BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

  A 700 word Article

By

Nick Snelling

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

Finally, I can date my wife’s enthusiam for serious rock climbing to a particular day.  It was then that she seemed to find a passion that, over the past two years, has only become more intense with time.  In fact, I cannot remember her ever having being so passionate about an outdoor activity.

At the slightest hint of free time, I will see her preparing sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, whilst all around her are ropes, karabiners and multi-coloured slings.  A rucksack will be at her feet, together with treadless climbing boots and a guide to the most extreme ‘routes’ in Spain.  The only item missing will be a helmet, which she avows is only for ‘flossies’, takes up too much room and, anyway, can never be found in an acceptable colour.

Meanwhile, there are numerous telephone calls as I overhear her discuss, in heart-stopping detail, various terrifying rock faces with vertiginous drops that would make experienced mountaineers dizzy.  Inwardly, I shudder as conditions are analysed in labourious detail to make sure that the day’s climbing will ‘push the envelope’ to the absolute limit.  Typically, not for a moment will she allow any compromise and it is frighteningly clear that 'it' is all about going right to the ‘edge’ and, more worryingly – well beyond.  Whatever that means.   

The trouble is, unfortunately, it is not my wife that goes climbing but me.  Worse still, I go with a friend of her’s who is a softly spoken Cumbrian capable of climbing inverted polished glass whilst completing a Rubik’s Cube.  With the strength of an ox, my climbing partner, Bill, has fingers the width of my thumb, flowing long, blonde hair and a devotion to appallingly difficult climbs that turn me into a gibbering wreck.

In fact, of course, I end up climbing very little, having developed a somewhat novel technique.  Generally, I start well enough and rise to a good few metres above ground level in an impressively committed manner.  However, accidentally glancing down, I invariably notice how tiny are the cars below (mere pinpricks) and realise my folly and the utter desperation of my situation.

Fainting from sheer fear, I then rely upon Bill to haul me up the route whilst I dangle helplessly at the end of our rope.

Once at the top of some precipitous pinnacle, I normally regain consciousness sufficiently to appreciate the magnificent view - before fainting again at the dreadful prospect of the return journey.  Bill likens climbing with me to hauling a huge bag of potatoes around the mountains of Spain.  This is unkind but, I have to say, probably extremely accurate.

Actually, everything is safer than it sounds.  Well, it would be - were it not reliant upon two imponderables, one much greater than the other.  The minor one is the integrity of my elderly and rather frayed rope, which does give me cause for some concern on the rare moments that I am conscious.  However, it is the second factor that is far more worrying.  Namely my wife.  Which brings me on to the precise date of my entrance into this masochistic ‘sport’.

If I am correct (and I have now checked this several times), my wife’s enthusiasm for climbing goes back to an up-grade on my life insurance.  It had been a perfectly acceptable 2,000 Euros, which I had reckoned was more than enough to fund a decent party upon my sudden demise.  However, for reasons better known to herself, my wife insisted that I increase this manyfold.  In fact, I am now insured, curiously enough, for exactly the showroom price (including registration, metallic red colouring and all ancillary fees) as a brand new, open topped Mazda MX5.

I would like to think that all of this was mere co-incidence but I recall well my wife’s acute disappointment after I refused, point blank to take up deep sea diving, base jumping or the opportunity of a two week activity holiday with the Taleban.  I am not saying that there is anything wrong with my marriage but if you see a merry widow whistling past you in a gleaming sports car then think of me – and, more importantly, immediately reduce your own life insurance policies.

Copyright Nick Snelling (www.nicholassnelling.com) author of three books on Spain including ‘How to Move Safely to Spain’ (www.movesafelytospain.com)