The Englishman who went up a hill but came down a mountain

After a week when I've hardly been able to get online - problems with my laptop and router rather than Tamaani on this occasion - everything seems to have magically corrected itself today, so I can at last fill you in on my activities over the last few days.

My back is much better now, but I've saved some of the pills they gave me at the nursing station just in case I suffer I relapse, which is a distinct possibility at my time of life; Sophie next door put my age at 34 when we initially met though, so I think I'll let her be the judge of chronological matters from now on.

Given my relative sprightliness I finally decided to tackle the mountain that lies to the west yesterday, and armed with sandwiches and flask I set off on what was one of the most adventuresome things I've done for some time. OK, it was hardly Man Against Wild, Bear Grylls-style survival, but it was a challenge nonetheless, and I felt a great sense of achievement upon reaching the summit. Parts of the climb were quite steep and I must admit that I had to take a few breathers on the way up, but the effort was well worth it in the end.

(click to enlarge)

Whether the edifice that I climbed is actually a mountain or nothing more than a very steep hill I really can't say with 100% certainty, but at approximately 1100 feet it certainly meets some people's requirements for mountain status so it's a mountain for me and besides, mountain climbing sounds far more rugged than hill walking. On more than one occasion it looked as though I'd reached the final peak, only for a whole new climb to appear once I'd made what I thought to be the top, and for a brief moment I was able to get a little inkling as to how the survivors of the plane that crashed in the Andes back in the early 70s must have felt, only without the need to resort to cannibalism.

Speaking of strange meat I'm currently defrosting a slab of something that I got from the community freezer earlier in the term; I've no idea what it is - could be caribou, could be whale - but I'm going to eat it tonight and I'm determined to enjoy it no matter what. I think I deserve it after my expedition!

Not a happy camper

Well, in the manner of Bear Gryllls or Ray Mears I have emerged from the wilderness unscathed, save for my usual collection of bites which, whilst not as large as last year's, is still sizeable. One bite has swelled to such an extent that it looks as though I have a tumour growing behind my right ear, a fact of which I was not aware until I had spent a good couple of hours socialising at the school's barbecue which took place after we returned from camp. The looks of sympathy mixed with terror that I was getting now make sense.

The trip itself ran smoothly, but despite the fact that we were graced with good weather, I can't say that I really enjoyed myself. I am simply not a happy camper. I view camping in the same way as the albino in The DaVinci code viewed self-flagellation; it is a necessary act of penance that needs to be observed every so often in order that one's sins may be absolved. It is my hope that one uncomfortable night under canvas helps remind me of the relative luxuries I have at home and, as a consequence, makes me appreciate them just that little bit more.

I know I lead a relatively adventurous lifestyle when I'm in the North, but that is all done in the knowledge that there is a reasonably comfortable, heated apartment to come back to at the end of the day. I have helped to build an igloo but I would view spending the night in one on a voluntary basis much in the same way that I view camping. I think houses are a good invention, and one that we should all embrace.

Having said all this though, the students on the trip all seemed to enjoy themselves, and that is the most important thing. If I am around and about this time next year I will undoubtedly offer my services once again, if only to absolve the sins that have have been committed over the previous twelve months.

I'd just better be a good boy this year.