Warmer climes: part one

It's been a week since the girl an I returned from our jaunt round the Southern hemisphere -- in this case, a 2-week whirlwind trip of Western Australia and Bali.  I've been back a week and I haven't even started blogging about it until now, what kind of an animal does that?

My paper journal -- Stay Out of Circulation 'Til the Dogs Get Tired -- went woefully neglected, mostly because it wasn't really a journal kind of trip.  However, I did make some notes on my arrival in Australia, which will serve as a good intro to this post.  I'll write about Bali in a seperate entry, just to try and keep the visitor numbers above 1.

Monday 19, October

We arrived in Perth close to 1am.  Customs cleared, baggage reclaimed, we drive South.

Austrlian Highways don't seem to resemble the English idea of a motorway -- instead of there being six lanes of traffic, you just have one, long, straight road.  Driving at night, you stick to the middle to try and avoid any unwelcome surprises jumping into the road.  On either side of the road, dark trees and bush form a barrier before the black hills stretch to the starry night sky.

At one point, we stop to change drivers.  I kick my feet in the dust of the petrol station forecourt and am suddenly startled by the unexpected laughing of a bird.

By the time we reach Albany, dawn is breaking on Sunday and all around there are sounds of life.

 The first week of our holiday was spent in Albany, WA, visiting the girl's family.  We were blessed by unusually warm Spring weather, a kind of climate that suited me just fine -- and the residents of Albany all seemed happy with the result.

Albany is a city famous for its whales -- and specific times of year you can see either Humpback whales or Southern Right whales, and there are a number of tour companies running whale watching excursions.  Last year's visit fell right in the middle of the migrating periods of the two species -- one had left Albany's waters, and the other hadn't yet returned.  What this meant for me was there were no whales to be seen out there -- two trips on whale boats rewarded us with dolphins and seals, but not a whale.

I wondered if this visit would be the same.  I am pleased to report back that, instead, there were whales this time -- whales splashing in the water, just a short way off the beach, whales with calves, whales jumping out the water, whales splashing their tales.  Doing almost every damn thing except balancing beach balls on their noses, which everyone knows whales are supposed to do.

Overall, we didn't do a whole lot in Albany.  One day we drove out to the Stirling mountain ranges -- mainly so that the girl's Mum and Nanna could look at wild flowers, but I appreciated the opportunity to be out in the wilderness.  In an incredibly nerdy way, it made me a little bit exciting to be out in the mountains again, it reminded me of being in Peru last year.  Except this time, I wasn't nearly prepared for it -- while to make a round trip to the summit and back of several of the mountains we visited would only have taken about 4 hours or so, it needed to be planned for.  I had no water, no suitable clothing, and my trainers were falling apart on my feet.  Quite literally, I think you could see my sock through the gaping hole in one of them.  Just the same, I wandered up a mountain trail for almost an hour, before turning around and coming back.

Next time, I am determined I will go equipped -- with a day pack, my platypus water bottle, some real hiking trousers, and maybe a pair of boots.  About all I did have was a hat.

Other days we took walks along the boardwalk or the beach with the dog, or visited the forts and saw where the Anzac boats sailed from.

People in Australia -- mainly people outside of Albany -- have asked me since if, when we move to Australia, I could see myself living in Albany.  I don't know if they wonder what I think of it compared to London.  The truth is, the city of Albany has roughly the same population as the town I grew up in, out in Essex, where my parents still live.  The difference is Albany is spread of a much wider area, so there seems to be a lot more there.  Some people in Albany -- the girl's younger bro included -- have no intention of ever leaving, and particularly can't see why anyone would want to live overseas in somewhere like England.

One afternoon, the girl and I stood on the beach in the late afternoon sun.  It was about 4pm, so the kids were getting out of school and it was warm enough that many were coming down to the beach and to swim in the ocean.  As we stood there, the air was warm, kids were playing on the beach, and there was a whale to be seen only a little way off the coast, just splashing gently in the water...

When people ask me if I could live in Albany I tell them honestly that I could -- it was moments like that which made living in London seem much greyer.  But we could only live in Albany if there was anything to do.  If there was enough there that the girl and I could both find work, earn a decent wage, and be able to do other things we loved -- in that case, sure, it was a nice place.  It wasn't paradise, but where is?  It wasn't a bad place to be, if you still kept a healthy sense of adventure and love of travel.  But there are plenty of other nice places we can also be -- personally, when we are in Australia I have said I want to live in Fremantle, but it remains to be seen.

Finding my way

Maybe I read too many comics when I was little.

I have a desire to help people with my life.  In my romantic moments, I try to convince myself and others that this is what I really do in my sales role -- I help people to get the training they need.  Just like when I used to work ordering replacement parts for broken-down buses: I told myself I was helping save the planet with public transport, and my role was vital to getting these vehicles back on the road.  I never really manage to convince myself of these things.

So what, really, is helping people?  It's just too vague. 

Are we talking about charity? Medicine?  Law enforcement?  Deworming orphans in Rwanda?  Someone a few years ago suggested I join the Peace Corps, but it's not open to non-US citizens, and even then what would someone like me do afterwards?  I have even tried to join the military at one point, even if that was less for noble "I want to help people" reasons and more for selfish ones.  But even wanting to help people is selfish, as I once wrote in a blog post called Why I Hate Superman, because it's about satisfying me.

When I was hiking the Inca trail in Peru I had an idea. 

I would set up an adventure sport company that was dedicated to improving the lives of people in countries where it operated.  I was inspired in the town of Agua Calientes which seemed so dishevelled and broken down, and contrasting so starkly with a grand, expensive hotel for the rich tourists who wanted to visit Machu Picchu.  I thought to myself why couldn't some of that money go to the community?  Who knows, maybe it did -- maybe large sums was funding education and medical care. 

But what I conceived was that there are amazing, beautiful places around the world that are also suited to activities like mountain biking, all-terrain boarding, snowboarding, paragliding -- but also situated in deprived places.  So what if people came and they had their fun and then their money didn't go into making anyone richer, but instead was invested into schools and hospitals and water systems.  Apparently it's all been done before, though, and it's just not that easy to make profit with these adventure sports.


So, back to the drawing board with that one.

Tongue that's sharp like a thumbtack

When I told my boss recently I couldn't work late on Thursday nights because I was starting a rock climbing course, she stared at me blankly.  She stared at me and asked flatly if I was joking.  I was puzzled and told her, no, I really couldn't work late on Thursday nights.  Apparently I joke about things so often and so seriously when I'm serious it's hard to know if I'm being sarcastic -- she said it was like me saying I had a needlepoint class or something.

I take exception to this.  I don't know if the impression people get from me is that I am as unlikely to go rock climbing as I am to go to a needlepoint class, or if she really can't tell what is meant to be serious.  But to me, the two bear no comparison.  but sure, I'm a  funny guy -- if you take funny to mean "strange".

Anyway, this isn't another post about my stupid work.  Instead it's a post about teh awesome that is rock climbing, and how I might be tempted to make Swiss Cottage leisure centre my spiritual home.

Sure, I've climbed before now.  I'm kind of mad at myself for not getting into climbing when I lived in Utah, when it was such an ideal place to be doing it -- along with not getting into all-terrain boarding, and never really learning to snowboard properly.  But I guess it wasn't the right time.  As I say, I have climbed before but only in a couple of relatively brief one-off sessions.  It was enough to know I liked it, obviously, or I wouldn't be doing the course -- however, now after only one official lesson so far I feel confident enough to rank it up there alongside swimming in greatness.  I think if I had the time to do one or the other on alternating days I would be in a lot better shape than I am.  But I think what climbing has in common with other activities I enjoy is the quiet moments of almost zen-calm.

The climbing wall, despite being housed in a leisure centre, was open to the elements -- which last week meant it was cold enough to see your breath in the air, and the ropes were both cold and wet.  The condition of the rope wasn't much of an issue when you were climbing, only when you were holding the rope while someone else climbed -- then you noticed how quickly your hands got cold and numb.  It was also cold enough for my toes to get numb.  I'm going to be better prepared this week, even as I write this I am searching online for the right kind of gloves -- though I suspect serious climbers probably laugh at the idea of wearing gloves on a wall.

In many ways, the wall not being entirely indoors was a good thing -- it felt like I was actually doing something, instead of being somewhere hot and loud and probably smelly.  The real test will be if I continue climbing on my own after my introduction course has finished, though that may involve trying to convince people I know that they want to take up climbing, too.

It's important to fill non-work time -- days and weeks -- with things we enjoy, it gives us something to look forward to and motivation to get out of bed.  It might still be Ah crap when the alarm goes off, but if you then remember there's a great band playing in the evening or whatever then it can get you through. Last year I spent a lot of time going to the gym in the early mornings to get fit for Peru, but that was more of a threat -- if I didn't go to the gym then I would never make it Machu Picchu.  It also has to be said; having someone pretty neat like the girl to come home to always helps, as well -- so I'm very lucky there.

That's the thinking, anyway -- but there's a tightrope between this and wishing your days away.  Let's see how it works.  Until then, though, share with me your thoughts and ideas -- either on the things that you fill in to your days and weeks, or how you manage to not wish away your days while still looking forward to something coming up.  Our operators are waiting for your call.

Enough flavour to last all 52 weeks

I don't really do New Year's resolutions, I've decided.

Over the years, I have made lists in January of things that I want to achieve over the coming year ahead, but whether I stick to them seems completely arbitrary -- I don't think the date has any measurable effect.  Either I resolve to do things over the year I planned to do anyway, or pick a bunch of things I think I should do or would like to do, and maybe I do them and maybe I don't.

There's things I want to do this year.  I want to move into London.  I want to learn to rock climb so that I can do it without supervision.  I want to finally learn to snowboard properly.  I want to get into shape (a shape that isn't round).  But none of those things depend on being new year resolutions -- I will achieve them because I want to, screw January 1st.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy New Year's eve -- I know a lot of people hate the pressure to have a good time, but I think these people can put the pressure on themselves.  I saw in 2010 at a small fancy dress party with friends and had a lot of fun, but in previous years I've had a good time doing nothing more exciting than go to the cinema, play pool, or stay in and watch TV.

2009 was a rough year in many ways.  I lost my job to redundancy, and the girl spent several months in exile in Western Australia waiting for the paperwork for a new work visa for her company -- money was tight and the distance put a strain on our relationship.  In the end, we made the tough decision to give up our house.

But 2009 was also a year of adventure for me.  In May, I travelled to South America with a group of about 30 other people to trek the Inca Trail in Peru, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support.  Through rough  terrain at high altitude and on bruised and blistered feet, I made it to Machu Picchu.  The trek also wasn't helped by injuries I sustained falling down the stairs at home.  But Peru was an amazing, vibrant country -- and the girl's welcome at Heathrow airport when I got back stands out as a high point of any year, not just 2009.

Not content with travelling to the Southern Hemisphere just once in a year, in August I flew out to Perth to join the girl in Australia for a few weeks.  Together we visited friends and family (her family, not mine -- though we tried to see some of mine while we were there) and saw the sights of Perth along with the south coast of Western Australia, Melbourne and the Yarra Valley.  We took boat tours to spot whales, ate fish and chips in Fremantle, dodged rain showers, went off road driving and admired the unique Australian wildlife and scenery.

The redundancy, too, had a silver lining when I got a new job in London -- getting a new job at all in this financial climate was an achievement, so getting one that will enable the girl and I move to a new flat in London in the next few months is even better.

2009 also saw new friends made -- the girl and I travelled to Oxford one rainy Sunday to meet Tully, a lovely Aussie blogger who was visiting these fair isles on business.  We met Tully again a few months later for brunch in Melbourne, where the magnificent Miss Milo put us up (and put up with us) for several days and played the perfect hostess.  If you don't know these two, take the opportunity to check out their own personal journeys.  Australia also gave us the chance to connect with friends we hadn't seen since they were in London.  Sometimes the world can seem so small to make and keep friends from all over the world, and at the same time insurmountably large when these people are also so far away.

I want 2010 to be a continued year of adventure, and I want to work more on becoming the person I want to be -- and I know that is an internal journey I have to make, an adventure of the spirit perhaps, something I won't find on a rock pile in the clouds of a South American mountain or in a monthly payslip.

The compassionate life

I've been thinking about compassion a lot recently.  I guess, in some ways, the concept has been a recurring theme in my blog since I first read about Zen and Buddhism however-many years ago, and I've been intrigued for a while about a book called The Compassionate Life, although I've never got any further than the sample chapter you can read on Amazon.

Compassion is, without a doubt, the one thing "that there's just too little of".  I'd say this more so than love, since people will kill for love but you rarely hear of anyone killing for compassion.  I read somewhere an anecdote about the Dalai Lama being asked about compassion.  The questioner had said they struggled with universal compassion, finding it difficult to feel compassionate about a man they had seen beating a dog, in the street.  The Dalai Lama had replied you should feel the same compassion for the man as you do for the dog. 

To many people that must sound far too liberal, too soft, and ridiculous.  It's beautiful, but is it practical?

I read in the news today about a 4 year old girl who is learning and teaching people about compassion.  Sophie Gallagher wouldn't accept there was nothing she could personally do to help people sleeping rough in these exceptionally cold nights (and it is far, far colder where she is than it is here, I'm sure) -- and now she will be donating about 100 blankets and soft toys she has collected.

The Novelista Barista recently appealed for blankets for the dogs at the shelter where she volunteers.  I was inspired by it to want to help.  Because I live in a different country, sending blankets wasn't a very sensible option, but I wanted to feel more proactive than donating money.  Instead, I researched animal shelters in London, and have contacted Battersea Dog's Home -- who have graciously accepted an offer of donated blankets.  The girl and I have exactly the blankets in mind to donate, too -- so will be dropping some off either this week or next.

Earlier this year, I raised £4,000 for Macmillan Cancer Support in memory of my aunt who had lost her own battle with cancer a few years back, and everyone else affected by it every day.

I don't mention these examples of compassion because I want people to say what a good person I am -- but because I find the trouble is with all of these things are is nothing ever feels like enough.  I know that something is better than nothing, intellectually at least -- but what's £4,000 when you can raise 5?  What's a couple of blankets compared to as many as you can carry -- or as many as you can fill a car with?  And what about the people in the street begging for change I walk past every day without donating to?  I justify it by saying to myself that they are probably junkies, but does that make them less worthy of compassion?  Does that mean they will feel the cold any less?  Maybe I should be buying them coffees, giving them blankets?

When Vanessa Galagher explained to her daughter about charities that help people who are homeless, Sophie didn't accept this as good enough.  Perhaps the concept is too abstract for a 4-year-old?  Try and explain how if you give one person a blanket you keep that one person warm, but by making regular contributions to a recognised charity you could help many more people in a variety of ways...  If you give someone begging a few coins, maybe they will buy a coffee, maybe they will buy drugs, but you are doing nothing to get them off the streets.  But again it comes back to how much is enough?  You can help one charity, or you can help five, or fifty-five -- but you can't see where it stops, so instead you don't do anything.  I don't know what the Dalai Lama would have to say about it, perhaps he'd mention something else I clearly struggle with: acceptance.

Back finally to compassion.  In the news recently is controversey about the use of reasonable force in protecting your home.  While some newspapers like the Daily Mail are crying the world's gone mad when a man is jailed for defending his home and family, they tend not to mention that while this man and his family were terrorised by violent intruders, he did then chase one of them down the road, and when the intruder fell to the ground, proceeded to beat him with a cricket bat, leaving him with permanent brain damage.  This isn't in the same league as the Croc-Wrestling Wife Lobber and his catapult.  Perhaps both would benefit from compassion.

Ernesto 'Che' Guevara once said the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love, and I think this brings the post full-circle in the debate on compassion.

The Inca Trail: Day 5 Pacamayo to Winay Wayna

Our last full day's hiking began shortly after 5.30am, on a cold Andean morning above the Pacamayo river.  Joe had slept the night through, and the cheerful porters were greeting us all with bowls of hot water for washing in, and mugs of Coca tea.

But it was mornings like this that brought home where we were, and why we were doing it.  Sometimes at the end of the day when your knees were screaming and you were hiking the last few miles to camp in rapidly fading light, it was easy to forget.  Then you wake up the next morning with views of cloud-filled valleys, and you wonder why you don't do this kind of thing more often.  Day three of proper hiking along the Inca trail promised lots more ruins, more altitude, and more cloud forest.

About a kilometre along the trail from the campsite, and a climb of about 150m we came to the first set of ruins of the day, the remains of Runkuraqay -- at an altitude of approximately 3750m.

Discovered by the explorer Hiram Bingham, who was searching for Machu Picchu, like much of the Incan architecture the purpose of the tambo aren't entirely clear.  While some historians claim it was a lookout post for the trail, others have said it was a guard house, a grain store or even a llama corral.

From here the hike just kep going up -- and like the previous day, the air was thin, the trail was steep and the going was slow.  While we knew we were going up to 4,000m again, we'd spent the night at altitude and so hadn't nearly as far to go this time -- instead we had almost all of the rest of the day downhill.

And so from the highest point of the day, it was another 400m descent down to the town of Sayaqmarka.  Reached only by a steep, narrow staircase Sayaqmarka can be translated as "inaccesible town".

Having spent the best part of the day so far not actually at the back of the group, I decided to forego a brief side trip up to the ruins of Sayaqmarka and instead press on ahead.  There was still a lot of hiking to be done, and I had some foolish notion that I might possibly be able to get back before nightfall without being eaten by a puma.  Though I expect for many it would be an honour to be eaten by such a revered animal, I figured that could at least wait until after Machu Picchu.

Speaking of Machu Picchu, I had come this far now and was now reassured in myself that I wouldn't have to abandon the trail with one of the group leaders and instead take the train to the lost city.  In some of my darker moments the day before I had reassured myself that it would still be an adventure, even if that was the worst case scenario.  But it wasn't me being carried up to Dead Woman's Pass in a papoose, or giving the porters a fright by keeling over at the top.  So, surely, if I had come this far then I would just keep going?  The worst of the uphill was behind me, and we were at such a point that returning were as tedious as to go o'er.

As the day wore on, the trail levelled out and widened -- giving us fine views and occasional patches of cloud forest.  The third pass was reached easily after passing through an Inca tunnel in the rock.  I can't be sure exactly when it was in the day, but it must have been about around this time that one of my fellow trekkers had a small mishap with some strong pharmaceutical painkillers.

For reasons of her own, one of the trek doctors had given her two of these tablets, and she'd been instructed to take them something like four hours apart.  I can be fairly clear about these instructions, since I'd been given some myself -- but never felt the need to resort to those on top of what I was already taking.  Many of you can probably guess what happened next -- it got to halfway through the day, and Yvonne realised she had forgotten to take one of the tablets earlier.  Maybe she was feeling particularly sore, and that was what reminded her, but she obviously figured that she would need to "catch up" on what she had missed, and took them both at once.

Yvonne later told us that she didn't realise this was a mistake until some time later.  We were at the top of a particularly steep climb, everyone was getting their breath back, and Yvonne noticed how the colours on all the plants seemed so unusually vivid, and thought to herself that she hadn't known that was a symptom of altitude sickness.  Then she remembered the tablets she had taken, and realised all was not well.  Before long, she was giggling like an addict in the depths of an ether binge, and was unable to walk any distance completely unaided.

Luckily for everyone involved, Yvonne needed nothing more than one of the group leaders to support her as she walked and to keep an eye on her -- no permanent damage was going to have been done, she just needed supervision and assistance.

On route to the last night's camp we passed above the ruins of Phuyupatmarka (meaning Cloud-Level Town), a complex structure of protection walls and paths built on the uppermost side of a high hill.  It's a sad state of affairs when by this point it is almost getting to a point where this elaborate Inca architecture is starting to seem normal.  It never becomes boring or uninteresting, but after a while you start to expect it -- and know you are getting closer to the final day.

Before you can get to the final day, though, if you are like me you will spend most of the last hour of walking actually hiking in complete darkness with only a headtorch for light. While I wasn't alone and the camp wasn't far away, it was still not advisable to be walking the trails in the dark.  For me, it just added to the adventure -- but I still didn't want to get eaten by any wild animals.

The campsite of Winay Wayna was completely different to the previous two nights.  For a start it had toilets and showers -- real toilets and real showers, that weren't in tents.  It also had a dining hall, a kind of off-licence and a small shop that sold the tokens you needed to buy beer.  Most of the others had already been back at the camp for an hour or two already by this point, and had got on the beers without delay. Even Joe, who had made a lazarus-like recovery.

To celebrate the end of the camping, that evening there was a formal meal at real tables and everything -- but for many of us, that was where the celebrations would stay, because the next day was the final hike to the lost city of Machu Picchu.

The Inca Trail: Day 4 Wayllabamba -- Pacamayo

After a restless night disturbed by tentmate Joe's frequent and noisy vomiting, we started the second proper day of walking with the knowledge that this would be perhaps the hardest thing many of us had ever done -- and possibly the hardest thing we would ever do.

We had camped overnight at an altitude of 2700m at a place called Wayllabamba, which in the Peruvian Quechan language means "grassy plain". Both of these are quite safe, reassuring facts that you take comfort in on the trail. The altitude is low (although that is still double the height of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles), and the name tells you how it's nice and flat. This contrasted with the focal point of the day: Dead Woman's Pass, standing at an altitude of 4200m, over three times the height of Ben Nevis and nearly four times the height of Snowdon^*.

It wasn't long before the ascending trail took us up through what is referred to as "cloud forest", where the forests are persistently misty -- this made it cooler for the uphill hike, but the altitude was still tough. Joe hadn't recovered from the night before, and was struggling to continue going since he couldn't even keep water down. We were lucky that it stayed dry for us, since this part of the trail had a reputation for being hard going when it got muddy as well as steep.

I remember one stop we made for a rest and water, which really symbolised the contrast of the traditional Peruvian society and the "modern world". We stopped to regroup and rest, and a few feet away, under a tree sat two Peruvian women in traditional dress, with their donkey. And a table selling bottle water, Coke, chocolate, Powerade and various other delicacies. Every now and then the donkey would wander closer to one of the women, and she'd hit it with a stick. I got the impression the woman was telling the donkey to go away, but maybe it was the other way round -- the donkey enjoyed it, and every now and then just had an urge to be hit with a stick again, whereupon the old lady would oblige.



Lunch a couple of hours later was a beautiful lush valley, with views of snow-capped peaks and the heights of Dead Woman's Pass lying ahead of us. Joe was in a bad way. He was dehydrated and weak, from being unable to keep anything down but still being determined to keep going. I think the trail and the long months of preparation did that to you: giving up was not an option. If I thought I had things bad with dodgy knees and a bad foot, Joe had to be put on an intravenous drip in a tent.

When I arrived at the lunch stop true to form our team of trusty porters had already erected the three group dining tents for us, as well as the cooking tents and done all the cooking -- and there was still a few minutes to go before meal time. Most others had been there a while longer than me, but I was perpetually slow. It's now such a bad way to take the trail, you get the opportunity to take in all the sights around you -- which never have the chance to become familiar or run of the mill.

I encouraged a fellow trekker to venture in to one of the surrounding fields where llamas (or maybe alpacas, I can't tell the difference) were peacefully grazing. I had been tasked by Ali to hug a llama for her, and I was determines to meet my obligations, and have a photo taken to prove it. Unfortunately, the llamas had other ideas about this. They might be big. And smelly. But they are also still timid of people, and weren't keen on the idea of being hugged by someone who hadn't showered in a couple of days. I settled for a photo near a llama instead, though I won't post it since it's not a very flattering picture -- and I don't look a whole heap better.

Lunch was packed with carbs -- the now-usual selection of dishes ranging between soup, chicken, white rice and traditional Peruvian dishes. It was delicious, and best of all plentiful -- and we needed it, since Dead Woman's Pass still lay several hours ahead and several thousand meters above us.


After lunch the trail got steeper and relentless, there was often barely enough room for two people to walk side by side, when there would come up the mountain a shout of "Porters!". Everyone would move to one side to let these Peruvian supermen past -- with port-a-loos and stoves on their backs and nothing more than sandals on their feet.

The altitude made the trek hard going. We'd be able to walk no more than a few minutes before having to stop to catch our breath -- the thing about altitude was that the air literally did feel thinner, you could take long, deep breaths but the air just didn't go so far. Your heart would pound, your head would thump, and you just had to stop and let everything settle -- no amount of eagerness or speed would get you up the mountain any faster.

With the altitude came the cloud, and once we reached Dead Woman's Pass (so-called because it is said to resemble a dead woman lying on her back, with the view of two mountainous peaks resembling breasts) it got cold very quickly. We all assembled together to appreciate what would be the highest -- although not necessarily the hardest -- point of our trip. The views were limited by the cloud around and below us, and strangely reminded me of Dartmoor -- probably because of the cloud/fog, rock and desolate landscape. On many of the surrounding hills were small piles of stones, not unlike the cairns found in the British Isles -- they were apparently expressions of wishes by Quechan travellers, who would return and add another stone to the top of the pile when their wish came true.

Getting to the top of Dead Woman's Pass was only half the battle -- there was still a 500m descent to camp to go. While the ascent was hard-going because of the altitude and steep climb, descending is often just as hard, and the relentless steps are torture on your knees -- and like with the ascent, you can't speed up, even if you want to, and know you are against the clock to get into camp before dark.

The second night camping was in the Pacamayo (or "sunrise") valley, where instead the sun was quickly setting. My tentmate Joe (who had been carried at one point on the steepest part of the trail uphill) was already in the tent and his sleeping bag and fell sound asleep almost as soon as I got back. My knees were so painful and stiff I could barely bend them at all without crying out -- which made it incredibly difficult to crouch down and sort out my bedding in the tent without waking sleeping Joe.

After a hard day, many of us were a lot more tired than the night before -- there was no time for stargazing in the clear mountain night this evening, instead we went to sleep right after dinner.

The next day was promised by some to be the hardest, with another very early start.




^*Readers outside of the UK: please feel free to chip in with how this compares with mountains you are more familiar with -- I appreciate the UK isn't known for its mountainous terrain

The Inca Trail: Day 3 KM 82 - Wayllabamba

I suck at updating the "travel blog" section here, I apologise profusely to anyone left reading! However, in a gesture of goodwill I have found my paper journal and gone back to the earlier posts and added in the scribbles.

Day three started early, with an alarm call at 4.30am. My phone shows a text sent at 5.37 to the girl, just before we were leaving the hotel. I'd already been up for an hour, and it was another hour before sunrise.

This was to be day one of the proper trail: no more hotel beds, no gentle walks across countryside, instead we were going to be camping in the mountains with no mobile reception for three days. The next time anyone heard from me would be after Machu Picchu, whether I made it on foot or not. We piled into two coaches for the 3-hour drive to the start of the trail, known as "KM 82".

I slept a lot of the journey, and woke up shortly before we stopped in a town called Ollantaytambo. The town itself was still waking up, but the people eager to sell to the tourists were already up and waiting -- people selling scarves and hats and walking poles and any number of things. The walking poles were beautifully carved and painted, I started to wish I hadn't brought my hiking poles from home with me -- but I'd needed my poles for all the walks back in England, and they were adjustable to different heights, making them suitable for both uphill and downhill, which you couldn't get with the wooden ones.

We spread out through the town square, some people were buying agua de florida -- a kind of cologne that you splash on your hands, clap together and then inhale deeply, which was meant to help with altitude sickness. I was more interested in finding a scarf, less for the cold nights and more for protecting my neck from the sun, it was something I'd forgotten to take along. I walked from one traditional shop to the other, giving a bueans dias to the shop keepers and just smiling politely if they tried to make any further conversation. In each shop there would be shelves from floor to ceiling with ponchos and sweaters, blankets and scarves. I found a scarf I liked and bargained, although only briefly, with the shopkeeper for a good price.

It was still early and so still cold in the town. I was wearing my beanie hat for warmth, and my wide-brimmed hat on top of it as much for convenience as anything else. Occasionally, someone would stop me and try to sell me a hat. I knew they couldn't speak English, but just the same my response was always the same: I'm already wearing two hats, do I look like I need a third? I think they understood the gist of it, even if not the exact words.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a parade appeared. There was men banging drums and playing trumpets, and most disturbing lots of men in scary-looking masks that resembled devils. They marched through the town holding their banner and banging their drum and then they were gone again. We never did find out what it had all been about -- none of the locals seemed to pay any attention to it -- but apparently the masks date back to the time of the conquistadors. We were told that the conquistadors had forbidden any traditional celebrations, and so people wore these masks to hide their identities.

Soon, we all piled back into our coaches for the rest of the journey to the check point at the start of the trail.

The Peruvian authorities are very cautious now about protecting the Inca trail, so numbers of people walking it are very tightly controlled and all groups have to be authorised. It wasn't enough to just be a registered group saying how many people you were taking on the trail -- everyone was listed by name, and had to provide their passports at the check point so they could cross-reference the names on the list with the names and pictures. You did get a stamp in the passport for it, though.

The train to Machu Picchu runs alongside KM 82, and everyone turned their noses up at the idea of being "a tourist" and just riding the train to the lost city -- where is the challenge in that, where is the adventure if you haven't hiked for days to reach the goal? Just the same, I think all of us felt just a little, tiny bit jealous. Nobody there would have chosen the train, even if given the option at the last minute -- it was about the trail for us, not just the destination -- but seeing it there made you stop and think about what lay ahead.

This first day of walking was still, by the trail's standards, gentle. We crossed the Urubamba river and followed alongside it for several hours, until lunch. The rest of the day was a steady climb, looking down on terraced hillsides and the ruins of Patallacta.

I spent most of the day at the back of the group, as you might expect from my injury so was one of the last to arrive at the camp. At camp in Wayllabamba, the porters had put up all the tents for the group -- neatly separated into the three sub groups, named Condor, Puma and Pachamama. Not only this, but they were already busy preparing the evening feast, and had set up the three communal tents with hot drinks and bowls of popcorn.

As was to become the standard, the evening meal was a carb-loaded three courses, starting with bowls of soup, before offering plates of white rice and chicken and potatoes alongside more traditional dishes and vegetarian options. After the early start and first day of walking, we all went to our tents fairly soon after dinner -- besides as soon as the sun went down at 6pm it became very cold in the mountains, and I was glad for my poncho. The group leaders laughed at it, but I was warm and that was what mattered. It also made a very good improvised pillow for sleeping in the tent.

The sleeping tents we all shared with a tent mate, who had been previously assigned as our hotel room mates, too. I got a young guy called Joe who was a musician. He was nice enough, but strangely reminded me a lot of someone I had gone to school with -- except almost ten years younger than we are now. It wasn't long that we were in the tent that Joe mentioned not feeling great. I told him he'd probably feel better after a trip to the toilet -- that I'd felt a bit off colour myself for a little while earlier, and it would be OK.

And so it was that our first night camping in the mountains of Peru was punctuated by Joe frequently getting up to loudly vomit outside our tent. If he wasn't actually being sick he would be asking me what I thought he should do, should he see the doctor again or just leave it. After my initial mis-diagnosis, I generally told him that he should let them know. He'd see them, get a shot or some tablets or whatever, then go back to bed, only for the whole thing to repeat again. It went on all night, and I genuinely felt more sorry for him than I did feel any annoyance at not getting sleep. We'd been advised before we went to bed that if you needed to get up in the night to unzip the tent and leave it open until you returned: that way the whole camp wouldn't be kept awake by the zip-zip, zip-zip of you opening it, and closing it and the zip-zip, zip-zip when you returned again. Nobody needed to worry about that when there was a guy being very loudly sick in the camp.

The Inca Trail: Day 2 -- Sacsayhuamán

"Sunday, May 31
6.30am: Sunrise over the mountains, and I'd forgotten what an amazing sight that is. Today is an acclimatisation walk, we're being taken up to about 3500m and then walking back.

I admit here to being concerned about my foot, the doctor back thinks it could be weeks before it is better. I don't even want to think about the possibility of not being able to walk."

Our first real day in Peru started just before sunrise. It was already light outside, but when the sun reached over the mountains I remembered why I love this kind of country so much. We don't have mountains in England, not a single one, so the best you can hope for is either hills or when the sun comes up over the buildings, which doesn't have the same sort of feel to it.

Cusco was starting to wake up, like a big cat stretching and yawning. The hotel provided us with breakfast, which incorporated fruit juices, fresh fruit, yoghurt, scrambled eggs, and various bread products. A feature of the trip as a whole was large meals -- loading up on the carbs and the calories, since you'd be needing all that you could get.

We were bussed up into the foothills of the mountains to start our first day's walking -- it wasn't part of the trail itself, just an opportunity to get used to being at altitude and warm up a little for the walking we had ahead over the coming days. We started at a ruin called Tambo Machay -- whose original purpose remains unknown, although it has been speculated it served as a place to guard the approaches to Cusco. Because of the Incas lack of a written language, many things about them are open to speculation -- including their architecture. Just the same, the structures with its canals and aqueducts remained impressive.

From Tambo Machay we set off walking across country, and other than the altitude it was no more strenuous than many walks in England. It was particularly surreal to be walking through plains and fields and seeing football pitches off to the side, before remembering how popular the sport is in South America.

While the walking wasn't hard, my foot was still painful. It had been several days since I'd hurt it, and although I was better able to put my weight on it and was taking a lot of pain killers it was still slow and difficult going at times, and put undue strain on my opposite knee. Just the same, although it bothered me, it still wasn't anything that was likely to stop me altogether.

At times, we passed through towns in the mountains -- basic stone houses where people lived their simple and quiet lives. Until the native children would see you, then suddenly there would be a dozen, barely-dressed children surrounding you, holding out their hands for money. We were told not to give them anything -- the Peruvians are proud people, and don't want their children growing up to be dependant on begging and handouts. We were especially told not to give them sweets, since they had no system of dental care.

I think our Macmillan guide Sarah described the children best as incredibly sweet, but so dirty. They were clever though, so often they would appear with a cute baby animal -- usually a lamb -- and try to entice you to take pictures, which they would then want money for. Fortunately, none of our group was taken in by this.

The next ruin we came to was Sacsayhuamán, referred to by the Peruvian guides as "sexy woman". The site appeared to be a kind of fortress, and with the city of Cusco forms the head and body of a Puma. What is truly impressive about Sacsayhuamán was the sheer scale of it -- from pictures, it looks like any other pile of stones that was once a fort. But some of the stones weigh as much as 200 tonnes, more than twice as tall as me, and are larger than I can comprehend. As with places like Stonehenge and the Pyramids of Egypt, it's amazing and much debated how these huge blocks of stone with rounded corners and interlocking edges were carved, transported across great distances and assembled. The fortress was also assembled with all the walls leaning at a slight angle to help protect it against earthquake. Clever chaps, those Incas -- although much of their cleverness lay in borrowing ideas from older cultures.

From Sacsayhuamán, it seemed like the rest of the day was one long descent into Cusco -- albeit on well maintained stone steps, and while I wasn't exhausted by the day, the altitude left me feeling worn out and I was walking very badly by the time we eventually made it to the city's outskirts.

As mentioned, this wasn't even part of the trek itself -- just a gentle warm up and a day trip to some historic sites, we wouldn't ever have it this easy again.

Back at the hotel the order of the day was just dinner and bed, since Monday promised a very early start, and the beginning of the hiking itself.

"6.35pm: After a gentle day's walking to get used to the altitude, my knee hurts and, of course, my foot hurts. The doctors are openly concerned about it, I see them exchange looks, but everyone is very friendly and nice and supportive. I just keep saying I will do whatever it takes to make it through.

Sacsayhuamán was amazing. The huge stone blocks were so perfectly carved, the hills and mountains all looked more like a picture than actually real.

What lies ahead is honestly scaring me. I think everyone feels the same way."

The Inca Trail: Day 1 -- Cusco

After much delay (it's been two weeks now since Machu Picchu), I begin a series of posts about the Inca Trail. As always, my travel writings go under the working title of "Stay out of circulation til the dogs get tired".

Day 1 -- Cusco

"Saturday, May 30
After almost 24 hours since I got to Heathrow, I am in Cusco. I feel fuzzy with the altitude, but mostly ok -- and though my foot does worry me, I have to now try not to get too worried. It is bright, warm and sunny, and the air is filled with traffic noise and car horns.

Peru is a dusty brown colour, with dark green trees. The earth-toned buildings look like they are part of the landscape, almost as if they just grew here, instead of being made.

[later]The city doesn't seem to ever slow down. It's now 6pm, and dark, but the city still rumbles on.

We arrived in Lima in that dazed, half-awake, half-asleep state that comes with long-haul flying. I spend most of my time travelling in this kind of waking-sleep state, due to my ability to fall asleep in almost any moving vehicle. Aeroplanes used to be a kind of exception to this -- mostly because you don't really notice you are moving -- but I happily slept almost the whole journey from London to New York, and then New York to Lima.

What had been billed as a long stop-over in New York instead became a rush across the airport -- we'd been late taking off from Heathrow, and by the time we got to New York they were holding our plane for us.

Stepping off the plane in Lima, we were met by what appeared to be a doctor and a nurse wearing surgical masks, giving out information on swine flu. Despite the virus starting in Central America, many South American countries are still largely unaffected -- Peru for example has only a handful of cases, compared to those in the United Kingdom. I imagine swine flu would be a lot more dangerous in a third world country like Peru, so their precautions weren't overzealous -- but it was a disturbing sight to be met with.

Unfortunately, out of the 50 or so of us travelling together for Macmillan, only about 10 bags made the journey from New York. Because of how delayed we had been, there hadn't been time to load many bags -- and a lot of people had only the clothes they were standing in. On the other hand, I always pack under the assumption that my bag is likely to be lost somewhere and include a change of clothes in my hand luggage.

The less said about Lima, the better. We didn't see anything of the city, but from all the accounts I've heard that's for the best. After filling out forms about our lost bags, we hopped on a short flight to Cusco, where I promptly went back to sleep and woke up only as we were landing.

Cusco -- the cultural capital of Peru, and the former capital of the Inca empire -- was vibrant, full of colours and people and noise and life. We were staying in the Savoy hotel, which our guides had gone to some pains to point out was not to the same standard as the Savoy in London. Part of the hotel was closed due to building work, and apparently it was something of a lottery if the showers worked. My shower worked -- sort of -- but the room was clean and the beds were large and comfortable. That was good enough for me.

After dropping our bags and a meal at the hotel, our hardy band of adventurers set out into the city. Along the roads were markets where local people sold their wares to tourists -- ponchos, blankets, carvings. Each stall holder would call out "Hola, amigo" and try to entice you over. I deliberated for a long time before buying a poncho myself, but I figured it would come in useful at nights on the Inca trail. Half the fun in buying anything was bartering with the seller for a good price. Everything was a good price to begin with, the Peruvian Sol was about three to the Dollar, and with almost two Dollars to the Pound, nothing was too expensive. Just the same, I'd ask how much it was, mentally convert it, and then try and get them to knock about another ten off the price.

In Cusco it seemed there was always some kind of a parade going on, without explanation and without anyone paying too much attention. Maybe it was a special weekend.

In the evening, the Discover Adventure guides took us to a local restaurant for a chance to sample some Peruvian cuisine. Even though the restaurant was run by a Scotsman called Dougie. I turned away the chance to eat guinea pig when it was presented to us, since the creature still had paws. Had it been served as just sliced meat, I might have been willing to perhaps consider giving it a try -- but when it still looked like someone's pet, I wasn't keen. In fact, I don't think I tried anything Peruvian that night since the buffet also included a couple of chinese style dishes. I just wasn't in that kind of place where I wanted to be eating something unknown, when we'd be spending the next few nights camping, without proper toilets or showers. What did catch my interest was when I discovered the owner of the bar also ran an adventure sports company, and he offered me the chance to go mountain biking on the last day in Cusco.

I turned down the chance to go drinking after the meal -- although I wasn't feeling too bad for the altitude, it was a fairly early start the next day to go on an "acclimatisation walk" in the foothills, and I wanted a clear head for it.

Peru

I leave for Peru today. After a week where as expected I did lose the cat without really getting to say goodbye properly) and get made redundant, I then fell down the stairs and injured myself. I'm lucky not to have broken or fractured anything, I am still walking with a noticeable limp.

If you'd like to follow my progress, you can with the day by day itinerary, but naturally there'll be no blog, email, Facebook or Twitter for about 10 days. I'll make up for it with pictures and journal extracts when I return.

This is it.

After months of planning and fundraising and training, today I set off to hike the Inca Trail.

One foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan

I guess there's no other way to put it, other than "work continues to suck". I am today exactly one week away from my second consultation, where I will find out if I am "matched" to a position, "pooled" with a number of other candidates for one particular job, or simply made redundant. In my first consultation, I told them I considered myself at the level of "PR and Marketing manager" rather than Markting assistant. I also told them I wouldn't be willing to take a pay cut -- even though what I earn is good money outside of London, I don't see why I should consent to have them cut it, I should be looking to do better, not worse. I also told them that relocating wouldn't be an option if it made life more difficult or expensive for the girl getting to work in London every day. But that if they wanted me to relocate to London that would be ideal.

We have mixed feelings about living where we do. On one hand, it would be nice if the girl didn't have an hour's journey to work every day on packed commuter trains and tubes. It would be good if we could live in London and do all the wonderful things there are in this most amazing of cities, or could get home at night after doing these things. I know the girl didn't move clear across the world to live in the home counties. On the other hand, where we live is nice. It's pretty quiet, we have a big green in front of the house, trees in blossom and cats lying on sunny window ledges. Some people in London can pay more for a room or a small flat what we pay for a two bedroomed house, and the girl knows for her half of the rent in London she would probably see a room in a shared house.

I think if we really had the choice, there's other cities where we would rather live than London -- we'd live somewhere by the sea, like Bristol or Portsmouth or Southampton or Brighton. Or most of Australia. Sometimes it feels like some part of me is calling out to live by the water.

In other news, all else failed. The cat is dying. It wasn't his arthritis. It wasn't his teeth and it wasn't his gums. He wasn't depressed or upset that my parents had been away. He is just dying. A couple of weeks ago he had his dental appointment, and I was told his gums were inflamed. My parents fought with him to get his little cat antibiotics down him. He was also given shots of steroids.

When I met Mum for lunch last week she told me he was doing much better, but it seems her reports of his eating and getting out more were apparently exaggerated to make me happy. Hope has faded, and he has gone rapidly downhill.

When I last saw him he was all but refusing all food. He struggles to stand on his own or to walk, and spends most of the day and night just lying on his side. If you talk to him he's happy enough and purrs, but the vet says she thinks he has leukemia and there is nothing that can be done, other than more shots of steroids and vitamins. This is about where I started with his first visit, so I can't say I haven't been prepared. I asked Dad how much longer the vet gives the cat, because I don't want to come back from Peru to find the cat gone. He doesn't expect the cat to last until I leave, and I leave in just over a week from now.

The girl and I visited my parents for tea, mainly so they could see her cute new haircut but also so we could see them and see the cat. It's so sad to see him this close to the end, it's almost painful.

Next week could turn out to be a double-shot of fun if I lose my job and lose my cat. But I leave for Peru next Friday, and as with all things I have to be brave. If my knees are hurting so bad I can barely walk, I just have to keep going -- one foot in front of the other is an acceptable plan, and that can apply to many things. I just have to put my head down and keep going, sometimes, even if it is hard.

Be kind to your knees, you'll miss them when they're gone

In an effort to get some training in for Peru, I joined two fellow trekkers for a walk in the Chilterns, an area of "outstanding natural beauty". It was rated as seven out of 10 in difficulty, about 20km and 5 hours of walking. No problem, I thought.

First the good news: I was not noticeably less fit than either of my counterparts. In parts after steep uphill climbs where I'd be feeling a little warm and out of breath, they seemed to mirror my own reactions -- and most importantly, it didn't take me long to recover. Heart and lungs seem to be in excellent working order.

Continuing the good news theme, my hiking boots are incredibly comfortable and there was not even a hint of a blister or rubbing all day. An excellent buy there, and I think we can safely say they are broken in.

The bad news is I am in incredible pain. Somewhere along the way the steep downhill descents must have proved too much for my knees -- and if you hadn't guessed by the fact I am updating in the middle of the day, I am home from work sick today as I can barely stand up. Completing the walk yesterday was very difficult and painful as my knee became stiffer and more unyielding. The doctor has told me today I have strained the ligaments, and I need to rest it. I can also put an ice pack on it twice a day and take anti-inflammatory drugs three times a day. It's a good job I have a stash of the latter in the cupboard.

My research on the internet tells me this kind of thing is quite common, and unsurprisingly associated with steep downhill descents. I was probably going too quickly. For Peru, if not before, I will need walking poles and a knee support -- and I think a small supply of medication in my luggage.

It's frustrating, I want to be out walking and training in the gym, and right now I can't do either. But I'll crawl the Inca trail on my hands and knees if I have to.

Action is his reward

I stopped taking my tablets. There usually comes a time about once a year that I decide to go it alone -- that whether or not I feel I need some sort of supplement or whatever, I usually come to some sort of a decision to break free.

This time I've been lucky. The tablets weren't a prescription medication so much as a herbal alternative, and the withdrawal has been much easier and less severe than previous times. I don't know how long these things take to completely leave your bloodstream, but in the past if I've forgotten them for a few days I'd notice a difference, so by now I should be clean.

The reasoning why I've stopped is a little harder to explain.

Since I started this job back in October, I've been on emergency tax, and so been paying out far too much to the Inland Revenue. As a result of this and things like Christmas I've had less money than I'd have liked. I've got a large-ish credit card debt to pay, since in December I had to pay for almost £700 worth of repairs to my car to get it roadworthy, and I'm saving money to get me to Australia this year. When I got paid this month, I must have already been £400 overdrawn on my account, so once I'd paid money for bills, rent, food into my joint account with the girl, I didn't have a whole let left. At first I thought what I did have would be plenty -- then I realised it still had to cover all my own personal expenses for things like mobile phone bills, car insurance, dental insurance...

Not wanting to be in debt again when I get paid next month, I've started to look into my options for earning some spare cash -- just to take care of the little extras. One quick way to earn a lump sum of money seems to be clinical drug trials. Does anybody remember the incident a couple of years back then the volunteers in a drug trial all suffered horrendous consequences and terrible pain? As a result of the media coverage from this nasty accident, volunteers for trials have actually increased -- because people have found out how much you can earn by doing them. I spoke to someone last week about a trial that would have paid about £1,500 for only three nights. This is above average, but just the same -- being a human guinea pig could clear my credit card debt, buy my ticket to Australia, and still leave me with some left over for my monthly expenses.

Unfortunately, I was discouraged from taking the day off to go for the screening, because I'd mentioned on the phone I was taking these tablets, and then admitted to a history of depression. They thought such details would probably preclude me from the trial. So I'm now talking to other companies doing similar trials, and lying through my teeth about my history -- and have stopped the tablets. To be fair, I was worried how exactly I was going to manage to take them every day when I was thousands of feet up a mountain in the Andes, this coming June, and I'm interested to see if my new exercise regime will take their place well enough.

As for the exercise, I've become one of those crazy people who go the gym before work. It's weird, one day I was laughing about the very idea of getting out of bed earlier for the gym, then I ended up with a personal training session booked for a morning, and I was hooked. It's so much quieter, and the endorphins really set me up for the rest of the day. I'm now going about three times a week in the mornings, going to group classes in the evenings on at least two of those days, and fitting in more visits in between.

It's amazing what some kind of goal like the Inca Trail does for my motivation -- just wanting to be fitter, happier, look better in t-shirt only gets me so far, but knowing that every little bit of fitness will help me to enjoy Peru even more really spurs me on. I'm lifting weights, going to 'balance' classes for my core, my balance and my coordination, going to cardio 'body combat' classes again for balance and core, along with that important cardio health, and making random visits to the gym to tackle their punchbag when I have really shitty days. I've even started having dreams where I retreat to the quiet gym and a punchbag when things get to me.

For those that don't know about or don't read my Peru blog (which has been recently updated, following a despicable lapse), my fundraising to date has reached £2,100 -- and with more money promised to me that I haven't collected on yet, and another money-making event planned for before I leave, things are looking good. I see no reason to rest though, and want to raise every last bit I can. I'm currently hitting up local purveyors of hiking equipment to see if they can offer me any support, and wondering if I should cast my net wider still.

I want to live my life not survive my existence

So here we are, 2009.

It's time to take stock of where I am and where I'm going, but hopefully not so much of the looking back over where I have been.

I start this new year living with an amazing and wonderful girl, in our very own (rented) house -- the first time I have lived away from home since I was a student. I've curbed my impulses to try and turn the house into a mini art gallery of my photography, with the philosophy that less is more and all that -- plus nobody wants to see you endlessly stroking your ego, in the living room.

The house has its good points and bad points, but most important is that it is our space, where we can shut the door and escape the world.

In 2008 I had a bunch of goals -- rather than resolutions, it's what all the cool kids are doing these days. I aimed to get a new job, to move out of home, to travel to Spain and learn to speak Spanish, and I think to learn to snowboard properly. I own my own board, and I can't even turn properly -- so I can carve up a storm downhill and look damn cool with it, but I am in trouble with corners, with bends. That one never happened. I tried to sell the board, and failed -- this happens every year.

I started the new year working in a book shop, and enjoying it -- I loved recommending books and authors to people, enjoyed literally running off up the stairs to find something, and lived for the occasions when someone would ask me for the poetry section. But the money was bad, there weren't enough hours, and it being only a seasonal job I hadn't learned how the novelty would wear off. Furthermore, there was nowhere to "go" with it.

When they called me one day and offered me a permanent job -- incidentally, the day of my aunt's funeral -- I turned them down. Mostly because the hours were bad. But part of me must have hoped for more. So I got that "new job" in fairly rapid order -- I went to see a recruiter, told her to find me a job, any job, went to an interview the following morning and started work right away. I was taken on for a 6 month contract, and was still working there 10 months later. I went four countless interviews for something better, and in the end didn't go any further than the other side of the office -- swapping a dull job in Purchasing for a more creative and interesting one in Marketing & PR.

I think we can safely say I beat that goal into submission.

I tried to learn Spanish, but motivation was lacking and I ended up with a Latin American Spanish course. I write this one off as a half, since I am able to order food and drink in Spanish, say "I speak/understand Spanish" very well, or a little, and the usual greetings and farewells. Needless to say I also went to Spain. The girl and I are regular customers here of the local tapas restaurant, and I long to take her to Spain.

And as mentioned at the start, I did move out of home. It took a new job, a tax rebate and a wonderful girl to help me do it -- but we did it together.

Where do we go from here? 2009 is a year of adventure. Anyone that's been here before or spoken to me for more than a couple of minutes should remember I am going to be hiking the Inca trail in Peru in June, raising money for Macmillan Cancer Support. A couple of years back, I talked to a friend about doing it and doing it for charity -- but they said why bother, just raise the money and go on your own steam. I am glad that I decided to do it for charity after all -- but that's probably because I'm an attention-seeker. I am being healthily sponsored by my company, and have in turn been generating the publicity for them. But the Inca Trail isn't a goal -- it's happening, even if I have to be carried on the back of a llama, stinking of piss. That's either the llama, or me.

But what is a goal is to get fit for it. Properly fit. The fitter I can be for it, the more fun it will be -- completing it just isn't enough for me. If I can look great in a t-shirt while I do it, even better. I've rejoined the gym, and as of time of writing I am still in pain from my personal training session yesterday. My next is Friday morning, and I fear I am going to become one of those crazy people who hits the gym before going to work in the morning.

Speaking the language would be helpful, so I may also have to get that Latin American Spanish course again -- although apparently if you speak Castilian Spanish they understand it just fine, but think you sound all posh like a news-reader.

There is also adventures to be had in Australia, since the girl returns home to apply for a new visa this year -- and I will be joining her out there for fun times, before the two of us return, shivering, to England. Again, something I already plan to do can hardly be a goal, can it? But saving the £700+ for the airfare should be. I also plan to try and wheedle my way into an upgrade, but we shall see how that works out.

I've only been in this job since October, so it's too soon to be considering getting another -- although I am only contracted until October of this year, so I might not have a choice in it.

A year without any incidences of self harm would be good, as I can't remember a year since I was in my mid-teens or younger that there hasn't been an incident or two, though in more recent years it has got a lot better -- to be able to start 2010 saying I didn't deliberately, physically hurt myself the previous year would be good, although a little sad. Perhaps a goal should be to treat myself better? No doubt having rigorous exercise regimes and goals like Peru will certainly help, not to mention the love and support of the people around me.

And in closing, ladies and jellyspoons, my goal in 09 is to be more creative. Last year saw me take up painting -- if only for the one picture. But to conceive of and create a dramatic picture on a canvas, and then to have it exhibited as part of an art show, was a real achievement -- but my creativity is seriously lacking this year. I haven't done open mike poetry in years, let alone written anything new, and that epic zombie apocalypse masterpiece isn't going to write itself. But generally, I need to be more... Actually, no -- that's it, I just need to be more.
I want to live my life, not survive my existence.

Swallow my pride, oh yeah

I don't start my new job until October 13, but I have already started writing press releases. Granted, these are press releases about the company's generous sponsorship towards my Peru trek -- so I have a vested interest -- but it's publicity all the same. It's lucky for them, really, they gave me the marketing job, otherwise I would still want to be writing my own press releases and confusing the hell out of everyone.

It's been a little frustrating, since the releases were mostly written over a week ago. The MD asked me to run them by the marketing manager for the company before anything got sent out, so I copied them both in -- along with my soon-to-be-boss, with a note to the MD to say that his quotes could be changed at his discretion. A couple of days later, the marketing manager called me -- we chatted about the releases and he suggested a couple of small style changes (the company should be referred to as a singular and not a plural, that kind of thing) but generally had no changes to make to the content. On Monday the MD stopped by my desk to give me his feedback, which again was just changing one or two words, and that was it.

Then he mentioned that the marketing manager was unexpectedly taking some time off for undisclosed personal reasons, and in the meantime to run all this sort of thing past someone else again. Fine, not a problem, I dutifully make the MD's changes and send them out again -- this time to the head of PR and marketing for the company.

At first I get a short email asking me to re-send the releases on the company template for press releases. This is the first I have heard of any such templates, in fact I am fairly sure I was told before that releases were just sent in the text of an email. I replied, explaining my position -- not yet in the new job, but already doing the work, but don't have access to things like templates. They were sent on to me without complaint, but the head of PR also took a look over the releases.

Either she is more fussy, or just paid more attention, since she almost completely rewrote the opening two paragraphs.

I wasn't overly taken with all the changes -- from training as a journalist I insist that the intro (the first paragraph) should be very short, like 10 words short and while giving a very brief snapshot of the story, as light on detail as it can be. I am in absolutely no position to argue or to complain. I was grateful to her for making it seem more exciting in a way, and have quietly tried to compromise on the opening paragraphs by cutting a few words and details out. Having resubmitted the releases to her today, changed and on the template, all she did was change the size of the title. So I guess I got there eventually.

Now, finally, I think they are good to go. The MD has approved his quotes, the head of marketing and PR has changed the title and sexed the opening paragraphs up a bit, so with the final nod I will distribute the two versions -- trade press and local media -- via email and a few clicks of the mouse. I'm torn whether to send them right away, or to wait until next week if I am going to be out of the office from Thursday to Monday, using up accrued holiday.

This is the sort of exciting life I lead.

Otherwise, things are pretty quiet -- the Peru sponsorship hasn't made any great leaps forward, but I am planning a fundraising quiz night locally, which should hopefully bring in a few quid towards the final total.