The contradiction of travel

Why do I put myself through this? It is meant to be enjoyable, something I've missed throughout the pandemic to date, something I've been looking forward to for almost twelve months. Yet, here I am on the eve of my first foreign holiday in over two years? Lying in bed with a churning stomach, worrying about what's to come.

It has always been the big contradiction of travel for me. I love a good journey, and visiting new places, yet I book trips in the full knowledge that I will spend the days immediately preceding departure feeling sick with anxiety, waiting for the starting gun to sound.

It must be because, deep down, I know that I'm doing the right thing, that there's no gain without a little pain, and that once it begins, once I step onboard that first train to London, all that pent up stress and worry will miraculously evaporate, enabling me to enjoy the experience. Of course it won't be the end of all anxiety, I know my body too well to expect that realistically, but those future worry pangs will mostly be constrained to the pressure points of the trip - finding my way through Terminal 5 alone, arriving at my St Lucian hotel in the dark, whiling away a day on my own in Rodney Bay before the others arrive, and somehow avoiding catching COVID when unavoidably in busy areas.

It should be quite a trip all told. Eighteen nights door to door, one at Heathrow's only five star hotel, two at a St Lucian resort, fourteen sailing aboard a yacht with the silliest name, and one squashed into an economy seat on the flight back home. It will include only my second ever transatlantic return flight, the longest time I will have spent on a yacht in one go, the furthest I have travelled alone and the longest time I have spent in a foreign land enjoying my own company. But it involves plenty of things I love, from a day long private tour of St Lucia, to some potentially exhilarating sailing, not to mention escaping wintry England for somewhere with daily temperatures in the high twenties and guaranteed sunshine.

I can't wait!   

Dawn chorus

I'm lying under the covers waiting for the alarm to ring.

I'm listening to the birds begin to sing.

We're all wondering what the day will bring.

It's that twilight moment, not just between darkness and light, but between not travelling and travelling, between not knowing and knowing. The duvet still feels comforting and warm as I await the moment when the day must begin. I'm thinking about all that will happen, the things we must do, the places we will see, the great distance we will travel.

I'm worrying whether I've packed everything I need, whether the taxi will come on time, whether our attempt to find our own way through Terminal Five will end in disaster as we fail to find breakfast, or miss our flight. I'm worrying what I will do for seven hours in the air. I'm worrying whether assistance will be provided at the other end if we reject it at Heathrow, and if they will try to force us into wheelchairs. I'm worrying about the cane, and whether it can ever be a sensible substitute for a guide dog when visiting such a busy city.

But I'm also excited, so very very excited. I'm looking forward to being at the airport, to flying across the Atlantic for the first time in my life, to our arrival somewhere new to us, to finding our way alone, to our hotel and dinner and the sights, sounds and other senses of New York.

The dawn chorus reminds me how uncertain the day could be, but also oh how wonderful. 

Too much planning

I can't recall a trip on which I have heaped so much expectation. Yes, I've certainly looked forward to holidays and spent plenty of time researching travel options and hotels, but ordinarily, once that's done and dusted, I would sit back and forget about it for a bit, intending to pick up the guide books again a little closer to our departure date. Not so with our next adventure however. From the day we decided to take the plunge and buy the tickets which, several days earlier had been ridiculously cheap but were now climbing higher with every hour, I have been immersing myself in every piece of information I can lay my hands on. I have read books, downloaded articles, browsed the "best of" this and the "ten greatest" that, I have spent hours viewing YouTube videos exploring every area and aspect we might hope to visit... but still I feel hopelessly unprepared.

The question is, can one ever really be prepared for New York City? Does there come a time when it is better to close the books and swipe away from the videos in order that we can experience the city with our own eyes and ears, rather than endlessly relying on the interpretations of others? Whilst it's probably sensible to find somewhere for Saturday night dinner, shouldn't we also leave space for culinary happenchance? And whilst a pre booked ticket for Top of the Rock will surely save us some queuing, often the best discoveries occur spontaneously.

So, it is with that thought that I sit here on a train winding its way through countryside on the Kent - East Sussex border, having just parted with guide dog Gio,. I'm anticipating what's to come with a healthy dose of enthusiasm, but without the fervent rush impatience that has characterized my research and planning to date.

In truth, after months thinking about the trip I have now entered my usual pre departure state of apathy. It reminds me of exams all those years ago, and the point one reached when cramming in information served only to remind me how little I thought I knew, rather than rectifying any apparent deficiency. That change in mindset is usually exacerbated by the ceremonial dropping off of the guide dog and my return to swinging the cane. Suddenly there are more pressing things to think about than how to navigate Central Park or which harbour boat trip to take, like how do I get myself home without tripping up half of Waterloo station, and can I manage to pack for a long weekend without bringing the kitchen sink or spending the whole night pondering how many shirts to take? I'm certainly excited that, within twenty four hours I'll be heading west across the Atlantic for the first time in my life, but I'm also nervous, thinking about the places I will have to navigate with my least favourite mobility aid.

The plan is to take it fairly steadily. To count on making it to the subway only after queuing at immigration for umpteen hours, and then to focus on finding the hotel and a nearby bite to eat. Somehow staying at a European chain hotel feels like an opportunity missed, but what is authenticity anyway in a city of the world?  The CitizenM is located on Bowery, a road which was more coming than up for a good portion of its existence, but which benefits from not being in the madness of Midtown but rather closer to China Town, including, hopefully, a restaurant with our name on it for Friday evening. Of course we've done the research and have in our possession a shortlist of establishments, each claiming to be the best place for noodle soup or dumplings,   but settling on the right one feels like tracking down that proverbial needle in a haystack.

The problem is that New York sounds much like London in terms of its restaurant scene, with literally thousands of options to choose from, and no end of opinions on which should benefit from our hard earned and converted dollars. And much like in London. If one strides always to find the best one possible one is surely to be disappointed. So, perhaps a different approach is required, forgetting about authenticity or that perfect New York experience, but focusing instead on what we really want. Indeed, perhaps that is a sensible mantra for the whole trip, helping us to find the sights and sounds that will interest or engage us rather than those which everyone else thinks we should enjoy.  

 

Understanding the risks

Sitting low on the sofa the climbers above, now relieved of their harnesses and ropes, still seemed impossibly high, and the moves they described, the effort in their voices, too challenging for a wall without protection. And every so often, as if to confirm the point, a dull thud sounded as the mats absorbed another hard arrival.

With fifteen minutes to go I didn't want to be sitting out the final exercise of my two session climbing course. I had done everything else to date, felt the gear, tied the knots, learnt to belay and to climb, arrested a staged fall, tried falling myself, and ridden the ever so slightly scary autobelay. There had been aspects which, as a visually impaired person, had been difficult, like pausing before each move, straining to hear shouted directions from my climbing partner or trainer below, before thrashing around for the right hold. And there had been things that were easier, like the very tactile process of tying in, or of raimbowing up a wall with no care for the specific holds involved. The point was, I had done it all. 

Kerry, the trainer, had been concerned about the autobelay. Without the manual engagement of a belayer controlling my rate of descent as I returned to earth from the top of a wall, she feared that I would be at heightened risk of injury. I respected her view, but I also felt the risk was manageable. Yes, there would be no braking before I hit the ground, and yes, I would need to be very conscious of how far I had climbed, how long it would take to drop, and of when to brace for impact. I would also need a trusted partner who could watch out for me. But none of these points were insurmountable, and ultimately she was content for me to make the call.

In the event it wasn't the floor that caused me pain, but the counter-intuitive act of letting go of the wall, five meters up, with only an unthinking machine to catch me. I understood the technology from a bit of prior reading, and that the physics involved were equally as unavoidable as the gravity that would pull me down, but it still took several counts to three and a couple of deep breaths before I could give it a go.

The landing itself was uneventful, but that's not to say I couldn't see Kerry's point. The ground certainly arrived quickly and without warning, and should there be an uneven surface, some discarded gear, or if my feet were not positioned properly, I could see well how a routine trip up and bad down the wall could turn into days or weeks with my leg up.

I think it is fair to say that risks abound for the unwary visually impaired climber, and not necessarily in the places they seem most likely. Uneven floors, snaking ropes and industrial staircases all conspire to trip one up, and of course scrabbling for a hand hold to steady oneself following a fall, or attempting to avoid the large jug holds whilst walking backwards on a descending rope are much more challenging when the wall is just a blurry mass.  

Learning to fall, and catching a falling climber, proved to be a interesting experience. The slight pull upwards as the rope tightened, the sense of being only just in control as an invisible force attempted to propel one face first into the wall and into the path of the descending climber, not to mention the trust one needs in one's belayer in the first place,            provided welcome practice and demystification for the day this would inevitably happen for real. Aspects of it are certainly different for a visually impaired belayer, not least the need to be in communicative harmony with one's climber, knowing exactly what they are doing at whenever their direction of travel or intentions change. Important too  is the guiding hand, constantly checking for slack in the rope in lieue of eyes watching the climber to anticipate each new move or the start of a fall. But the basics remain the same, the need to be primed for a potential fall, to return one's hand swiftly to one's side after pulling in slack, and to never ever let go of that brake rope. As the falling climber, on this occasion deliberately so and in a space chosen for its lack of protrusions, I suspect the chief challenge will be avoiding painful collisions with the larger holds and reorientating oneself following the event. On this occasion it was all quite controlled, and actually quite a positive experience.

So, it was with a degree of surprise and a little disappointment that I received Kerry's very strong advise that I should not participate in the final part of the course, bouldering. In my naivety I had rather imagined this to be the less challenging part of the experience, remaining relatively close to the ground, able to get off the wall easily when things got more tricky. I think I also had in mind happy times as a child clambering over boulders and other rock formations at the wonderful Brimham Rocks in North Yorkshire, their amazing tactility making it simpler, not more challenging, for a visually impaired person to navigate. But, I needed to be realistic, to recognise that indoor environments and the risks they introduced, were quite different. More importantly, I had been genuinely grateful for the thought and care that had been invested in ensuring that I got the most from the course and was not excluded from anything unless absolutely necessary.        As the course trainer Kerry of course had a fair degree of responsibility for the safety off those climbing under her instruction, and I had to take seriously her concerns About my likely inability to fall safely if I couldn’t orientate visually.  Therefore, whilst I dearly wanted to complete the whole course and, frankly, to be able to boulder like anybody else, there was no question of me pushing the point.

In the event I did get to try some traversing, albeit on the lowest holds and with Kerry resting a hand on my back, lest I missed a step and stumbled back the foot or so to the matting. It was surprisingly strenuous, far more so than any of the top roping we had done to date, and the first time I had raised my breathing rate or broken into a sweat. 

Listening to the four other course members, and the countless other climbers on the bouldering wall upstairs, as I reclined on my plastic cushion, it was clear that cardio vascular workouts were par for the course, with the opportunity to attempt more challenging moves without the safety net provided by rope and belayer. I wanted to be experiencing that too, but secretly I was also relieved. Whilst I couldn't recall doing anything to prompt it, my left ankle was beginning to ache, and I suspected that, had I tried to take part, at the end of a long day at work and three hours of tuition, the risk of injuring myself may have been heightened somewhat, and what a sad way to end that would have been.

So I enjoyed the rest instead, listened to those around pushing themselves to try something new, and reflecting on the fulfilment of a long term aim. Now, all I need is to somehow keep it up.   

Learning the ropes

Leaning backwards, away from the wall, I transferred my trust from the sturdy hand and foot holds that had hitherto been supporting me to the harness about my waist, the double eight and stopper knots I had tied myself, to the ten metres or so of rope which led first up to a pulley and then down to the ground and my billayer, another novice like me, standing ready to lower me to the ground. Ten minutes earlier I had been in his position, recalling the hand movements learnt earlier in the classroom, first to control the slack in the rope whilst remaining ready at a nanosecond's notice to drop my hand down to my side and lock off movement through the device and prevent a slight slip from becoming an eight metre drop to the floor below, and then to control his descent, gradually giving him more rope as he walked his way back to earth. Upstairs, when it was just us, in relative quiet and with a very short piece of wall on which to learn the ropes, it had felt relatively simple but now, with music glaring, the calls of other climbers all around, and the potential for serious consequences if I let the rope slide and my climber plummeted,       learning to climb felt a lot more challenging.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that I had been waiting for this day for years. Ever since I had first climbed an outdoor wall in Devon whilst on an activity holiday for disabled children and, on reaching the top had been allowed to abseil back with the rope looped around my body in a manner reminiscent of those early mountaineers lacking the fancy equipment on which climbers now rely, I had been hooked. Yet, it had taken me the best part of twenty years to do anything about it. The other activity I had enjoyed so much at the Calvert Trust's base on Exmoor had been a morning's sail on the reservoir, which had started out as a boatful of children eagerly waiting for their moment to pull on a sheet or hold the tiller, and had ended with just the trainer and I careering about in a gusty breeze, the boat sat on its side as we bore close to the wind. It had taken me a mere decade to pluck up the courage to visit a club and learn to do it properly.

I'm not sure what finally made me make the booking. With the sailing it had been an item on Radio Four's In Touch programme featuring a visually impaired sailor pootling about an East London dock with the totally blind presenter,. For somebody who can't even drive a shopping trolley independently the promise of helming a dinghy for myself, of being able to learn a practical skill and apply it to different situations without a sighted companion always being in charge was attractive, and I thought that if I didn't do it now I never would. But with climbing it was different, there was no eureka moment, just a slow burning ambition to have another go, and I simply had to wait until the desire to act overtook my anxiety at entering a new and potentially uncomfortable environment.

The discomfort I feared was not the bite of the rental harness or tow pinching climbing shoes which I now know to be my real foes, but being in a sweaty sporty environment where strength and stamina rule. I've never especially liked gyms, indeed I haven't set foot in a proper one since my mid teens, and most of my exercise comes from fast paced walks with my guide dog, Gio. I don't like the shared changing rooms, the pumping music, or the frenetic atmosphere, and the thought of paying to spend hours in such a place had never filled me with excitement.

But my desire to climb, fueled by friends' tales of adventures in Cumbria or North Wales, and books following endeavours up distant mountains or Scottish sea stacks          Finally won over. In early October I promised myself that, whatever happened, The month would not end without me beginning the process of learning to climb. I immersed myself in information on the various options. Should it be bouldering or top rope, a good Centre far from home or somewhere a bit more limited but much easier to reach? I also followed a trail of Facebook groups, VI Talk, VI Talk Sport, Paraclimbing for All, and eventually Paraclimbing London where I was finally able to glean the knowledge I needed, that the place to be, the place where they would not run a mile or perhaps climb a pitch at the thought of training a visually impaired novice, was The Castle in Islington.

Pushing open the heavy door at its entrance or climbing the metal staircase to its upper levels one feels The Castle's past. It was formerly a water pumping station and still seems somewhat industrial within. Light barely reaches the ground from strips high on the ceiling,   and seemingly every inch of floorspace coursed with intent as crowds of evening climbers harnessed up and took their positions beneath the towering walls.

I must confess that it was all a little overwhelming at first and I was grateful for the friendly receptionist leading me upstairs, pausing to drop my belongings in a swimming pool style locker before handing over to our trainer for the evening, Kerry. The training room was simple, a line of plastic chairs on two sides facing a short section of slab, the technical term for a wall slanting away from the climber. Our group of five introduced itself to each other and talked a little of its climbing experience to date, ranging from a couple who had climbed at the center with a friend, to me as a total beginner. All however were there an introduction to climbing quite literally from the ground up, and we started with the very basics.

First up was the equipment, alpine and sports harnesses with their different adjustment mechanisms and potential risks noted. For each example discussed I was given one to feel, to adjust the buckles for myself and somehow to disentangle the leg loops from the waist. I never have been much good at 3D puzzles and, sure enough, on being invited to don one for the first time, managed to get in a Ness.

Next up was the belay device and its connecting caribina. I had read about belaying and think I was expecting something a little more sophisticated than a simple metal frame divided in two with a loop of wire for securing it to one's harness. This, along with the bellayer's iron grip on the brake rope could be all that stands between a climber and a potentially devastating fall. Getting the technique right, feeling the live rope with one's left hand, pulling up with the right to draw down the slack, locking down, transferring the left hand down to the brake and sliding the right hand up, seemed simple in principle but easy to Ness up. If only I had a set at home with which to practice.

And then there was the rope, and the all important tying in technique. Knots were never my thing when sailing, and when tying a bowline the hapless rabbit would all too often find himself popping out of his hole before heading the wrong way round the tree. The double eight was a little easier, indeed, even without seeing the trainer's example the instructions were simple to follow, though doing it well will take a little longer to master.

        

Finally it was time to swap my work shoes for something altogether more toe chrunching, and to be let loose on the four metres of wall in the corner of the room, albeit supervised by Kerry. Taking it in turns to climb and to belay, I finally got to find out what happens when my rather puny mass is pitted against the weight of somebody a little less scrawny at the other end of a rope. No sooner had my partner flown to the ceiling then he was ready to descend, leaning back in his harness, allowing the rope, and me at the end of it, to take the strain. Holding his weight wasn't difficult initially, but with every foot of rope I let through the belay device a surge of energy attempted to pull me off my feet and smash me into the lower handholds. The sensation was quite unnerving, though in time I learnt that a more balanced, braced stance, combined with smaller, faster movements of the rope minimised the jerking that was initially my undoing.

And then it was my turn, tentatively stepping forward until I could feel the wall before me, exploring with one hand and then the other to find my starting holds, and repeating with my feet, clumsily feeling left then right, up a bit, down a little until all four limbs were connected and ready to go.      I probably should have been ready for the frustration that would follow having read Red Szell's account of re-learning to climb as a visually impaired person, but my first trip to the top was about as graceless as I thought it was possible to get. With each movement I felt around for the holds, which could be anywhere about my body. With my hands it wasn't too bad, but with my legs I had the sense of thrashing wildly to find some grip, seemingly missing each hold by a matter of inches. For the others this had been the easy bit, the simplest of simple climbs to whet their appetite, a reward for all the faffing about with harnesses and belay devices, but for me it was a challenge, and I was all too glad to reach the top and take my turn at walking backwards down the wall. To be clear, it wasn't the physical process of climbing that was the issue, but rather the process of searching for holds when one cannot identify them visually. Looking straight at the wall from perhaps half a metre away the holds are invisible to me, and it is only when they are sat right in front of my nose that I am more likely to spot them. Even then it is less the hold I can see than the shadow it casts beneath, and so identifying their shape or colour is an impossibility.

Onwards and upwards. With an hour of tuition left for the evening we headed down to the main floor, and along a narrow valley separating two artificial crags. To my eyes it could have been a dimly lit outdoor site, short cliffs rising to left and right, a black night sky above, though my brain frequently fills in the picture parts my eyes don't see and to everyone else it was probably just a climbing gym. Either way, we were allocated our ropes, Gio was attached to a ground anchor, and the real climbing began. First time on the proper wall I rainbowed, scrabbling for any hold I could find regardless of colour, just thankful to reach the top. Once again the experience wasn't fluid and serene as my companions managed at times to make it appear, but an inelegant trudge skyward, kicking one leg out and then the other to find something to lodge my toes in. It didn't help that as I jammed my foot into the early holds it cramped up, reminding me of how my feet really don't like being manipulated against their will, even if only by an inanimate wall. Had I been at home I probably would have been found hopping up and down to relieve the contracting muscles., but a quarter of the way up a climbing wall I simply had to grin and bare it   until there was nowhere left to climb.

And then it was that moment. The point where I had to plant my heels against the wall, lean back and let go. I couldn't see the ground, but I could certainly hear the jumble of different voices sounding as if they were dozens of metres below rather than a paltry eight. "Keep your feet apart" Kerry called as I stepped gingerly backwards into the abyss, my weight held by my harness, that newly learnt knot, the pulley and rope, and my belayer at the bottom, nodoubt digging his own feet firmly into the ground to save himself from being dragged forwards. 

As the end of the evening approached there was time for one more climb, this time on a single grade. I had suggested to Kerry earlier in the evening that we should borrow the clockface approach described in Red Szell's Blind Man of Hoy, envisaging my spine as the hour hand on a clock, pointing straight up to twelve, the available holds taking the place of hours about the face so that, even without indicating which hand or foot should move it should be possible to identify where the next point of contact is to be found.      For the starting holds I suggested she simply show me where they were, but for each successive one she would call out, directing a hand to two o'clock, a foot to nine. Sometimes the needed hold was slightly above my left shin, or immediately above my head, and once it was the same hold I was already gripping with the other hand. Whilst I may have sacrificed autonomy I had gained in self confidence. Now I could attempt moves like anybody else, conserving valuable energy and enthusiasm by avoiding the mad scramble for each new handhold, and able to focus on where I was going and not simply where I was at any given moment. And when I reached the top I finally felt as though I had accomplished something, physically probably one of the least demanding climbs I will complete, but finally relieving the frustration I had felt earlier in the evening, and confirming that this was a sport for me.

   

References:

• Red Szell, Blind man of Hoy.https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blind-Man-Hoy-Red-Szell-ebook/dp/B00RKP9UVI

• Paraclimbing London Facebook group:https://m.facebook.com/groups/336808226819833     

Geographically Challenged

It was fifteen minutes into my walk that I realized my mistake. For a fleeting moment I thought I had found the right place, a large building beside a body of water, a steady flow of people entering and exiting the road beside. Was it just me or did they look like the young, athletic type I had been expecting, or was I seeing what I wanted to see?

I had left the Tube station as I so often do, striding purposefully, not so much because I know where I am going, but because I don't want anybody else to think that I might not. It is a failing of mine, I know, but I hate to reinforce any preconception that passers by may have of the guide dog owner they see, no doubt lost and in need of their assistance. So, rather than do the sensible thing, I strike out in whatever direction my inbuilt compass tells me must be right, walking with confidence and pace until I sense that something must be amiss, and pause to consider my options. This would of course be a good point to accept my predicament, ask for help, or in the very least retrace my steps to the last place I knew with any certainty where I was and where I needed to go.

Of course, in this instance, I had neither sought help on climbing the steeply curving steps leading from Manor House Tube to a busy street corner., and nor did I accost any members of the public when my phone informed me, rather disappointingly, that the shining water surface I had glimpsed briefly as I approached my present location was not the lake I was looking for, but the New River, channelling, as I believe it still does hundreds of years after its construction, drinking water into the Centre of London.     

Truth be told, I was quite excited to have found the river, having previously read the wonderful London blogger, Diamond Geezer's account of walking it from source to sea, or whatever the equivalent journey is for a man-made water course. Perhaps it was this, or more likely my hatred of turning tail and confirming to all and sundry that as a confident user of their local pavements I was something of a fraud, I instead took a sharp left and began to trace my way along the road shadowing the river bank. This wasn't a bank like any that most people would know it, rather it was a Dan of sorts, rising steeply from the stout fence which kept pedestrians out, to a height of perhaps five feet, and in this way presumably maintaining the gradual gradient used to keep those precious water's flowing. If I had wished for an easy view of the river I was to be sorely disappointed, for it wasn't until I had returned, chastened, to Seven Sisters Road, having admitted defeat after a quarter of a mile trek in the wrong direction, that I was able to look down on it from the edge of a bridge parapet. It had a canal like straightness, and its towpath appeared decidedly unappealing, so only half an hour late I cut my losses and returned to the Tube.

But what was it that I was looking for in the first place, I pretend to imagine hearing you cry? What was it that drove me to leave behind the comparative safety of southwest London and head instead for the unknown hitherto largely unknown lands that lie beyond Kings Cross? Well, I was attempting to be sensible for once, recognizing that the next time I came this way, butterflies fluttering inside my stomach ahead of three hours of climbing tuition at The Castle Climbing Center, it would be dark and cold, and not a time to be getting lost and exploring rivers, new or otherwise. I had it in mind that I would pop gown there on a nice bright Saturday afternoon, trace the route a couple of times, ensure Gio could find the front door, and then head off elsewhere for a little more exploration. My unscheduled visit to the New River had put paid to this being a quick trip, but, having returned to those steep steps to the Underground I was finally able to achieve what I had come for in the first place.

The route to The Castle was, as I had been led to believe, simple and straight, and within less than ten minutes I was mingling with the hordes inside, young and old alike, just for the record, seeking out their shop and a new pair of trousers to see me through my early days on the wall. The but that's a story for another day.           

Taking the plunge

Ten years ago I embarked on a new course with my free time, learning to sail a boat and ultimately helming in four Blind Nationals events, two of which I won. I have never been much of a sportsman, and am generally pretty aprehensive about entering a new and unfamiliar environment with nobody I know to lend moral support. That first day, turning up all alone at a dock in southeast London truly felt like leaping from a high board into an unknown pool. Little did I know that I would never look back, and whilst I don't sail as much as I would ideally want to, I made friends and enjoyed experiences I never would have otherwise.

And here I am doing it again. Having thought about it ever since I abseiled down a wall in Exmoor, two decades ago, I am finally going to take my first proper steps, or perhaps more accurately find my first handholds, learning to climb.

I've scoured London for the best climbing centres, not just for the variety of their walls or the quality of their instruction, but for somewhere where they will feel comfortable and confident teaching a visually impaired person whilst accomodating their guide dog. It could have been a tough ask, and may still prove to be, but for the time being I think I have found my venue, with the Castle Climbing Center near Finsbury Park. Not only that, but afraid that I night get cold feet and put it off for another ten years, I've made the necessary booking and, all being well, should be found somewhere on the end of a rope in about three week's time. Wish me luck...