L'escalade

Early experiences

1. Plastic-pulling: After a frustrating week of working out climbing sequences in my head round the house, school and even the Elephant Fountain, I finally got to hug some rock. Well, it was plastic, but let's not be fussy.

A few of us went to Aix-les-Bains, the nearby OAP paradise spa town, which was trying to show its 'hip'n'happening-ness' by hosting an outdooor sports festival. We watched some impressive mountainbiking displays, then had our own über-extreme effort on a pedalo. Everyone was up for a go on the climbing wall, despite the extortionate 3 Euro charge for one ascent.

We join the queue, acutely conscious that we are twice the height and at least twice the age of everyone else.
Nobody is on the hardest route. I rehearse the sequence mentally. It looks achievable.

Suddenly, I'm pushed forward: "Here - she can climb - she wants to try the hard one!"
"Erm, actually, I don't have my shoes, and-"
I pause as the breath is squeezed out of me. A petite French woman is trying to squeeze me into a kids' harness.
"Excusez-moi, this isn't going to work..."...grunt, puff, merde!..."er, c'est trop petit pour moi! YEOW!!"
The French appear not to have heard of hips. By now the woman is sweating in her efforts, face a deep crimson, biceps-a-bulging. A good-sized crowd has gathered, no longer shouting instructions to the climbers, but offering immensely unhelpful advice to my torturer.

Eventually she twigs and gives me an adult harness. I pick up some shoes and am gently told to try a bigger size for beginners.
All possible humiliations covered, I drag myself up the route and after a characteristic amount of effort, slap for the top. Win a rucksack for my efforts. Sit down feeling chuffed and watch a ten-year-old cruise his way up effortlessly.
Git.

2. Adventures with Sven: Sven promises to whisk me away for a weekend of sport climbing in Orpierre. Spend a few days gleefully trying out the phrase "Oh, I'm just popping to the South of France this weekend" until even I want to give myself a slap.

We form a group of four: a Quebecois, an Anglaise, a Francais and a Deutschlander. My linguistic brain goes SPLAT and I spend the journey admiring the blizzard.
Hang on...A BLIZZARD?! This was meant to be a sunny sport climbing trip. And we're camping. Bugger.

Fortunately, all turns out fine and I am spoilt by a village geared towards climbing and routes with bolts 50cm apart. Also finally find a cheap drying rack in the supermarket. Success all round.
Saturday night sees a huge camp fire and a veritable feast of escargots, fondue, venison and melted choccy nanas. Yum.

3. Fear of Fred: Meet a bloke working in the local climbing shop. He's called Fred, laughs at my French and is free on Mondays. Perfect. Look forward to my introduction to local crags all week until Sunday evening when Sven jokingly mentions how happy Fred must be to have found a stranded anglaise to introduce to French 'culture'.

Monday: have emergency meeting with Beth. She reassures me that I'm not being stupid: "After all, it's not like he's taking you up some dodgy lane in a forest with no-one around!" Erm, actually, that's exactly what he's doing.
Grande panique!
My phone rings. Plus Grande Panique! He's up the road. I can't understand a word he's saying. "Er...d'accord?" I hang up. Bollocks.
Say my farewells to Beth, arm myself with a nutkey and greet Fred by telling him how great Dan is.

It turns out fine, of course.

Lessons learnt
- Everyone called Fred is friendly. No exceptions.

- Climbing-related words in French are mysteriously bovine: 'vaché' (literally: cow-ed), means 'safe', 'du mou' (Mooo!) means 'slack, and 'en moulinette' (mooooo-lynette) means 'on top rope'.