(T)raining

A Rainbow at Ruthven (Pic: Chris Edwards)

"So foul and fair a day I have not seen,"

So said Shakespeare through Macbeth, and so say I through my Gore-tex.

Despite the unfurling of the new season's leaf, the ululations of the cuckoo and the first clumsy steps of the lamb, the weather-watching and rain-dodging is back in effect. Like a rainy playtime at primary school we’ve been sent back inside to make-do with books and building blocks. Big plans have been hung back on the coat hook and we’re left to stare through the windows as our dreams wash away for another weekend. We got snowed off Ardverikie Wall on Binien Shaus, and even the perma-dry Heather Hat in Glen Nevis was dripping. There’ll be four horsemen on the horizon soon.

In the mean time, while we all wait for a colossal high pressure to return and sit unmoved over the Highlands, I’ve been forced back to the little stones and the pretend stones. Ruthven, Cummingston, Duntelchaig, Extreme Dream, they trip off the tongue.

Chris flashing Outstanding at the Ruthven Boulder (Pic: Chris Edwards)

Me on Sloping Off at Ruthven (Pic: Chris Edwards)

At the wall the other night Pete Hill asked if he could take some snaps of me while I worked on numerous heinous problems. Even I'm scared of me now. (Pics: Pete Hill)

Meanwhile, only my dreams keep me sane. Dreams of long evenings and the sun setting over the sea. Dreams of sitting at the top of a rock, heart racing, hands shaking. Dreams of laughing. Dreams of crying. Dreams of the ammonia-stench of sea cliffs and the ever-present dry mouth of fear. Of beckoning waves and the promise of silence beneath them. Dreams of uncertainty. Of strength of will versus strength of fingers. Dreams of standing still and watching hills and lochs march on forever. Dreams of hopping, skipping, bounding, over bogs and burns and boulders. Dreams of yesterday and dreams of tomorrow. Of always and never.

Dreams of summer