Extreme Mountaineering

 

In an effort to penetrate ever further into the Pyrénées, we have taken to using ever more dangerous tactics. Our latest effort was to end in pain.
With us to witness my humiliation were friends Kim & Mike.
Our target, the Cirque de Garvarnie, deep in the French Pyrénées. After many hours of rugged travel, we arrived at base camp. Our trusty old camper van had made it in one piece. Well, three actually. Towed behind it was our secret weapon in attempting the giddy heights.
Our first attempt was by foot.

 

Some of us struggled...

 

Some of us triumphed...

- 

Whereas some just took it easy...

 

 

On our return, we took to our secret weapon, our scooter.

 

We followed signs of those who went before us...

 

We were not alone.

 

After a quick stop to check on the local marmots, disaster struck. On starting around a hairpin bend steeply downwards, my trusty scooter decided to conk out, casting both of us into the void.

Well, onto the ground with a couple of barrel rolls.
Thankfully we were both well protected. Except for one deeply personal area that the rear view mirror zeroed in on.
The susequent groin ache was a curt reminder of my fallibility. And incompetence.
We nevertheless saw the amazing sights. Here's one...

 

and here's another one...

 

The temperature had plummeted from the previous months 35 degrees to a chilling 1 degree. The resultant clouds hid our quarry until the final morning.

 

The chill did, however, cool my wounded ardour...

Next: Extreme Safari.... watch this space...

Sabotage!

In our personal lives, trust is all important. When that trust breaks down, everything else tumbles after it, making life miserable. I believe that trust is also important in business although not everyone agrees with me. I found running a business without trust nearly impossible.
I have learned the hard way what happens when trust is lost because of deception in both my personal and my business lives.
Just as I thought that I had left all this behind me by retiring, I find myself right in that murky world again.
What has brought on this bout of philosophising? Are there secret messages aimed at someone in my diatribe? If you read it backwards does it invoke the devil?
No.
Our swimming pool has been sabotaged.
Ok, I know, this is not the end of the world right? North Korea are not going to give up their nuclear weapons in sympathy right? Trump is not going to develop empathy and Catholics won't realise that condoms would have saved millions of lives in Africa just because of my pool, correct? (Sorry, off at a tangent there.)
All the same, this whole affair is a little bizarre and disconcerting.
So here is the story:
Our pool, the last building project at the farmhouse, was on course for completion in August.

On the 10th August the liner was finished and the water started to flow.

As the temperature rose, we took the plunge. Chilly but full of promise.

But, not full of water...

It did not take long to realise that the water level was going down. Rapidly.
Checking all around, we found a leak in a skimmer. Repaired. Water still disappeared at the same discomforting rate.
We finally discovered that the water was disappearing from one of the two drains. The partly separate basin where the pool cover was to live, was haemorrhaging its life-blood.
After much kerfuffle, the fault was localised to a pipe leading from that drain, and buried in over 1.5 meters of concrete.
Bums.
At this point, all work stopped for the tradition French summer break. We were left with a lame excuse for a pool. A damp squib. We lived in sweltering heat whilst being gently mocked by a disabled pool.
On their return, a camera was shoved down the drain, not to find a leaky joint as suspected, but to find holes punched through the pipes!
Concrete was cut and a hole big enough to be a baby swimming pool was made.

The pipe thus finally exposed showed to have four holes drilled through it at one meter intervals.
This could have been no accident. Someone had sabotaged our pool.
<Pause for melodramatic music>
Repairs have been made and tests are ongoing to uncover any further attempts of deliberate damage. All seems well.
So who did this and why? Was this a terrorist attack for which France is becoming infamous? Was it personal vendetta against us or the builders? Was it God trying to strike me down and missing?
Until we know, trust has been lost. Will we find further such acts possibly even more heinous?
We live in fear.
We are turning the newly dug hole into a bunker.

What's in a name?

Choosing names can be a mite tricky. What were we to call the farmhouse? It needed to have meaning, yet be pronounceable in French. Thus 'Le Farmhouse' just didn't work, whilst 'La Ferme' is a term of abuse.
Even worse, we decided that we needed names for each building.
The snooker room was first.

The obvious choice was 'Le Snook'. Easily pronounceable in seventeen languages, a 'snook' is an ancient French farming implement used for grimping mole droppings. Undeniably a useful thing to do, especially after an exhausting day flailing pastures, as farmers are wont to do.
The next to be named was the apartment.

As these are the guest rooms, it seemed logical to name it after an old English term for that little room in a pub that couples go to snuggle in. Smooching was also allowed.
The main house took more time to decide on. After proposing many different names such as 'the money pit', 'the retirement home', 'vet's end', 'the quarry' etc, we heard that the new owners of our old home in Caerphilly had turned our garden into a housing estate and done away with it's old name; Parc-y-lan. As it was also one of Papa's last wishes, this seemed like a no-brainer.

Parc-y-lan is Welsh for something like 'on the edge of the park'. It meant 'home' to us, and so it still does.
This left one final name. The old barn that we are renovating deserves it's own name. I bet you can't guess what we called it...

'Le Barn'.
Genius.

Unmasking Ironman

I have long suspected that my good friend Paul Bennett, a mild-mannered wizened professor of psychobabble, working deep in the dark and dusty catacombs of the almost Unseen University in deepest dusty South Wales (Swansea) was other than he seemed.
There had long been reports of his connection to the Ironman. He would often rush off around the world to swim, run, bike and rescue young maidens. This was no ordinary professor.
He and his long suffering wife Gill stayed with us last week. I watched for signs of his superpowers. They were well hidden. Allowing me to hammer him at snooker was clearly meant to misdirect me. His hobbling gait whilst using a walking stick; likewise. Their camouflage as local musicians was surprisingly good.

To be fair, he had not long undergone major surgery upon his knee, having had part of it replaced.
Would this stop him rescuing young maidens? I thought not.
He soon became restless of this charade, and zoomed off to the Pyrénées to take part in a local pushbike ride, a formidable 100 miles long ride going over 5 mountains. This would surely force him to show his true alter ego.
We followed cautiously at a safe distance (of about 6 hours) and hid ourselves upon a remote mountain.

To get there, we had passed through the clouds themselves, to gain a breathtaking view.
The first riders appeared...

...barely beating the clouds rising behind them. Would we recognise our quarry? Was this him?

Disguised as a mere human? I think not. Anyway, after manipulating his knee I found it decidedly in-bionic.
Time dragged on, the clouds crept upwards...

Hours passed. Still no sign of our superhero. Then I spotted an unusual bottom...

Surely that knee was artificial? Was this the Ironman himself?

As I approached him to finally unmask this saviour of young maidens, the clouds enveloped us...

I was undone.
After doing myself up, my phone started to vibrate. A small distant wizened voice escaped it wheezing "Help me, I cannot go on!"
We rushed to the bottom of the mountain to find Paul's bike slumped to one side, and Paul himself in an apparent state of extreme exhaustion. Another charade of course. I was now more sure than ever of the secret identity of Ironman.
But who was Paul Bennett?