Chapter 25

‘Ain’t it good to know you got a friend?’

A hole in the wall to a farm in The Dales - Tales of friendship spanning 35 years

Part One - ‘Are you members of a Club?’

‘Excuse me!  Can I ask you a question?'  A voice with a distinctive Scouse accent, hailed us from the bank. ‘Are you members of a kayak club by any chance?’

“Hi. Yeah.  It’s Bristol based.  The Avon Outdoor Activities Club.” 

Sue and I paddled over and chatted to a girl, about our age, who was on her bike on the towpath.  We’d enjoyed a lazy kayak up the river from Bath and were just starting the return trip along the canal from Bradford-on-Avon when she’d spotted us.  Having recently moved to the area and, needing to kick-start a social life, she was keen to find people her age with similar interests.  It was a familiar story.

We passed on some details about the Club.  ‘Hole in the Wall, Queens Square, Wednesday evenings - it’s a big group and there’s loads of stuff going on.  You should come along!’

‘Thanks so much, sounds perfect!’   That Scouse voice again.  ‘My name’s Di by the way.’

That was 1985.  It’s now 2021 and Di has just driven over from Bath to drop off an enormous lemon cake for Sue’s birthday.  When it comes to long-lasting friendships, the AOAC has a lot to answer for.

Throughout the eighties and nineties, from its Wednesday night control room at The Hole in The Wall pub it exerted its gravitational pull on a particular type of person.  A socio-economic study would reveal a blend of common characteristics: twenty-somethings, young professionals, graduates, broadly middle-class, white.  Most had enough disposable income to spend on the club weekday events and the occasional weekend away.  It didn’t matter if one didn’t possess the necessary equipment, or even a car.  Kayaks, climbing and caving equipment were available for hire and there would always be the offer of a lift.  Nor did it matter if experience was limited or non-existent; tuition was usually provided even if it was of the ‘just follow and do what I do’ nature.

It was the perfect organisation for those looking to find a social scene and combine it with the chance to try all sorts of outdoor pursuits, although potential new members encountered a couple of hurdles to overcome.  Firstly they had to find out about it.  In the pre-internet days it wasn’t possible to google-search for clubs in the area so it was a matter of luck if a poster in an outdoor shop was spotted or a chance word of mouth revealed its existence.  Bristol natives might have heard about it as a progression from Venture Scouts or Duke of Edinburgh schemes but those moving to the area needed some good fortune.  Secondly they needed to make themselves known and join in; not always easy for those of a shy disposition when confronted with the milling masses, squeezed together and chatting away in groups at the Hole on club night.

‘River Deep Mountain High - Part 2’ describes how, for a decade, the Club was the focal point for almost everything we did.  In that chapter the focus is on the actions and escapades rather than the people involved.  This chapter attempts to explore why it was the friends, acquaintances, and characters that made it so compelling in the first place and why so many of us are still in the same gang forty years later.  Maybe it’s best explained through a selection of sequential stories, plucked from a bottomless pit of shared memories that have helped cement these relationships.  And it gives me the chance to introduce many of the friends who have accompanied Sue and me along the way. 

A word on names, many of whom will crop up frequently across number of chapters.  The first time they get a mention I’ll include a surname after which it’s safe to assume I’m referring to the same character.

Grindenwald 1986.

Let’s travel back to July 1986 and join the group squeezed into a ropey, rattly minibus, crawling its way through France and Switzerland en route to a campsite in Grindenwald, the chocolate-box village nestling in the alpine meadows at the foot of the Eiger.  The idea had germinated over the previous winter and had been triggered in part by a book, ‘The White Spider’.   A chronicle of the tragic history of attempts to scale the ‘Norwand,’ the notorious north face of the Eiger.  Written by Austrian Heinrich Harrer, one of the party of four who ultimately succeeded in 1938, it was just one of a series of mountaineering books that a few of us were devouring at the time.

Between Matt Pollitt, Mike Hayden, myself and Jerry Arnold we floated the idea of an alpine walking holiday, taking the chance to see for real the mountains we’d read about and hoping for an opportunity to scramble up some of the lesser peaks.  Sue was keen and Jo Thomas, despite still nursing her knee damaged skiing the previous winter, was determined not to miss out.  Before long we’d been joined by a further half-dozen including Adrian Stone and Dave Perrington.  Making up the number were soon-to-be sister-in-law Sian Trenchfield, running buddy Dave Hoptroff (now living in the Caymans), Jo’s younger sister Jackie and Derek Hudd, one of the original club members who sadly took his own life a few years later.  Having being stopped by Swiss police and breathalysed (in the middle of the day), and virtually grinding to halt on the steep slopes of some of the approach passes, we were relieved to peel ourselves out the van when we finally arrived at the campsite.  We were fortunate; the one essential ingredient for an enjoyable holiday in the mountains is good weather and, apart from one short torrential burst that temporarily flooded the campsite, the sun shone out of a brilliant blue sky all week.

We walked on the high alpine paths; we swam in the lake at Interlaken; we scrambled up the snow fields and ridge to the top of the Klein Schreckhorn.  Whilst Matt and Mike ventured off for a serious attempt on the Schliethorn, the rest of us caught the famous Eiger cable-railway that crawls its way up through the mountain from Kleine Scheidegg to the Jungfraujoch, the glacier station at 3400m.  Peering out of the small observation window half way up the north face is sobering.  Absolutely no way would I ever want to find myself climbing on such an exposed wall of rock and ice.  On another occasion, Sue and I climbed the steep track up the Lauberhorn, famous for its annual downhill ski-run, and then wiled away the afternoon lying on a grassy meadow high above Wengen.  Most of the time we avoided the expensive ski-lifts, opting to plod our way up to the heights using the paths that carved through the meadows and forests, and rarely did we spend our evenings in the bar, choosing instead the cheaper option of supermarket beer and a BBQ by the tents. The one occasion we (actually just the half of us bothered about football) did succumb was when watching England’s World Cup quarter-final against Argentina. ‘Handball!’ we screamed at the screen as Maradona deliberately deflected the ball into the net but we couldn’t understand the German commentary, the broadcast was poor quality and no replays were forthcoming.  Deflated and unsure about the manner of the defeat it was only later back in the UK that the true injustice became known.

Squeezing back into the minibus for the trip home we could reflect on a brilliant week as we chugged back towards Calais.  Seeking a campsite for an overnight stop, we chanced upon a field in a small village with the obligatory bar-restaurant.  Perfect.  The locals were enjoying a music evening as we sat at our tables, intent on an end-of-trip blowout, and in an increasingly convivial atmosphere we worked our way through the 50 FF menu and indulged in plenty of the local wine.  Later, as the locals drifted away and the owner was probably thinking it was time to clear-up, the call went out for ‘du fromage et du café, s’il vous plait!’  Obligingly, no doubt with a weary smile but in the interests of good Anglo-French relations, she decided to humour this young English group and quickly produced a huge cheese-board and some cognac ‘sur-la-maison’ for those who still had the capacity.  A few of us regretted it later.  The rich food, the ‘very rare’ steaks and too much drink combined to take the edge off the evening a few hours later.

It was turning out to be a good time to be young, white and employed.  After nearly a decade of induced recession, the markets were finally generating a rising economic wave as City liberalisation and the cash generated by North Sea oil and the sale of large state owned industries stimulated demand.  Unemployment was still sitting around 11% in 1987 and only dropped towards 7% by the end of 1989.  But we were insulated, enjoying life to the sounds of The Joshua Tree, Graceland and Bad.  Occasionally our conscience was pricked:  Peter Gabriel told the 3 million unemployed ‘Don’t Give Up’ and Phil Collins reminded the nation that not everyone was experiencing ‘Another day in Paradise’.   But we conveniently had other things on our minds.

Throw enough twenty-somethings together for a few years and the inevitable happened.  Madonna, Boy George, Whitney and the Pet Shop Boys were the background sound at a time when many tentative ‘going-outs’ and ‘it’s offs’ swirled around the wider group before eventually starting to distil into recognisable couples.  It wasn’t long before weekends away were being interrupted by the need to spend the occasional Saturday dressed up for Church, a reception and ‘evening do’.  Any couple opting for Bank Holiday nuptials was lightly chastised; how could they be so inconsiderate?  Chris and Jo Williams raced ahead, Andy Stone persuaded Nikki, and Dave and Bev Perrington decided to complete a threesome of pioneering couples.  A couple of years later, Sue and I had reinforced the trend and by the end of the decade we’d been followed by Matt and Jo, Mike and Bridget and Dave Whittaker and Theresa.

Meanwhile the Club went from strength to strength, an expanding membership forming a network of interacting subgroups coalescing and fragmenting as the activity-calendar and personal preferences dictated.  The climbers, the kayakers, the walkers, the socialites, the windsurfers, the Downend gang, the skiers and so on, all mixing and matching to take advantage of all the opportunities, like some huge dynamic social Venn diagram.  Each year there would be a few events that pulled everyone together.  The August Bank Holiday was a regular, offering something for everyone.  Usually Sennen was the venue but in 1988 we went to St David’s in Pembrokeshire and in the bar one evening I floated an idea that I’d had for a big club event the following year.  Jane Parkhouse, a rather intense, small blond-haired bundle of go-for-it energy was enthusiastic and between us we drafted a proposal for the committee to endorse.  A couple of months later the Alternative Challenge was up and running.

Alternative Challenge 1989.

We set off from John ‘o’ Groats on the May Day bank holiday and in a relay, progressed over a series of weekends to finish in Sennen on the August bank holiday.  No motorised transport was allowed so the objective was to use human power, adopting many of the activities associated with the Club, and aiming to raise money for charity along the way.  I was in my element; planning the logistics, encouraging people and delegating, whilst Jane jumped onto the publicity and fund-raising, badgering mercilessly the news agencies and potential corporate sponsors.

By the time a support minibus headed north for the start of the Challenge, a plan was in place.  It’s a flippin’ long way to the far north-east of Scotland (and back) in a long weekend but a bunch of us were there to wish good luck to our three sea-kayakers as they headed out to sea, paddling over a few days around the coast to Inverness.  As we waved goodbye from the harbour, Bridget was collared by local radio for a short interview and later, for an hour or two, we walked along the spectacular cliffs of Dunnett Head following their progress.  We’d taken surf-skis with us, hoping to experience the famous reef-break at Thurso, but the sea was flat and so, disappointed, we started the long drive home.

Throughout May and June the baton, a plastic hedgehog, was relayed southwards.  Small teams of club members scaled a sequence of Highland mountains, windsurfed along Loch Ness, swam in Loch Lomond and canoed, mountain-biked and walked in the Lakes.  Sue and I were joined by Dave and Bev and her sister, Denise, in north Yorkshire for a weekend of cycling and walking.  In blazing hot weather we rode up and down the country lanes between Kirby Lonsdale and Hebdon Bridge, camping behind dry stone walls and climbing the Yorkshire Three Peaks along the way. Exhausting.

Some serious long-distance walking and cycling dragged the Challenge down the Pennine Way, and across to the Offa’s Dyke Path in Shropshire.  By the time Theresa Wheatcroft and Gill Orchard had paddled down the Wye and rode a tandem towards Chepstow, the stage was set for the ‘Bristol weekend’.  Jane had organised wide coverage on Radio Bristol for what was to be a hectic few days and, against the backdrop of a stunning Friday evening sunset, a leapfrog relay across the Severn Bridge and a fleet of bikes had transported the baton into the city. Saturday was crazy.  The Club resident ballroom dancers, Andy and Nikki, waltzed across the Downs, the climbers scaled Park Street, a space-hopper hopped towards the Docks where the Club’s temporary home, the floating pub, The Lochiel, was moored.  It was also the year the Lloyds Building was under construction and a huge crane towered over the docks adjacent to the mooring. God knows how but club member Jerry Dale worked for the building contractors and managed to get permission for a few of the climbers to climb the crane and abseil from the jib down into a waiting canoe.  I’m pretty sure a similar request these days would go straight in the bin.  It was an awesome feat and Saturday afternoon passers-by would have had their hearts in their mouths as Jerry Wheatcroft, Chris Williams and a couple of others dangled like spiders high above the water.  Once the abseilers were safely aboard a canoe, a fleet of kayaks then mounted a sea-borne assault on the Locheil, paddlers scaling the climbing-net draped over the side, under a hail of water and flour from the defenders.  The harbour master and landlord had given permission but I don’t think they realised the spectacle it would create and I doubt if anything similar has been seen in the Docks since then.  Just time for a few beers before racing home to change into frocks and DJs for the Challenge Summer Ball in the grand old dining room of Bristol Grammar.  Luckily, Sue and I didn’t win the raffle prize for a balloon ride from Ashton Court at dawn the following morning, although we ventured there after breakfast to encourage the cycling team heading for Devon.

Meanwhile, whilst we casually and care-freely pondered on what other forms of transport we could utilise to move the baton onwards, on the other side of the world, thousands of people the same age as us faced a more serious situation as they confronted head-on the might of the Chinese Communist government.  After ‘Tiananmen Square’ a week later they were fleeing and hiding for their lives.

By early August, another group including Adrian had crossed Dartmoor, trying to follow a dead straight line across its bogs, hills and streams and pushed the route into Bude.  From there the ‘surf safari’ weekend kayaked between the beaches and surfed the waves of north Cornwall, edging ever closer to Sennen.  Finally, successfully, a horde of around sixty completed the short walk around the cliffs to Land’s End for a photo at the famous signpost and gave each other a big communal pat on the back.  It had been a challenge in more ways than one for many of us, but undoubtedly reinforced friendships and, when the dust had finally settled, we’d raised £10,000 (£25,000 in 2021 prices) for cancer charities.

Somehow during that summer, Sue and I had also managed to squeeze in a week in Chamonix, ten days in Yugoslavia and, within a few days of the Challenge ending, our little gang headed to La Torche in Brittany for a week of surfing.  Talk about having freedom and being fortunate.

K2.

It seemed like each year required a challenge and if you’re looking for a change from marathon running then why not have a go at a long-distance canoe race?  It was Dave Perrington’s fault; he’d been paddling the sleek, very tippy racing kayaks for years and had persuaded a few people to give it a go.  Before long, Dave had enticed Jo P to partner him in a successful attempt at the famous Devizes to Westminster Canoe Race; her husband Matt, not wishing to be left out, opted to do it solo.  Sue and I went along to support them on their first day and, driving home later, an idea for a different challenge came to mind.  Why not do it as a relay with our bunch of friends?  In fact why not do it in reverse?  In fact, why stop at Devizes when it was possible to navigate all the way to Bristol?  The ‘London Bridge to Bristol Bridge Weekend Paddle’ was up and running.

Sue hadn’t instantly dismissed the idea which encouraged me to ask Dave a few weeks later if he thought it was possible and whether he, his brother, Pete, and friend Alan Cosh, all experienced K2 racers, would be prepared to help. ‘Oh, and I was wondering if you knew where we might borrow a couple of K2s for a weekend?’  I asked disingenuously.

Late on a Friday night a few months later, and after just a single token K2 practice for some of us, we watched from the steps by London Bridge as the first pairing paddled off upstream and disappeared into the darkness.  Sensibly, Dave and Alan had insisted they do the first stretch; the Thames is big and fast-flowing, and paddling a tippy racing kayak at night is not something for novices.  By the time they reached Teddington Lock, the sun was coming up and they were whacked, more than happy to hand over to the next duo.  Over the next two days, we headed west along the Thames and the Avon and Kennet Canal before joining the Avon for the final stretch into Bristol.  The experienced guys (Dave and Bev, Alan, Pete, Matt and Jo) did much of the work, whilst the rest of us (Sue, Mike, Bridget, Nibz, Di, Chris, Jo W, me ) made our way in the right direction, trying hard to find the elusive optimum balance, synchronisation and paddle stroke required to stay simultaneously upright and move fast.  Bridget and I didn’t quite get it right as a pair and went for an early dip but Sue and Mike seemed quietly confident and by the end of the weekend, despite aching arms and bums, we were all improving.

One thing about kayak relays: if you were not actually paddling then, by default, you were in a chase car, leapfrogging along country lanes between the interception points of locks and bridges, to ensure the kayakers were kept topped up with drinks, food or dry clothes.  It was a navigational and pacing challenge in its own right.  Without mobile phones, sat navs, or tracking devices there was no guarantee that the support team would arrive on time. ‘Where are they?  Should‘ve been here by now.   Have they already been through?   Do we wait or go onto the next stop?’

We were all happily exhausted by the time we finally paddled under the Bristol Bridge late on Sunday afternoon.  Another little adventure for the gang’s archives, another set of memories and laughs.  And thirty years later I repeated the trip; this time on bikes along the towpath with the guys from my team at work (See Greatest Team).

The trip had whetted my appetite for more K2 paddling.  The Devizes-Westminster Canoe Race has been described as the canoeist’s Everest, which is a bit pretentious, but nevertheless, at 125 miles, it’s a big endurance challenge, especially if done non-stop. Just the sort of thing that appealed to me.  Importantly I needed a partner who would be prepared to train through the winter and was prepared to aim at sub 24-hours, not to mention the requirement for a support crew and boat.

Time to introduce Nibz.

A founder Club member, Brian Niblett was forthright in his opinions and confident in his own abilities.  A couple of years older than me, and liking to be in control, he didn’t suffer fools gladly and I hadn’t warmed to him much in my first year or two in the Club.  Sue had known him longer and realised, like most of the other established members, that it was just Nibz being Nibz.  However, it took a year or two and a few weekend trips before I recognised more facets to his character and he started to acknowledge some of my attributes.  I think it helped that I could actually use a compass and roll a kayak.  Loafing around on Woolacombe Beach after a few hours in the surf one summer day in 1989, I floated the idea of the DW to him.  He bit immediately and Sue, who was becoming increasingly familiar with my need for an annual ‘biggie’ to focus on, gave me her usual supportive smile.

You get to know someone pretty well when you spend hours paddling up and down rivers and along canals.  Dave and Bev had kindly once again loaned us a K2 and, from late autumn, we embarked on a relentless training regime.  Most Sundays we’d paddle all morning on the canal, slowly extending the distance as technique and endurance improved, and one evening a week we’d rendezvous down by the river at Saltford and paddle for a few hours to Bath and back.  In the dark, often wet and freezing, it required a certain level of stubbornness to stick it out week after week.  We capsized once on a desperately cold, windy night and barely made it back to the car before all feeling was lost from all extremities.  And on another dark night, we’d stopped for a hot drink from the flasks just below Pultney Weir in Bath when I suddenly noticed my paddle floating off downstream on its own, heading back towards Bristol at a rate of knots; the fast flow meant it would soon be out of sight.  ‘What the f…ing hell!’  We didn’t have time for an inquest and in a rare display of seamanship, with Nibz using his paddle and me my hands, we set off in a wobbly pursuit.  A few hundred metres later we were reunited but it was a lesson on how easily things could go wrong with a lapse in concentration.

The support team was coming together, although I’m not sure they realised what they were letting themselves in for.  Sue was joined by Nibz’s girlfriend, Kathleen, mutual friends from the Club, Andy Poole and girlfriend (soon to be wife) Ali, and Mike and Barbara Garner, friends of Nibz.  They studied the maps, planned the feed stops and considered the contingencies for what was going to be a long non-stop day and night for all of us.  By tradition, race day is Good Friday and teams pick a start time they hope will see them arrive at Teddington Lock on the Thames in time to catch an ebbing tide for the last 25 miles.  We’d agreed on a late morning departure and, having stored the shrink-wrapped emergency kit inside the boat, we were glad to be on the way, finally able to put all the training behind us.

Paddle, paddle, paddle.  Portage, portage, portage.  There are 77 locks on the route; every 20 minutes we’d scramble up the muddy bank, lift the kayak onto our shoulders, jog carefully along the slippery towpath, before sliding down the other side and, hopefully, relaunch without getting too wet.  Maybe if a particular lock was a designated ‘rendezvous,’ we’d grab a sandwich and hot drink and absorb the positive encouragement from the support crew.   Hour after hour, mile after mile, we followed the canal as it threaded its way through the Wiltshire and Berkshire countryside.  A fascinating trip through a part of our social history, the numerous bridges, cuts and tunnels tell the stories of the navvies and their building bonanza from two centuries ago. (Listen to The Pogues - ‘Navigator’).

The speed we were going meant there was plenty of opportunity to appreciate our heritage and, with no escape from each other, we’d chat endlessly to avoid dwelling on the distance remaining or the increasing arm fatigue or numb backside.  I was in the front, responsible for tweaking the rudder with my feet, and setting the metronomic pace of the paddle stroke.  Behind me I had to trust that Nibz was providing the necessary power and stability.   After all the training, it was a surprise that we hadn’t run out of conversational subject matter, especially as he had no interest in football, cricket or other team sports and we didn’t share much musical common ground.  I’d never got into jazz funk and he’d never even heard of some of the bands that had steered me through the last two decades.   Neither did he have a telly so we couldn’t debate the current TV viewing: the recently screened poignant final episode of ‘Black Adder Goes Forth’ would have appealed to his pacifist leanings.  We tried wiling away some time discussing actresses; I can’t remember who Nibz ranked in his top three but I argued strongly on behalf of my all-time favourites Juliette Binoche and Michelle Pfeiffer.  Julia Roberts, hot out of ‘Pretty Woman’ that year, sneaked in in third.  These days I’d have to add Lilly James to the list!

Fortunately, being Nibz he had plenty to say on other subjects.  A liberal socialist with a British Gas process engineering background, he’d recently career-changed into marketing and public relations.  Like it or not I was a captive audience on which he bounced his thoughts and I’m sure I’m at least partly responsible for some of the British Gas communication strategy that year and for encouraging him to put his money where his mouth was and try to stand as an MP.  A few years later he did just that, hoping to stand for the Lib-Dems in North Bristol.  Despite a pedigree of hard canvassing and some successful party campaign management, he was bombed out at the constituency selection process by someone who was all style and no substance (or so he told us).  It was largely immaterial as they didn’t win the seat anyway.  Nonetheless it didn’t diminish his commitment to the cause and with Lisa, his girlfriend from the mid-nineties onwards, they continued to be active party members.

So it was politics and business that kept us going during training nights and throughout the race, endlessly debating the issues of the day.  One night I got back home after a paddle to find the TV broadcasting pictures of East Germans wandering past bemused border guards and people dancing on the Berlin Wall.  It put into perspective some of our British freedoms but we still had enough to grumble about.

I knew which buttons to press.

Me – ‘How can the Tories still be popular?  Inflation’s still high and unemployment’s been over 7% for 10 years?’

Nibz -  ‘Easy: they control the Press.  Labour are stuck in a time warp and Kinnock doesn’t look like a PM.

Me - ‘Why the hell are we privatising the water industry?'

Nibz - ‘Easy: we can kid some people they can become share-owners in something they already own. Then they can sell their shares for a quick buck and hand control of profit and investment to the global private sector.  Do you think a shareholder based in Hong Kong or France cares more about our rivers and water bills than their dividend and bonus?’

Me – ‘Didn’t it work for your lot, British Gas?’

Nibz – ‘Depends if you think four million people buying shares and selling them for 60% mark-up a week later is good for the nation and an exercise in corporate democracy. What did the other 56 million of the population who disagreed or couldn’t afford the shares think about it?’

Me – ‘What’s happened to the billions we’ve got from North Sea oil?’

Nibz – ‘Easy: she’s using it to woo Middle England with tax cuts, buy off the debt of anything they can privatise and subsidise the council house sell-off.'

Me – 'Are you going to pay your Poll tax?’

Nibz – ‘No bloody chance!  What a clanger!  I’m on the march next week.”

Me – ‘Mandela’s free!’

Nibz - ‘Yeah, brilliant - no thanks to her.  She publicly called him a terrorist and has consistently criticised the anti-apartheid movement.’

Me  - ‘Has she done anything right?’

Slap, swish go the paddles.  Slap, swish, slap, swish, slap, swish, slap, swish.

Nibz - ‘Eh……….. Guess she’s supported Reagan and Gorby so we’ve got this SALT nuclear weapon reduction.  And the Union power needed curbing a bit. 

Me – ‘And ….the Falklands?’

Nibz - 'Don’t start me on that…. Can’t allow dictators to push you around but it should never have been allowed to happen in the first place.’

By Reading, as the canal merged with the Thames, it was getting dark.  Only those doing the non-stop event would continue through the night.  Time for some warm clothing and a major refuel of tomato soup and cold rice pudding straight out the can. (Today’s endurance athletes would be horrified!  They’d be on energy gels and carbo-drinks) Then back on the water for the serious matter of paddling through the night, ensuring we weren’t swept over any of the weirs, or fall asleep and capsize.  There wasn’t much moonlight, only the occasional passing light of a river boat or a fellow racing crew, and distances and noises all become distorted.  A spooked swan, an owl, the rumble of a weir, a distant car all seemed closer than they actually were.  The only constant was the steady slap-swish-slap of the paddles.   At one point, completely disorientated in the pitch black, we found ourselves heading straight to the bank at right angles to the flow and only just jerked to a shaken halt with a second to spare as the reeds and tree branches were suddenly illuminated by our head-torches.  I suspect Nibz thought I was dozing off.

Shoulders, back, bum, arms; I’m not sure which was beginning to hurt the most.  The discomfort increased throughout the night and eventually, for me, the continual flexing of the hand manifested in a throbbing wrist and hand, classic RSI symptoms.  ‘Take some paracetamols at the next stop,’ assuming of course that the support team could locate us.  This was not an easy task at night. They’d need to locate the lock, maybe down a minor road, sometimes in the middle of a town and wait anxiously, peering into the darkness for approaching head-torches.  The river slowly meandered, taking us past the huge houses of Henley and Marlow, invisible to our eyes straining to stay straight in the gloom.  Overhead, as the stars dimmed, replaced by a hint of dawn in the east, a mist rose from the river.  This was a surreal experience as for the next mile or two we paddled virtually blind, our bodies, the boat and river barely visible, whilst our heads often poked through the upper level.  It must have looked strange and spectral to the cows and any early dog walkers in the fields near Windsor.  The clear sky, crossed only by the early morning jets climbing out of Heathrow, heralded a beautiful day, but at 6am it was bloody cold.  Eventually, despite the big loops of the river, we passed Hampton Court and swapped a landscape of open fields for the suburban streets of the capital.

‘Thank Christ for that!' we murmured as the sign for Teddington Lock appeared.  Somewhere during the night, we’d frittered away time with extended, faffing, stops and were now an hour or so behind schedule and the tide wouldn’t wait so were forced to scoff down some breakfast and briefly allow the rising sun to warm us up.  We only had 25 miles to go.  Eventually, easing stiff bodies back into the cockpits, we paddled close to the riverbank, conscious of the increasing river traffic.  Later that morning, the river between Pultney and Mortlake would be taken-over by the annual Boat Race and it was important to be past that stretch before the hordes of spectator boats took to the water.   We hadn’t made much progress when Nibz announced that he needed the loo, so we had pulled up to the pontoon by Richmond Canoe Club.  At least half an hour later he still hadn’t appeared from their Clubhouse and I was still sitting in the boat, cramping up waiting for him.  Eventually, weaving his way back to the boat he admitted to dozing off on the job.  ‘Great!’  Irritated and tired, I cajoled,  ‘Come on mate!  We need to use this tide!’

An hour later, we’d paddled under the bridge at Pultney but, as Battersea Power Station loomed, we needed to stretch our legs and took advantage of the exposed muddy beach by the Chelsea Bridge. ‘I just need a quick nap,' he muttered in a near-catatonic state, lying out like a beached orange and red seal.

Unsympathetic, with aches rotating between different parts of my anatomy, I just wanted it over. ‘It’s only another hour for chrissakes!’  About the only cross words we’d had throughout the whole project.  ‘Let’s just get it done!' I bullied him with an eye on the tide that was noticeably slowing.  He was too spaced-out to notice and we managed to get afloat again before too long.  Big Ben was visible around the next bend and twenty-eight hours after leaving Devizes we paddled under Westminster Bridge, pulled onto the exposed beach and staggered up the steps.

Mission complete.  Thanks Nibz.  Thanks Support Crew.

I hadn’t finished with K2 paddling, even though it took a couple of weeks for hands, wrists and shoulders to feel normal again.  Dave P had suggested that Sue and I might want to race together in another event, the Leeds-Liverpool Trans-Pennine.   At 117 miles it was quite a distance but most of it was on a canal and, importantly, it could be done in relay format with another crew.  I thought Sue had the endurance and determination to cope with both the training and the race so we just needed to persuade another couple.

‘Wonder if Bridget and Mike would be up for it?'

'Count us in!  We were wondering about asking you!'

And so another winter and spring of training began. Not quite so intense and not quite so cold - no breaking of the ice on the canals - as the race wasn’t until the Whitsun weekend.  Yet again Dave kindly sorted the kayaks, volunteering his and Bev’s services as a support crew whilst Chris and Jo said they’d use their recently customised VW camper as a logistical help.  We hadn’t fallen out badly enough with our partners during all the training so we arrived at the start-line in Leeds, hopeful that harmony would be maintained, and almost without any fuss, M & B were off on the first leg.

Through the industrial backwaters of Leeds, Keighley and Skipton, passing miles of derelict mills, warehouses and wharves, we paddled for a couple of hours and would then swop.  Leaving the mill towns behind, our little team crossed the hills via a series of never-ending locks; at least they provided a chance to stretch legs whilst doing the portaging.  From the high-point at Gartside, we dropped steadily down to the Lancashire plain and another dose of evocative industrial heritage.  Somehow, as we crossed the Pennines, we messed up on the logistics and Mike and Bridget ended doing the stretch that included the notorious Foulridge Tunnel.  Spooky and disorientating in the virtual darkness, trying to balance a tippy kayak was a bit like standing on one leg with your eyes closed.  Usually in tunnels it’s possible to spot a glimmer of light at the far end, but this one was a mile long and, without an adjacent towpath, was a real test of nerve.  They managed to survive their 20 minute ordeal but Sue and I had an anxious wait, sitting by the next lock waiting for them to appear.  Through the early hours we swopped back and forth, alternating between cooling down, stiffening up, and then needing to warm and loosen up again.  Onwards through the rundown buildings and overgrown wastelands of Blackburn, past the Pier in Wigan of Orwell fame, past the Canal Turn on the Aintree Race Course and finally, finally, Sue and I paddled the last leg to where the canal eventually joined the Mersey and a finish inside twenty-four hours.

It had been another big effort.  I was so proud of Sue and ‘hats off’ to Bridget and Mike, as endurance events take you to places mentally and physically that aren’t everyone’s cup of tea.  In celebration, we all retreated to Bob and Betty’s, Mike’s parents, home in nearby Southport for an enormous meal.  Betty had developed a reputation as a generous hostess and she didn’t disappoint.  The following day, the others returned to Bristol whilst Sue and I headed north for a week’s camping in The Highlands.

Downend Gang on the West Coast Trail.

It wasn’t long before thoughts turned to the next adventure.  Until 1992, when Chris and Jo moved out to near Malmesbury, the Downed Gang all lived within a stone’s throw of each other and shared numerous weekends and trips away.  Chris had previously spent time with relatives in Canada and was keen to take Jo over there and suggested to Mike and Bridget and Sue and I that we could join them on a holiday that would include a fair chunk of wilderness walking.  We signed up and, in August ’91, we flew out to Edmonton, hired what passed for a people carrier in those days, and drove to Jasper, a small mountain resort nestling in the heart of the Rockies.  The plan was to spend ten days in the mountains, backpacking, canoeing and rafting before driving down through British Columbia to Vancouver.  The Skyline Trail, a four-day try above Jasper was harder than we expected. There was still snow on the passes but, despite the cloudy skies, the weather held until the final day. It was absolutely deserted and the only things we shared the route with were the marmots, mosquitoes and a porcupine who snuffled around our tent one night.

We arrived late in the day in Vancouver and it took a while to find a hotel.  Unknowingly, we plumped for a cheap one downtown that had three rooms available, only finding out later in the evening that a number of the other rooms were being used as business premises throughout the night.  First and only time in a brothel!  We weren’t particularly bothered; a bed made a decent change after ten days in a tent and the residents were friendly.

We had a couple of days for chilling before the next stage and took the chance to explore this beautiful city, even if it chucked it down with rain much of the time and cloud obscured its stunning mountain backdrop. Emerging from a cinema late one afternoon, the headlines were reporting the release of John McCarthy after 5 years as a hostage in Lebanon and a very public long-running campaign for his freedom by girlfriend, Jill Morrell.   We thanked our lucky stars whilst enjoying our Peking Duck in the Chinatown area that evening, grateful that our last five years had been spent in the great outdoors rather than hooded and chained to a radiator in a tiny room.  McCarthy wasn’t the only one experiencing a new-found freedom.  The former Soviet states were all racing to declare their independence and in August Latvia, Estonia, Moldova and Ukraine had all escaped their iron-curtain shackles.  More ominously, in the former Yugoslavia, the Serbs, Croats and Bosnians were heading into dangerous nationalistic territory.

World events were low on our priority list; we needed to stock up on a week’s worth of provisions, catch the ferry over to Vancouver Island and then head north on the bus to Bamfield, a small settlement on the edge of the Pacific Rim National Park.  Early the following morning, we were aboard the post-boat, chugging down the estuary, between slopes of fir-clad forests, to a small jetty where we’d disembark for the start of the West Coast Trail.

From the Park Guidebook:

The WCT is an iconic backcountry, multi-day backpacking trail of 75km that is a bucket list challenge for many hikers.  It is an experience that can bring even the most experienced hikers to their knees.  Hikers climb or descend more than 100 ladders, some over 10m in height, with a heavy pack, and trudge through deep mud, wade through mountain-fed rivers in fast-flowing hip-deep waters, and push through whatever weather the wild West Coast delivers — often driving wind and rain.  The trail is extremely rugged and requires a high level of fitness, knowledge, and skill to complete.  To cross the larger rivers and streams, hikers must ride cable car suspensions, while smaller or slower waterways are bridged only by fallen logs or may even require wading.  There are two waterways that require a boat to cross: the Gordon River, at the southern trailhead, and the Nitinat Narrows, near the midpoint of the ferry service is operated by the local First Nation that requires a bell to be rung to summon a small boat.

It was tough.  There were no mountains to climb but the trail was relentless.  Through the dark, moss-clad green of the rain-forest, along slithery muddy paths, with sharp descents to deserted beaches and an endless sequence of gullies and gorges to cross.  Late afternoon we’d camp on the edge of the forest, safely above the tide-line and make a fire from the driftwood to keep the mozzies away.  Wearily relaxing, comfortably chatting as the sun set over the Pacific, it would be hard to imagine an experience that could cement friendships any better.  The following morning, having checked the bears hadn’t raided the food bags suspended from a nearby tree, we’d shake down the damp tents, pack up and push on.  We hardly saw anyone but there were a couple of surprises; we passed a lighthouse selling fudge, a welcome change from snack bars and dehydrated food.  Later on the walk, we emerged from the forest to find an enterprising First Nation family had arrived by a small motor-boat and set up a ‘pop-up’ cafe on the beach.  We shamefully abandoned our ‘wilderness’ morals when faced with a choice of hot dogs and a can of beer.

There wasn’t much to see in the gloomy, mossy, depths of the forest but the scenery on the coastline was stunning; deserted beaches adorned with bleached white logs swept in by the frequent storms backed by an endless sequence of conifer-clad creeks and headlands. The Pacific, whilst calm, still looked cold and menacing.  Occasionally we spotted a pod of Grey whales just off shore, migrating northwards towards Alaska, but despite a few false alarms we didn’t see any of the sea-otters the Trail is renowned for.  We were lucky with the weather.  Really, really lucky.  Finishing at the tiny jetty on the north side of the Gordon River, we rang the bell for the Port Renfrew ferry just as the first few big drops of rain started to fall.  By the time we were sitting in the bar an hour later, waiting for the bus to Victoria, it was absolutely hammering down.  Two days of continuous rain later, the creeks were impassable, the Trail was closed and all walkers were being evacuated by boat and helicopter, some suffering from hypothermia.  Back in Victoria we celebrated our success for a couple of days and then caught a flight back to London.  A week later we were sharing our suitably elaborated tales with the rest of our club friends down in Cornwall.  Despite nearly three weeks in Canada, we couldn’t possibly miss out on the annual Sennen Bank Holiday weekend.

And life continued to play out to the tune of surf trips, walking weekends, canoeing, discos, and parties.  Plus, if it wasn’t activities, it might be a lending a hand with a major DIY project; at the end of the phone was always someone who could help shift rubble, move furniture or take out a stubborn tree.  The gang of friends, broadened, ebbing and flowing, steadily building more shared experiences, more trust, more mutual support.

But an avalanche was about to hit, one that would force us all to adapt our lives of leisure and fun.  It would ultimately affect our involvement with the Activities Club, impact our lifestyles in all sorts of ways, and subtlety influence the mix, size and dynamics of our circle of friends.

For ‘avalanche’ read ‘children’.

Part Two - Clipped Wings

It began with Bev and Dave’s Matt in 1990 and it appears to have ended, ten years later with Mike and Bridget’s Grace and Gill and Julian’s Alex.

In between, there was a continual roll of pregnancies, so that, by the millennium, the final score for the gang was:

Boys:   21

Matt, Chris, Tom, Stefan, Stuart, Murray, Ben, Rowan, Josh, Michael, Robert, Wesley, Alistair, Jamie, Ed, James, Jonathon, Jonathan, Alex, Sam, James.

Girls:    8

Ella, Lydia, Grace, Jessica, Emma, Lauren, Charlotte, Rebecca

It’s fair to note that the girls seemed to be in short supply, especially as Bridget and Mike were responsible for three of them.

Inevitably we entered into a new era with new constraints and new criteria.  Initially we were in denial; surely we could just carry on as normal with just some minor lifestyle adjustments?  Okay, so it would be useful if a cottage had heating, a highchair and a cot rather than just four stone walls and a roof.  Okay, so we might have to sit for each other if we wanted an evening in a pub.  Okay, maybe we couldn’t walk quite so high or so far.  Okay, let’s keep any eye on them if it’s freezing or the sun is burning.  Okay, if we had to lug a carrycot down onto the beach before getting in the surf.  Okay, if the space in the car was being snaffled by new bits of kit from Mothercare.

All of us fought to hold onto what we knew, even though there usually seemed to be several of the girls exhibiting bumps.  We actually didn’t do too badly, especially whilst only having single children to deal with.  For example, in his first year, Stuart enjoyed a week’s surfing in Brittany, several weekends in the Lakes and a week in the Picos de Europa.  The arrival of numbers two or three, however, made things a whole lot trickier and the levels of realism quickly overcame those of aspiration.

Our numbers had roughly doubled and, if it was a big turnout, we resembled an army on the move. The logistics operation and supporting equipment requirements became increasingly complicated.  Backpacks and bike seats for carrying toddlers; tag-a-longs for little kids; little mountain bikes for bigger kids; helmets, bike racks and so on.  And that’s before you went anywhere near a beach.  These days, a back pack or bike seat for a child are elaborate, all-encompassing affairs with multiple adjuster-straps and comfortable, protective padding.  In the nineties, things were more basic; a few aluminium tubes, a plastic seat, minimum fabric, a bit of Velcro and a whole lot cheaper.  Who cares if their heads flopped around a bit?  Parents today would be hard-pressed to find anything less than £150 for a child-backpack.

It was like one massive post-natal group, mutually supporting each other through the triumphs and tribulations of bringing up babies and toddlers.  Occasionally, with help from the group or compliant grandparents, we could get a ‘day-release’ and find our way briefly back to a weekend in the big hills or a paddle down some white-water, but really our wings had been clipped for a few years.  This change in circumstances had another effect; we steadily drifted away from the Club, no longer able to participate easily in activities and the livelier social scene.  The new faces were increasingly unfamiliar and the links of shared experiences harder to build, so, whilst we still considered ourselves Club members at heart, the reality for most of us was the gradual closing of a chapter.

Maybe we were no longer ‘core’ members but the ‘gang’ of friends that had been nurtured within the club emerged as a remarkable group in its own right and today remains broadly the same as when it started to coalesce nearly thirty years ago.  Interestingly it’s also not just about a group of parents.  A number of couples have fitted perfectly into the gang without feeling obliged to have a child as an ‘entry ticket’.  Sue and Ade,  Dee and Andy and Paddy and Jill have all happily shared the mutual experiences without needing to do the hard ‘child-miles’ but been more than willing to chip in and support when we’ve had our hands full and the kids have always regarded them as part of the scene.

Just to get this into perspective, let’s take a moment.  I reckon the ‘gang’ around Sue and me comprises about thirty-two adults, any of whom we could call up anytime for a walk or ride, pop round, happily holiday together, or ask for help, advice or a favour either big or small.  Whilst the children were growing up this was hugely important for both parents and kids alike.  Again let’s take the Time Machine back a decade or two and remember a few moments that illustrate just how fortunate we’ve been.

Ardeche 1997.

It was quite an ambitious trip, considering the age of the youngsters.  Three camper vans and two cars, loaded to the hilt with canoes, bikes, camping gear and children drove off the ferry in Caen and headed south for 800km.  Without AC it became increasingly hot and sweaty as the temperatures increased and the rush of air from the open windows competed with the songs and never-ending loop of children’s songs and stories on the cassettes borrowed from the library.

In what was to become a familiar pattern over a few years, Chris and Jo’s VW LT camper shuddered to a halt somewhere in northern France and we abandoned them to their fate on the forecourt of a small town French garage.  Being a late Friday night, they’d have to amuse themselves for a couple of days until it reopened after the weekend.  Without mobile phones, the rest of the party didn’t know whether they’d be able to rejoin us or had been forced to abandon.  Fortunately they turned up to a big cheer a few days later.

The good thing about a June holiday in France is that the weather is usually perfect, not so blazingly hot that it’s impossible to do much, and empty because the rest of Europe is still saving its holidays until August.  On the quiet campsite, we were able to circle the wagons amongst the shady trees, crack open the first cold ‘1664s’, and just let the kids loose.

A French camping holiday routine evolved. Boulangerie for the croissants and baguette, lazy breakfast, canoe, bike ride or walk, picnic lunch, back in the late afternoon, cold beer, swim for the kids.  Communal evening meals outside accompanied by the first bottles of the local red. Not exactly the height of French cuisine, we had more than our fill of tuna-pasta bake or pizzas from the mobile van.  By the time the children had been reluctantly consigned to their sleeping bags, we were onto the next bottle and the chance to relax and chat, cicadas chirping noisily in the background.  Sometimes there was enough energy for a game of perudo or cards before the adults too would turn in.

That June we paddled several times in the spectacular beautiful Ardeche gorge; once with the older children on board in the gentle rapids near Pont d’Arc where the toddlers could play on the sandy banks, and another full-on trip that saw six of us take three canoes down the classic 32km descent.  For most of this trip, the river is inaccessible by road, snaking between 300m high limestone cliffs, so it’s an undertaking that needs a degree of respect.  Chris, our Canadian canoe specialist, was nominally in command and, with Andy P, took responsibility for partnering Sue and Ade.  Mike and I made up the third boat. The river wasn’t huge but there were enough rapids to make it interesting and the isolation and inaccessibility added another dimension.  It made a pleasant change to be canoeing in a river where falling in didn’t result in frozen fingers and a thumping headache.  Just as well, as on one occasion Chris and Andy needed to wade in to free a couple of French army cadets who’d managed to wedge themselves on a large boulder in midstream.  Late afternoon, finally paddling out from the clutches of the gorge and towards the rendezvous with the others, we could reflect on yet another little adventure that would find its place, embedded forever in our mutual archives.

The Ardeche trip cast the mould that would be repeated many times.  From Brittany to Provence, the Dordogne to the Jura, the formula was similar.  Sometimes we’d stay in a large gite; sometimes the families and faces might change slightly, but always there was the chance to share the parenting load and escape for a few hours of child-free mountain biking or canoeing.

If the gang, like some wartime expeditionary force, wasn’t out in France on manoeuvres, then it was certain to be found on Bank Holidays weekends somewhere in the hills or on the beaches of Britain.  Arriving at a campsite at various times during the Friday evening, the children would wake on a Saturday morning to find themselves in a field surrounded by the tents and vans belonging to their friends.  Contrary to an impression I might have created, it wasn’t all action; the first morning would usually be frittered away by the adults catching up with each other and it would only be after several cups of coffee that thoughts would turn to ‘what’re we gonna do today?’

The usual options would be bandied about and, with half-an-eye on the weather; we’d eventually end up with a plan:  take the bikes on the forest trail, walk the cliff path, beach and ice-cream and a BBQ in the evening.  What didn’t happen that day would be pencilled in for the next so that, after a year or two, the kids started to recognise the pattern and lobby for their preferences.

It was comfortable; it was supportive; it catered for all; it provided opportunities for the adults to escape for a couple of hours for some ‘real biking’ or surfing, and it enabled the kids to mix, argue, and slowly start to form their own little bonds.  Ade and Sue were usually there, happy to watch and share with interest and no little affection, the children develop, knowing that they could always escape or hand back responsibilities.  I think our two viewed them as alternate parents, part of the package whenever we went away.

Ade:  ‘Hey, Murray!  ‘Ooh aah Cantona, has to wear a girlie’s bra!’  Do you want a kick around?’

Sue B: ‘Stuart, what have you been up to with Cubs lately?’

Throughout the nineties the marriages of couples who’d met through the Club continued.  Ade and Sue, Dee and Andy, Anna and Chris, Andy and Ali, Jerry and T, Gill and Julian, Paddy and Jill, Chris and Debbie, Di ‘Are you members of a kayak club?’ and Pete, all stepped down the aisle.

By the millennium, the marriage and birth rates had dropped off and the group size was stabilising.  We were now a separate entity, a clear devolution from the Activities Club, linked in spirit only to our origin, with just a few in the gang still maintaining stronger ties.  Occasionally we’d temporarily merge back with Club at an anniversary dinner or to celebrate a birthday - we’re talking ‘fortieths' now.  There was a big turnout at Woolacombe in 1996 to see off Paddy and Jill; they were emigrating to Canada and probably glad to escape from the growing tribe of infants and embrace more fully the outdoor life that British Columbia had to offer.

St David’s - August Bank Holiday - the last twenty years.

If it was Sennen in the eighties, North Cornwall in the nineties, undoubtedly, since the turn of the century, St David’s has become the traditional go-to venue for the August Bank Holiday.  It started as a trickle, as a few of the gang rediscovered Pembrokeshire from old family holidays, and then, quite quickly the critical mass dragged the rest of us in that direction.  Quieter and closer than a congested Cornish Bank Holiday, it offered a similar Celtic character, scenery, beaches, surf, and walks.  We latched onto a campsite at Caerfai Bay, a 20 minute walk from the town, but only 10 minutes down to the sandy cove or the cliff path and there we’ve been ever since.  Those of us with vans or tents reclaimed our favourite pitches every year.  Those without booked a caravan and Di and Pete went as far as committing to owning their own permanent static van; spacious, luxurious, warm, and with sweeping views across the bay to Skomer and along the coast in both directions.  We all thought it was a great idea - a perfect refuge on a rainy day or chilly night, with a well-stocked beer cellar and a choice of cake or scones.

And again we all knew the itinerary.  Down to the cove for a dip, maybe some surfing or coasteering, and a mass game of beach rounders.  A walk, up and down, along the coast path eastwards to Solva, the picturesque harbour and village for an ice cream or crab sandwich.  Maybe go the other direction, past the little chapel at St Non to the tiny harbour, Porth Clais, and grab a coffee and cake from the kiosk there.  When the kids were older it became an option to catch the little local bus to St Justian and walk the ten miles back, stopping for a packed lunch on the cliff top, spotting the seals or dolphins in Ramsey Sound.

There were some compulsory activities.  Whitesands Bay, just outside the town, faces west into the Atlantic and if there’s any surf, that’s where it’ll be found.  Buckets and spades were replaced by kayaks, boogie boards and wetsuits and the beach encampment sprawled outwards, demarcated by a wall of windbreaks.  If the surf was flat, we’d paddle the kayaks around the coast, dipping into caves, riding the swell between the rocky outcrops, disturbing only the sea birds and the occasional seal, and savouring the contrast between the black cliffs and the clear deep blue sea and sky.  Julian, the local and kayak expert, knew the tides, and all the nooks and crannies to play in.

For the kids there was always a trip to the Blue Lagoon to squeeze in.  A flooded quarry open to the sea near Abereidy, ten miles north of St David’s, it offers the thrill of leaping into the water below from various platforms carved into the quarry wall.  The ‘jump zone’ has to be reached by swimming across the quarry lagoon and scrambling up the side to a choice of launch pads ranging from 5m to maybe 10m, depending on the state of the tide.  When they were little a few of the adults were consigned to accompany them.  I’ve never been one for jumping from height and I guarantee it looks a lot higher than it is when you’re standing on the edge.  Unfortunately, there’s little choice but to ‘go for it’ when there’s a bunch of teenagers leaping from the top level and even Grace, aged eight, is hurling herself off with determined intent not to be left out.  Fortunately, these days they can look after themselves and each other.

In fact, inevitably, over the last decade the pendulum has swung.  Now in their twenties the children are still drawn to Caerfai for the August weekend, but with their own transport and own tents they work to their own agenda and timetable.  In fact, thinking about it, the parents just happen to be providing their food and paying the camp fees!  However, for all of us it’s worth every penny to see them and hear first-hand what they’ve all been up to.  For them it’s a chance to renew friendships, catch up with their news, surf, walk, climb, and chill together.  We might be honoured if they make a group decision to join us on a walk or head for Whitesands but there’s one event everyone, young and old signs up for.

In 2001 Gill and Julian moved to near Pembroke, buying a large, ramshackle old house on the outskirts of Pembroke Dock. Found at the end of a long bumpy, potholed track, it has a huge garden, adjacent meadow, and is shaded in parts by some beautiful, mature trees.  Over the years they’ve renovated the buildings and transformed the garden; it’s now a stunningly perfect country house in a peaceful, idyllic setting.  Each August they’ll invite everyone round for an evening and no-one wants to miss out.  The best bit is that they’re brilliant hosts and happy for anyone to drop in or stay over.  Being water-sport junkies, they can offer the perfect package.  During the day they’ll take us sea-kayaking, coasteering or sailing, and then it’s off to the house to chill in the garden with pre-dinner drinks.  Later, emerging effortlessly from the kitchen will appear a huge roast dinner and selection of puddings; it doesn’t faze Gill that there might be twenty plus of us there, whilst Julian ensures a steady flow of wine and beers.  And there’s always the option to stay over if anyone doesn’t fancy the hour long drive back to Caerfai.  In Covid Year we sneaked in a gathering between the various lockdowns and Gill and Julian effortlessly hosted 28 of us.

Vallouise  2010.

The two week trip to Vallouise, an alpine village situated in the Hautes-Alpes region of south-eastern France, was a watershed for us. The last time, apart from the annual St David’s rendezvous, that we’d share a summer holiday with our friends and all of the children.  We occupied a campsite a few kilometres south of the village, on the banks of a tumbling, turquoise, glacier-fed river and where shade was at a premium as the temperatures were scorching.  It was an action-packed trip; we’d arrived a couple of days behind the others having needed to wait for Stuart to return from his Mongolian adventure but no sooner had we erected the tent than we were driving back down the valley to paddle on the Rabioux rapid of the Durance. 

One thing became evident as the fortnight progressed:  the children, now teenagers, were faster, fitter and more fearless.  If we went mountain-biking, then no longer did we need to help push bikes up slopes and invariably we’d be at the back, brakes applied, on the downhills.  If we went scrambling and climbing on the cliff faces, using the clip-in handrails and ropes of the ‘via ferreta’, most of the adults opted to watch from the valley floor, whilst the rest of us tried to emulate spider men on the near-vertical walls overhead.  Some of the Dads were consigned to ‘take the kids’: alright for Jerry and Julian the competent climbers, but Adrian and I, who’d volunteered to bring up the rear, hadn’t realised quite what it entailed.  It’s perfectly safe if you clip in properly but it doesn’t necessarily feel that way and quite quickly I realised that the confidence I’d had on rock-faces a decade earlier seemed to have deserted me.  I’m alright on moderate angles but once it’s steep enough that when I look down to check my stance and realise it’s possible to see the ground, metres below, between my feet then I’ve reached the point where I’d rather be somewhere safer.  I suspect Adrian felt the same and quite quickly the children we were supposed to be chaperoning had disappeared up and out of sight behind a crag.  Even the younger Rebecca Wheatcroft and Alex Orchard, aged ten, who could barely reach some of the handholds, displayed the same casual nonchalance of the older teenagers.  I was glad to finish the route a few hours later and made a mental note to confine any climbing on steep rock faces to the ‘been there, done that’ folder.

It was a similar story on the rushing alpine white-water.  The kayaking teenagers, Ed Wheatcroft, Sam Stephenson, Jonny Williams and Stuart, were competent and gung-ho, paddling gorges and rapids under the expert gaze of Julian, Jerry and Pete W.   More cautiously T (Theresa) and I opted to join them for a less challenging but spectacularly beautiful trip down a section of the Durance, happy to shoot the Rabioux rapid at the end but preferring to watch from the safety of an eddy as the others played in the stopper wave.

In another rite of passage, we slogged our way as a group up the mountain paths to an alpine hut nestling on the edge of a glacier and above the snow line.  As usual for these places, it was a sleepless night; we were all squeezed into a single dorm and most were regularly disturbed by the world’s most creaky door opening for nocturnal loo trips or Murray’s watch bleeping on the hour.  Despite it being August, we woke to a fresh covering of snow and the flurries continued throughout the morning as we descended back down to the car park and the heat of the valley floor.

The evening routine had also subtlety altered. Once the meal was out the way, we adults could cluster together with our beer and wine, not particularly bothered where our offspring had wandered off  to.  Clearly our roles as evening entertainers were now surplus to requirements.

Driving home non-stop to get back in time for Stuart’s A-level results, we didn’t recognise the trip as the end of an era.  The following year, our family took a USA road trip holiday and after that the boys opted to do their own thing.  The days of the British Expeditionary Force’s annual French excursion were over. In the future we could travel light, like commando units, grabbing opportunities as they presented themselves, less constrained by school holidays, football fixtures or other commitments.

And then they were gone.  Doing their own thing:  off to university, into jobs, boyfriends, girlfriends, own cars, own houses, own holidays. 

There’d been no time to breathe for over 15 years and the only escape from the weekly routine of full-on work, taxi-driving and other family commitments was the knowledge that somewhere on the calendar would be the next weekend or holiday away with friends.  Certainly we found it impossible to pay more than cursory attention to what was happening in the wider world.  During the nineties, a Sunday paper became a luxury, the news became soundbites, the world of music narrowed to Hear Say’s ‘Pure and Simple’, and Busted’s ‘Year 3000’.  I celebrated the overwhelming victory of Blair’s New Labour in 1997 but had little opportunity to appreciate the positive steps, like the Good Friday Agreement,  or scrutinise their failings, in particular the highly dubious interpretation of intelligence on Saddam’s  WOMD.  For most of us the shock of the 2008 financial crash and its subsequent ripples were easy to weather - a year or two when our businesses were less busy and savings roller-coasted but nothing that threatened our comfortable, hectic lifestyles which had rolled on regardless.

PART THREE   -   Appreciation.

Formed by a desire to enjoy outdoor activities with people our own age and then consolidated by the mutual network providing an alternative orbit for family life so we didn’t solely revolve around work, school and kids’ activities, the next stage in the gang’s evolution has swept in over the last decade.

Those with children never really escape the responsibility, financial or otherwise; always in the back of the mind is the hope that ‘they’ll be okay’ and the tacit acknowledgment that if things go wrong at any stage ‘we’ll always try and help.’  But the big reward for them becoming more independent is the ‘gift of time’.  Suddenly the calendar has blanks, suddenly the evenings are free, and suddenly we don’t have to be ‘back in time for this or that’.

A few of us were quick out of the blocks.  Jo and Matt wasted no time, heading off on extended treks in Nepal, long-distance cycling rides and sailing trips.  We weren’t far behind and quickly filled in some of the blanks with Sue’s tennis, my triathlons and the various outdoor challenges for the team at work.  For walks, mountain-biking, holidays and general socialising we had willing partners in Sue and Ade, who’d been patiently counting down the years until their friends were freed from parental shackles.

During the winter, the weekends would invariably involve a walk or a ride; maybe the Brecons, maybe the Forest of Dean, maybe the Cotswolds.  Sometimes it would be a pub meal in the evening; on other occasions we’d gather at someone’s house.  A few phone calls earlier in the week, a quick glance at the increasingly accurate online weather forecast, and a permutation of the gang would be meeting up somewhere.  New Year’s or the occasional birthday milestone were always a good excuse for a wider gathering.  Mild intoxication or even sobriety replaced the bucolic days of our youth which at least meant that any activity on the following days was accompanied by clear heads rather than muzzy hangovers. 

The summer would follow a similar pattern, the venues expanding to incorporate cliffs and beaches, and evenings would conclude in gardens or around a BBQ.  Whilst the St David’s Bank Holiday was guaranteed to pull everyone together, smaller combinations would often grab weekend breaks or holidays together.  Most years we would invariably find ourselves on a campsite somewhere in France with Sue and Ade, perhaps joined on a particular trip by Kate and Malc or Jerry and T, or we’d take the chance for a Woolacombe weekend or flying visit to Caerfai to take advantage of Di and Pete’s hospitality.  Travelling light, without the encumbrance of kids and the restrictions of school holidays, cottage breaks in Scotland or the Lakes were back on the agenda.  If Sue and I fancied a European City Break, we could usually make a foursome if we wanted; Dee and Andy accompanied us to Berlin and Amsterdam and we enjoyed a few days in Rome with Mike and Bridget and Matt and Jo.

In 2010, Ade and Sue joined us on a project that looks destined to last a couple of decades.  The South-West Coast Path stretches 550 miles from Minehead around the coastline of north Somerset, Devon and Cornwall to Land’s End before returning along the south coast to Poole in Dorset.  A weekend here, a short holiday there and bit by bit we’ve pushed the route along, accompanied sometimes by Mike and Bridget, Matt and Jo, or Jerry and T.  A chance to appreciate at a slow, measured pace the stunning cliffs and beaches, the smugglers’ coves, the hidden harbours and fishing villages.  By the time Covid put a temporary halt to progress, we’d reached Fowey, some 300 miles towards the target. (See The Path chapter)

It wasn’t all fun and games, weekend breaks and holidays, birthday celebrations and children that bound the gang together.   Almost inevitably there have been some rocks, tragedies and sadness along the way.  The occasional redundancy, an emotional or family problem, or a sudden hospitalisation generated an automatic response, a group safety-net reaching out to cushion the blow for those affected.  Whether it was a spell of depression, a difficult relationship at work, a problem with an ageing parent, a car or bike crash or just someone having ’a bad day’ it only needed a couple of calls before the network rallied round, assessed the situation and moved in to try and offer appropriate support.

Cancer has claimed two of us.

Nibz, a founder of the Club, my buddy from the DW, the aspiring entrepreneurial partner to Chris and I when we thought our Adventure Zone enterprise might actually make us a bit of money; the opinionated Lib Dem; the guy who could disappear, munched under a dumping 2m wave and come up laughing as he pinched your perfect slot on the next rolling face; the partner of Lisa.  He’d looked like he’d lost weight when we attended a party at their house in autumn 2016 and I wasn’t completely surprised when my mobile rang whilst I was out on a run a few months later.  ‘Hi, Pete. It’s Brian.  I’ve got something to tell you….I’m down for a sequence of chemo and then we’ll have to see….Can you let the others know?’  Over the summer and autumn we checked in on progress, cautiously optimistic when we joined them one evening on a long walk over the hills and along the canal to the pub, but deflated a few weeks later when Lisa called to say that things had turned for the worse.  I was proud to be able to say a few words at his funeral and help carry his coffin, even if it was flippin’ heavy, caused in part by the paddle that accompanied him.  And Lisa has maintained contact with us all, knowing there are people she can join for a walk or an evening, whenever she needs.

And Jo.  The rock that Chris leant on;  the girl who could power a mountain-bike up a rocky track as fast as any of the guys;  the canoeist who shared numerous descents of sparkling autumn rivers or freezing winter ones; the resolute walker who blindly followed Chris along icy ridges in Snowdonia or toughed it out for a week on the West Coast Trail despite a dodgy back;  the hostess for many a pleasant evening of food and wine;  the determined, delighted mother who successfully faced up to IVF treatment to have Ben and then naturally conceived Rowan and Charlotte.  I first met her when I gave her a lift to Sennen in 1984 and, after they married a couple of years later, she and Chris lived just up the road for the next ten years, part of our Downend gang.  The girls were close and it was a shock when Sue came off the phone from Bridget to tearily tell me that Jo was having surgery and treatment for breast cancer.  It was so hard for the family and they all tried, determined to win.  And, for a while, it seemed that she might have succeeded.  But then, suddenly, it returned, in her head, and there was no way back.  Naturally the family reeled; the gang and Chris’s company colleagues trying hard to help keep things on track.  And then, after a while, out of the heartache, Chris found his feet and a new life and partner.

I’d offered to sit for his kids the evening in autumn 2009 when Chris went out for the night on a tentative date.  It was past midnight when, clearly in a good mood, he finally made it home.  A few weeks later, Joanne and her children were cautiously welcomed into the gang; one that was hoping it wouldn’t have to pick up the pieces if things didn’t work out.  Fortunately the opposite happened: her strong personality, close family ties and willingness to share Chris and the children’s former life, all meshed to come up with a formula that worked, although, with a house full of teenagers, it wouldn’t all be plain sailing.

Sadly, awfully, the family was hit by another blow a few years later when Rowan, the quiet, funny, thoughtful one, died, aged just 18.  The attendance at Woodlands for his funeral was huge; the gang and our offspring, who suddenly had lost one of their own, someone they’d known since they were all infants together, all trying to rally round.  Lydia Hayden, still a teenager, spoke beautifully, delivering a personal message that doubled as a tribute for all her generation.

It’s at the bigger gatherings that the magnitude of what we’ve got becomes apparent.  Whether it’s whilst sprawled group, munching sandwiches on a clifftop lunch break, a BBQ or rounders on the beach at Caerfai, a mass of surfers playing in waves at Whitesands, a mellow pre-dinner drink in the garden of a cottage in Scotland watching the sun drop behind the hills, we sometimes reflect on our good fortune.  We might not be a particularly diverse group, ethnically or culturally.  There have been no divorces, probably unusual in a bunch of sixteen couples.  We might all be comfortably middle-class and have benefited from a good education and inherited from our families a good work ethic and a sound sense of right and wrong.  But it’s neither nature nor nurture that have made all the difference.  It’s been about being in the right place at the right time, having a personality that fitted, and then grabbing the opportunities and forging the friendships that have subsequently allowed us all to reap the rewards. 

For my sixtieth, we stayed in a cluster of cottages near Ingelton in the Yorkshire Dales for a long weekend.  Luckily almost everyone in the immediate ‘gang’ was able to make it so there were thirty-two adults and half a dozen dogs able to mix and match; catching-up, walking, biking, munching cake and drinking.  Standing at the back of the large lounge, observing quietly for a moment, it was almost possible to touch and see the invisible threads, those strong links first tied decades earlier and secured over the years by the interweaving twists and knots of shared frights, tears, laughs and thrills, into something much stronger. 

And where are we now?  We’ve weathered Covid, fortunately with nothing worse than the severe restrictions on travel.  The group holidays in Scotland and Northumbria have been shoved back but we should be back in the surf and on the hills this summer and Zoom quizzes will soon, hopefully, be replaced by garden barbecues and evenings in the pub.  With Sue and Ade we can resume the SW Coast Path and the mountain-bikes, boogie boards, walking boots and kayaks can re-emerge from garages and sheds.

It’s a long time ago since Di’s Scouse voice enquired from the canal bank if we knew anyone she could paddle with.  We are so lucky that, even if she asked the same question today, the answer would still be, ‘Yes.’

And let's not forget those friends from my youth;  the Nottingham gang.  For various reasons, largely revolving around other distractions, I allowed myself to become distanced during my middle decades whilst the the core of that friendship circle kept things together, ticking over in a mutual support and appreciation society centred around shared memories, sport and music.  I'd swap Christmas cards, occasionally drop in to see Robbo (now referred to as Andrew) and only rarely attend any get-togethers; there always seemed to be something else getting in the way.  More recently I've properly reabsorbed myself, welcomed back into a supportive clan where the banter, humour, opinions and interests are easily reconcilable with those of the gang of friends established half a century ago. 

‘You just call out my name

And you know, wherever I am

I'll come runnin'

To see you again

Winter, spring, summer or fall

All you have to do is call

And I'll be there

You've got a friend’                                  Carole King

Images removed

Juliette Binoche (The English Patient)  Michelle Pfieffer  (Ladyhawke)