Packing up.

The windows of my van run with rain. The image outside is blurred as if looking through melting glass. Heavy drops bounce from the steel exterior. Inside, the noise echoes and increases a thousand fold.

A clap of thunder and a flash of lightening give Boy Wonder and me a visual treat. The stuffed and festering interior of the van is lit for a second and then, in an instant, returned to gloom. A car passes, tyres swish cutting Pirelli furrows, the yellow-sodium glow of the headlights spotlight the bouncing rain from the hot tarmac.

Spain, land of promise, land of sun and hot rock, land of sizzling skin, San Miguel, browned-beach-beauties, armed robbers on the run and cheap red wine.

Boy Wonder and I had escaped from the end of a winter season in Chamonix. Driving for 9-hours we passed tollbooth after tollbooth handing over Euros neither of us could afford to hand over. We drove past the turning for the Ecrin, Briancon and Le Grave and ignored the road for Gap and its miles of sun-bleached limestone.

Driving through the centre of Grenoble, constant glances into wing-mirrors, outside, inside, behind, in-front, the French driving manual’s opening paragraph of anything goes…goes.

South, to the land of shorts and flip-flops, fish and chips, Costa del this and Costa del that. South, 9-hours without a break, the Citroen gasped with the increase in temperature, second only to the increase of our anticipation. We escaped the brown patches in the middle of white ski runs and the white patches in the middle of brown faces belonging to ski-bums. South, 24-hours of sun and warm rock, time to get strong, time to get thin…Time to get bored sat in the back of the van waiting for another rainy day to end.

I didn’t see this when I packed up. The picture I conjured in those dark days of imprisonment was one of freedom and sun, fresh pine trees, brown skin and long hair. I left my home of 15 years and allowed strangers to move in. I quit my job as a P.E. Instructor in the Prison Service, quit a pension-holiday-pay-sick-pay, security and routine. I didn’t imagine rain when I gave up £25000 per annum and regular training in a gym with Brittany, Kylie and Christine all strutting their stuff on MTV.

We drove the steep winding hill deep in the heart of the Spanish countryside. The olive groves dripped with the fresh rain. The terra-cotta-pan-tile roofs ran like rivers in spate, barrels beneath the gutters overflowing. The Citroen struggled, hairpin after hairpin, until finally the focal point of my Prison fantasy was reached, Siruana, land of golden rock.

I didn’t expect the rain. I didn’t imagine this when I gave up the regular pay-cheque of £2000 per month and the moods of the boss. I didn’t expect the rain as I walked the streets of Leicester being bumped and jostled while avoiding the dog shit and meeting another ex-convict who despised me.

I didn’t imagine the rain when giving up a wash and a shave each morning, a regular hair cut, deodorant and toothpaste, council tax-water rates-phone bills-blocked drains-T.V. License-hoovering-dusting-cleaning the car and fighting for MY car park spot.

I didn’t imagine the rain when I returned home at night from 13-hours of imprisonment, without sun or light, without wind or rain, but with anger and hostility, with tattoos-aggression-pain, aggression, aggravation, intimidation, aggression, aggression…aggression.

I didn’t imagine the rain as I battled the British motorways through jams and crashes, following caravans along the narrow twisty lanes and the Sunday drivers along the coast road into North Wales, only to arrive in bad weather and sit and wait and wait…and wait.

Boy Wonder and I sat in the van that first day and between the downpours we checked the crags. We called into the camp-site and drank Espresso. We bought a copy of the climbing guide and talked to fellow climbers, we found a place to park and call base, sorted food, kit and climbing gear. Read a little and dreamt a lot.

By dinner on our second day the rain stopped. The mist swirling from the deep ravines surrounding the plateau thinned revealing an ancient village perched on a precipice, steep orange and Tiger-striped rock-walls, free standing pillars and acres of spruce, pine, larch and shrub. The woods dried and in doing so the wild Rosemary and Thyme gave a heavenly scent. Small birds twittered and large birds soured.

Boy Wonder and I dodged puddles and climbed. Not well, but we climbed. Day three dawned clear and we climbed and explored the miles of open countryside. Day four dawned and we climbed in the sun, donned shorts and flip-flops. Day five and six dawned hot and clear and we climbed.

Day seven, hotter still, but thin skin, aching muscles and smelling arm-pits begged for a rest, so we moved the van to the side of a large blue lake and washed away the grime. We re-stocked on food and bread without the Friday night super market madness in Britain.

Returning to our spot beneath the old pine tree, we cooked a meal with fresh vegetables and added handfuls of herbs growing all around the van. We ate fresh olive oil bread and drank red wine. We walked to the campsite for an evening coffee and checked out the hand scribbled topo’s describing the newly developed crag where we had climbed.

Returning to the van we laughed and scoffed at the supposed grade of the climbs we had thought a lot more difficult, then retired, ready for a return to the fray in the morning. Only the clouds had now returned and in the distance the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightening was a cause for concern.

I didn’t imagine the rain, it did not enter into my dream, but sitting out the second day in a week maybe it’s not so bad after all.