peak at a more leisurely pace, or better still, find peaks that are a bit more interesting. Ben Nevis is a bit of a motorway, and while the views are spectacular as you climb, it's a pretty boring journey. Scafell was wet, wild and miserable - I can't comment on views, as there was bugger all to see but weather, but I found it unenjoyable. Snowdon - well, I've gone up that several times now. I like the Pyg and Watkin paths, and I'd like to do the Crib Goch route too, but the Llanberis path is just a tedious slog.
A few thoughts from this experience:
There is no such thing as waterproof.
You can never have too much chocolate.
Climbing in the dark when you don't know a mountain is bloody stupid.
Pain is temporary.
You can get through exhaustion - the most important attribute is a mental attitude to the task in hand.
Hiking poles are a bloody good bit of kit.

So, talking hypothetically, if I were to do it again, what would I do differently/the same?
Have good, non-climbing drivers. They were absolutely vital, not just for driving, but also for making up food and drink for people.
Have comfortable cars/people carriers: we were four or five to a van, but it meant that we could let our gear breathe in the back, and the climbers stretch out a bit.
Bring spare maps.
Bring extra clothing - in particular, waterproofs and fleeces, and something to change into inbetween mountains. By the end, everything I had was soaked, and added to my discomfort.
Have a camelback fitted into my pack.
Have a decent sized daysack - my daysack was a bit too small and my main rucksack a little too large for comfort.
Have a waterproof container for my mobile - a bit of a no-brainer, really, but I had my phone in a waterproof pocket and it still managed to get wet. It's still sulking at me.
Make sure that everyone's mobile is fully charged.
Have walkie talkies with fully-charged batteries - we had them, but the batteries fizzed out on Scafell, when we most needed them. Essential for big groups.
Weather and Timing: I saw the last weather report for the three peaks on thursday night. Next time I would like to get as much as possible right up to the last minute, as this would affect timings. Although our main wasn't bed in itself or when we should climb, it was at the mercy of the elements, and that's what buggered us in the end.
TRY NOT TO CLIMB IN THE DARK, especially when you don't know the mountain. Now I know where the path is from wasdale Head to Scafell, I wouldn't mind it so much. Instead, if I were to do it again at the height of summer, I would consider doing Ben Nevis at 5.00 p.m. to 10.00 p.m., maximising the available light, followed by Scafell at 4.45 (daybreak) until 7.45, followed by Snowdon from 1.15 till 5.00. This would all be dependent on weather conditions, although the afternoon climb on Snowdon is ideal for that mountain.
Go up and back down the Pyg Track: going into Llanberis is just far too long.
Wait for all my team to assemble before going up anywhere in the dark: it was too bloody dangerous and a bit too stupid for my liking when we went up Scafell.
Train a bit harder: I felt very tired at the end, as did everyone who did it, and I felt that just a little bit more training would have been beneficial. Our training weekends in Brecon and Snowdonia were extremely worthwhile.

the three peaks - part three

I couldn�t be sure how long it would take for the others to arrive, and I was anxious to keep going: we were only just ahead of schedule. I could make out Rob�s headlight in the rain and dark, so I headed for it. Catching up with them, we came across another group coming down.
�Did you get to the top?� I asked.
�Nah,� said the leader, �We got as far as the crossroads and lost our way. It�s pretty rough up there.�
We crossed a bridge over a beck in full spate; the air in the valley was full of water and the roaring of the stream, making it difficult to hear each other. We followed a steep path upwards, going at far too fast a pace. I asked the other two to slow down a bit:
�We�re going too quickly on a mountain none of us knows. Let�s take it a bit slower and make sure we don�t lose our way.�
And we did, for a while, but Brian kept on moving faster and faster. We came across another group of people, amongst whom we found Julie and Gordon.
�Where�s Richard?�
�He went on ahead�, said Julie. �I�m really pissed off with him � he just raced off and said there were some more people behind me. I hate the dark.�
The other group were standing in the rain, trying to consult maps and arguing. In the dark, with the roar of the water and the howling of the wind, it became obvious that none of us knew where the crossing point for the beck was. We had lost the path. Brian, Rob, Julie, Gordon and I moved further up the stream, had a vague guess at where the crossing was, and went over. I got two bootfuls of water. On the other side, no sign of a path, just a hill full of water. We trudged and slipped our way up, Rob and Brian moving on ahead, leaving me and the two others to our own devices. By now, I was feeling distinctly pissed off, wet and miserable. I was cursing each stone I stumbled on, each jar of my bones, my empty stomach and, most of all, the foul weather, which was gradually getting colder. The night very slowly began to lighten; now I could pick out the ridge above our heads, and a dark guess of a place where the peak might be. I continued to struggle up, helping Julie here and there. Eventually Richard reappeared. He pointed up towards the ridge and said that he�d put his sack with a nightstick on it and told us to make our way and wait. Brian and Rob charged on, I followed, and Richard went to the rear to help Julie. For the moment, I was stuck on my own, out of earshot of either group: me, the wind and rain. I felt very low then, and a bit of me wanted to go home. But, cursing under my breath, I stomped up the side, bashing my toes against rock after bloody rock, and made the ridge. It was getting much lighter now, but it made the view worse: rocks, wind and rain, and bugger all else.
After we�d all gathered together and had something to drink, we stumbled over a boulder field towards Scafell, finally hitting a path lined by small cairns. Rob, Brian and I were now ahead of the others, and we pushed on grimly, the wind increasing all the while, the rain unrelenting. Finally, just after five, we were on the top. Joylessly, I touched the trig point, and looked around at the peak. It was utterly bleak, a field of rocks; And now I was beginning to get cold to add to being wet. Richard and Julie appeared with Gordon. Julie was in a pretty bad way, shivering and unable to eat. Richardr made her put on gloves, and as he was doing so, the third part of our team appeared with Rick. When we told him we�d lost our way, he said,
�How�d you manage that? It�s plain all the way.�
And then we began to descend, which couldn�t have come any sooner for me. I was wet, cold and thoroughly miserable, and those few minutes on the peak had left me seriously worried for the safety of some of us. The wind was now reaching gale levels � indeed, if it hadn�t been for my hiking poles, I�d have been knocked over a few times, it was so strong. Also, I kept getting slapped in the face by a pack strap that had come loose, which didn�t enhance my mood.
The daylight came full, and once we were below the cloud layer the path was obvious. We had probably missed it by only a few metres. We trudged down, step after knee-jarring step, and finally arrived back at the vans by half past seven. We had something to eat, and I stripped off as much of my wet gear as I could, leaving me to shiver in the cold day. The weather had almost beaten us, and, looking at the time, I realised that we almost certainly wouldn�t be able to get to Snowdon and up and down it in the 24 hour limit. I also felt that if the weather on Snowdon was as bad as here, I wouldn�t want to do it.
We set off on the final leg, bouncing through tiny Cumbrian roads under patchy skies, until we finally hit the motorway and dashed south. We kept an eye on the time: would we have enough to realistically make it to the top, let alone get back down once more? We made good time going through Lancashire and Cheshire, then turning onto the North Wales coast road. And then, just as we reached Conwy and turned towards Betws-Y-Coed, it began to rain again, and gradually increased as we headed towards Snowdonia. My heart fell at the sight: great sheets of wind-shunted water and mountain streams in full flood. I�d packed my boots with scraps of newspaper to try and dry them out, and now, feeling them, I found they were still thoroughly soaked. Did I really want to do this?
We pulled into the packed car park at Pen-Y-Pass. Decision time. I took a look at the louring clouds, then thought, what the fuck, and started to get my gear ready. It was now 12.40; that meant that we could get to the top, but not down again, inside 24 hours. It was now a pride thing. Brian, Rob and I started to get our kit on, then Brian dashed off by himself while I was still struggling into my boots. Just as Rob and I were ready to go, one of the other vans appeared, and Rick and Gordon got out. Apparently, everyone else on board was too sore to continue. We didn�t know about the last van or whether anyone had decided to climb or not. We trotted off, taking the Pyg track. On clear days, this is a pleasant, relatively easy route to the summit; On this day, under the wind and rain, it felt hard. I was already exhausted, wet and hungry, and had very little energy left, but I was damned, now I�d set out, if I wasn�t going to finish. I just buckled down to the job, and focused on planting one foot after another, all the way to the top. The rain came and went; the wind rose and fell; we plodded on to the top. Finally, we got onto the top ridge, to be met by a freezing blast of wind and stinging rain; it was so bad that, as we found out a little later, the caf� was shut and the train not running. Still we, struggled on, and finally the marker cairn with the trig point came into view. We�d just about made it with minutes to spare. OK, so we didn�t get to the bottom in 24 hours, but we did the more important vertical upwards bits.
We trudged slowly back to Llanberis, following the railway back over five weary miles, with the joy of walking down steep tarmac road on burning knees and thighs at the end to make sure we were really finished off .

the three peaks - part two

We crossed the bridge over the stream, and started to ascend. Within a couple of minutes, I was already feeling it: I was breathing hard, I had a stitch, and was hot. I pounded away, in fornt of the others, until after 5 minutes, someone behind me said,
�Slow down a bit!�
I looked behind me, and was surprised to see how far ahead I was of the group. I sat down and waited. In seven minutes, I�d already ascended 200 metres.
�What are you trying to do? Win a marathon?� asked Richard. �Slow down and take it easy: your pace should mean that you can have a conversation without being out of breath.�
So I slowed down, and found the climb fairly easy. The weather was occasionally showery and windy, but by and large the conditions were quite good. There were other walkers on the mountain, some just for the day, others teams doing the three peaks like ourselves. One group stood out: a bunch of Yorkshire Asian lads, who I saw on all three peaks, either following us, or ahead of us, or coming down as we were ascending. Why did they stand out? Well, for a start they were the only Asians I saw the whole weekend, which got me thinking about why that should be � is the countryside so unwelcoming to coloured people, and if so, why? The second thing was that they had shaved heads and thick beards, indicating they were probably quite conservative muslims. The uncomfortable image of the July seventh bombers came to mind, training for their murder mission in Afghanistan. Now, I know that�s a horrid and unfair thought, but it still leapt into my mind � those four 7/7 wankers had tainted the imagination, so that any young, bearded, Muslim Asian was somehow likely to be a bomber. These guys were doing the same as us, probably for similar reasons. It is so easy to make assumptions based upon what we see, and then assume those assumptions are true. It�s how prejudice and ignorance thrive.
We made our way up, past the stream and on to a broad, flat path, which briefly made the walk more like a stroll in a park rather than on the side of a mountain. Gradually, our team split into two groups, with the smaller, slower group consisting of Julie, Chris and Richard (shepherding them), and Glenn. After an hour and a half, we reached the beginning of the scree and boulder line, and had a fantastic view over the valley and towards the Great Glen. A further hour and a half, and we reached the summit: cold, windy and rocky. Rob had been up a couple of weeks previously, and it had been covered in snow; now, there was only the odd pocket. The path wound between marker cairns, coming close to one of the gulleys that drop a thousand feet and claim the unwary in winter. I looked down one: there was a little snow, then a chasm with cloud wisping upwards. We headed for the ruined observatory and the trig point, touched it and took photos, then had a brief rest. I got out a small hipflask of whisky, filled a cup, and, standing on the trig point, drank a toast to my Grandpa, who was born in Fort William.
�Angus Alistair MacGregor Grey Wylie! Slainte Mhath!�
After the toil of getting up, that whisky tasted bloody good.
We shook down our gear, and made our way back off the mountain. By the halfway point, Rob and I were ahead of the others by several minutes, and my legs, in particular my knees, were aching. I began to wonder how on earth I would be able to cope with Scafell and Snowdon. The hard, stony path juddered my legs, and more than once I was glad I had my pair of Leki walking poles.
Rob and I crossed the bridge back to the waiting vans at twenty to eight � four hours and fifty minutes after setting out, not a bad time. The others weren�t long after us. We had something to eat and drink, resorted our equipment and filled bottles and camelbacks, than set off again. I was with Rob, Victoria and Brian, and we roared off ahead of the others. We took the route through Glencoe, and as we passed under the high, green, melancholy and menacing slopes, it began to rain. The further south we passed, the more the rain intensified and the wind increased. We came up to Glasgow by around ten, but we missed our turning onto the bridge that led to the motorway, and so we had to go through the city centre to join the motorway there. It was strangely deserted: only a few cars passed here and there, and I saw only a handful of people on the bleak, wet streets.
Once back on the motorway, the rain, which had lessened for a while, increased once more and the wind really picked up until it was a howling gale, hurling sheet after sheet of water at our vehicle and rocking it from side to side. Any idea I might have had of trying to sleep went out of the window. In fact, I was too hyped up to doze, and knew that it would affect me later on. We stopped briefly at the Gretna Services, a strange and deserted place at 1 in the morning. Crossing back into England, I noticed how the sign telling you that you were in England was many times bigger than the same sign telling you that you�d entered Scotland.
We drove on towards, then through, Carlisle, again a strangely empty town under the flail of wind and rain. Soon, we were driving down little country roads towards Wasdale Head, and our next destination � Scafell. At 2.20, we arrived. One of the vans was there � the one carrying Richard, Julie, Chris and Gordon. But where was the other? And where were Richard, Julie and Gordon? Chris was in the van: he had given up the challenge because of a strained muscle. The driver, Edward, said,
�They went on up about ten minutes ago�.
Went on up where? It was pitch black, the wind was howling, and a hard rain was coming down. Neither me, nor Rob or Brian, had ever climbed Scafell before. I wasn�t even sure in which direction it lay. But Brian said,
�let�s go this way�, and plunged into the dark. Rob followed him. I tried to call after them,
�let�s wait till the other van comes, then go up together�but they were already out of earshot. I was left to decide: should I stay or should I go?

the 3 peaks - part one

Well, I�m still aching, though not as bad as Monday. Walking up and down steps is still on the painful side. I feel, apart from pain, quietly elated at having actually done it, as well as a certain sense of anticlimax. Yesterday, I said I�d never do this again, but I�m already beginning to feel that it�s still possible in the future, as long as the weather isn�t as vile as it was this time.
It all began well: My friend, Rob, and I drove up from Reading to his workplace in Kidlington and met up with the other team members early on Friday. We were 14 all told; 3 drivers/ support team and 11 climbers, led by Julie, who had come up with the idea in the first place. We got our three hire vans, loaded up our gear, and set off. I was with Rob, Chris, and our support driver Victoria. We made incredible time on the journey North, thanks to Rob caning it up to Cumbria � we left at 9.40 and were on the Scottish border by about 1.30, including having a break. It was the first time I�d travelled north of the border, and I found the scenery, traced out in bright sunlight, utterly beautiful. After a few more hours, we arrived in Fort William at 6.40, only to find that we hadn�t read our instructions properly, and needed to go back about 20 miles to our accommodation for the night, a youth hostel in the Great Glen. When we arrived , we found the rest of the team had only just got there. The Youth Hostel was a fairly grotty, run-down house, with house martins nesting in the eaves and midges billowing around us. We unloaded our stuff into our bunkrooms, then drove into Fort Augustus for a meal. The restaurant was just above Loch Ness; It had an entertainer, playing middle-of-the road music from the seventies; a reasonable menu, and, after a late evening shower, one of the most spectacular views of a rainbow I�ve ever seen. A tall, blonde-haired scot, wearing a kilt and accompanied by a short, wiry guy in cowboy costume wandered in, both somewhat self-consciously it seemed to me. Outside, drinking a whisky and smoking, I looked at the wonderful scenery and thought: No wonder it�s empty. There�s bugger all for kids here apart from farming, fishing and tourism.
I spent a night of broken sleep, trying to will myself into deep slumber, but not really able to do so until about 4 in the morning. A strange image kept coming to mind: a kangaroo, with a voice saying, �follow the kangaroo.� Where to, though?
Eventually, we were up and out the door by 8.30. We drove into Fort William, with a few hours to kill before we started the journey. We had breakfast in the Nevis Sport caf� � beans, egg, hash brown, sausage meat, black pudding and bacon � then kicked our heels around the town until 1.00. We were planning on starting to climb at 3, so that we could finish around 8, head for Cumbria and start Scafell at quarter to three, descending from there in daylight, then heading for Snowdon.
We arrived at the base of Ben Nevis, near the Youth Hostel and the bridge over the river, by 1.15. Richard and Rick, the two army guys and experienced mountain survival experts, were the team leaders, and gave us a final briefing before we headed off. After that, we heated water, made teas and coffees and in my case, an utterly disgusting Pot Noodle, and sorted out what equipment we would take with us. At first, I was going to take my main pack, but realised it would be too heavy. I ended up with an awkward arrangement of a camelback water carrier and a daysack, which I tried to organise as comfortably as I could. At ten to three, we set out, and the countdown began.

OUCH!

Everything hurts. I am getting an insight into being 76 years old. even typing this hurts. However, Job Done. More later; I'm going to have something to lessen the pain.

hi ho, hi ho...

Right, that's it.
I'm off to go yomping up and down mountains for charidee.
Pictures to follow.

bombers, martyrs

Just saw the video released to Al-jazeera of Shehzad Tanweer's Posthumous message. One part of the video struck me; the so-called justification for killing people was that they had voted for the government, and because the government is responsible for the repression and deaths of people (with an especial, emotional focus on 'our children, our sisters and our mothers') in Palestine, Chechenya, Iraq, and Afghanistan, therefore the electorate is also responsible, and therefore deserves to die.
I've talked before about false syllogisms on this blog, but this is taking it to extreme and absurd limits.
So perhaps there shouldn't be an electorate then? Perhaps we should just wait and do what we are told by some elder whon proclaims what is just and correct? Who should live and who should die? What is right and what is wrong?
Bullshit. The ability to get to the age of sixty and wear a beard does not, nor ever should, automatically be assumed to confer authority and wisdom - look at Prescott and Bush. Or Osama Bin Laden.
The London Bombers - these silly, ignorant, and ultimately murderous little boys, filled with the arrogant cetainties of youth, were cruelly misled by the arrogance and vanity of older men who crave power - not truly for the sake of faith, but for their own ends.
Jihad is, in its true sense, an internal war, just as the 'dar-ul-harb' (the world of war, or dar-ul-cahiliye, the world of ignorance) and the dar-ul-islam are internal places, a fight that needs to take place in the soul.
Blowing people up and killing yourself is not Jihad; it is murder. And that, if you are religious, does not guarantee you a ticket to heaven.

states, habits, permanent conditions...

...a lesson on the present simple tense this morning.
'...we also use this tense to describe states,' I said. 'For example, I have a car, or I am .....years old. How old do you think I am?' I continued, with a smile.
Stupid.
'Forty-five,' piped up a young Venezuelan woman.
cheeky mare.

Moist.

Ye Gods, it's still hot, but now with the additional fun of humidity. Thankfully it's due to get a bit milder. I checked the weather forecast for Snowdonia and Ben Nevis earlier, and the conditions look very promising for the weekend. Cycling home yesterday afternoon was hellish, and I just had to break off my ride for a refreshing cider in a local inn...by the time I got home, made dinner and sat down in front of the tv for the Italy vs. Germany match, I was knackered. I dozed off after about 30 minutes of play, then woke briefly, stumbled into the garden, and fell asleep on a recliner. Woke up just in time to see Italy score, then fell into a night of fitful dozing.

Activist?

Someone asked me, nearly a year ago, 'Why aren't you involved in some kind of activism? You're intelligent, you clearly have a strong set of beliefs, and you're a natural communicator'.
My answer?
'It's surprising to me that I'm not an activist'. And I was surprised by my answer.
Why am I not involved in some kind of political activity? It's true, I do have a set of ideals, but do I actually believe in them? Do I have faith?
I have always been turned off by group movements, I must admit; where others see the solidarity of a band of people, I can just see the mob, and I find it difficult in my mind to discern the difference between a war march and a bunch of football supporters. I am not trying to be flippant. Although there are clearly differences, there is also one clear similarity - the sense of smugness, an emotion I find utterly abhorrent. one group says 'I am doing right', the other says 'I support the best team'. In other words, there is no doubt in the war marcher's or the football supporter's convictions. And doubt is something that has plagued me through my life.
I have recently brought into question in my own mind the function of doubt. In some ways, it has served me in good stead: I am keenly observant of what goes on around me, and I can usually predict and head off situations long before they become problems. However, it has also served in the role of a rather negative editor and censor in my head, and prevented me reaching out to do all the things I am capable of doing. Oh, I do well in my job - for those of you who haven't read this before, I am a lecturer in EFL - but I am keenly aware that there is more, more, more that I can do. And doubt has stopped me. It stops me, and means I tend to revert to bad habits, like drinking far too much or slouching in front of the TV for hour after hour.
This is part of the reason that I decided to do the three peaks challenge - to shake off doubt, and have a little faith for once.
If I am to become an activist, I must first begin with being an activist for myself.

some international foundation programme students: Luis, Kasia and Kristina from my advanced class; more students; Cousin James about to get severely depressed on saurday.

good day, bad day.

England vs. Portugal: shame - and Ronaldo - wanker.
well, at least I won't have to rush home from climbing three mountains in order to catch them in a final.
But afterwards - Doctor Who: Cybermen AND Daleks! Brilliant!
I have given stern instructions to everyone I know to tape it for me.
Back to more interesting stuff in the next post.