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In the blog of 27th April, I wrote about my BOGOF grandparents. What I wrote rang a bell with my sister Leslie, and she searched through her archives.  What she came up with is an article written by our Auntie Irené, for the in-house magazine of the Quaker community in Maryland USA, where she has lived for many years.  Auntie Irené, now in her late 80s, is a real crazy lady, a fantastically good writer and a golf fanatic, still playing golf on a few days every week.  She wrote this article about my three grandparents – her three parents – perhaps about six years ago:

THE TRIPLE WAY – by Auntie Irené

Did any of you have three parents?  I did.  In 1922 my mother’s sister descended upon us for a weekend; in fact she dug in for fifty-two years.  It wasn’t strange, for the first World War created a plethora of women deprived of the joys of marriage and motherhood.  What could genteel, maiden ladies do?  A respectable “out” and recognized substitute to palliate their maternal instincts was to become an ‘aunt-in-chief’ to a sibling’s family.

Everyone benefited.  The host family acquired a free housekeeper, nurse and counselor. The maiden aunt was rewarded with status not otherwise accorded a spinster.  She rose with the family fortunes and made herself indispensable as a surrogate mother.  Since she didn’t have final say on any matter, and being twice removed from the throne of power, she served as a valuable sounding post, guardian of small secrets, go-between and one to whom souls were bared when face might have been lost to a more scrutinizing family member.

The sisters were co-survivors in a despotic Edwardian household.  Aunt’s presence cushioned my mother’s servitude and since she was in residence prior to my birth, I was the child of three parents.  Confusing?  No.  Triply re-enforcing?  Yes.

The Trinity shared an idiosyncrasy. They were health freaks.  It was an eccentric system they’d stumbled upon called: “not taking too much out of yourself,” which plainly translates into; “be lazy; don’t try; don’t compete.”  We were invited to become a tribe of malingerers.

In order not to take too much out of themselves, the Trinity indulged in a siesta from after lunch to four o’clock tea-time every afternoon.  Imagine a siesta in Scotland where the crippling moist air made you cringe even in summer.  Facing a night in bed was bleak enough without subjecting oneself to an afternoon battle with unbending, unwelcoming stiff sheets.  Of course, we had stone hot-water bottles which seared your flesh with one glancing brush and made little impression on damp linen.  It was a cardinal sin to make noise during siesta time.  No phone calls were taken, everything in the outer world was on hold.  Rude invasions into this dozing life could be dealt with perfectly well at tea-time.

The Trinity’s warnings were numerous: “a cat’s breath is unwholesome; ice-cream will set you off in a rigor; never sit on a cold stone; bananas have worms; avoid vaccinations and inoculations; matches explode of their own free will; teeth grinding is a sign of madness; and general practitioners have scant knowledge, call in a specialist.” A few positives were allowed: “deep breathe; be happy; sing and dance (neither too strenuously); wool next to the skin, no matter the season.”

Did the Trinity’s life-style pay off?  Well, their quality of life during waking hours was certainly above average.  True, nothing much was achieved; days floated by in a leisurely fashion as they basked contentedly in their routine.  All three lived into their late 80’s.

Moral: Myraid are the paths to longevity.

Back to Sheila
So I think that definitely settles it: the trip up Kili would not have met with approval by the Trinity!  There will be no chance of an afternoon siesta and we will be eating bananas all week, worms or no!  But I wonder if Auntie Irené might be up for joining with us?  She would be very close to the top of my list of entertaining companions to have along, if she can spare a couple of weeks off the golf!

Today’s blog post comes from Paula – the lovely nun that Sheila has mentioned before, and talks about in this post. Paula already guest posted for us once, and we’re thrilled to have her do so again – thanks again Paula!

I am not sure how Sheila manages to think of something to write about every day.  I said this to her on Wednesday in the kitchen at Catching Lives and so ended up promising to write another few words for her.

Almost twenty years ago I spent some time in Africa and several memories, since Sheila’s proposed climb, have come back to me quite forcibly.

One was the happiness of the people who had so little. The man in this picture lived in a township and ran a small garage from one of the tin huts. He was so pleased we visited and he invited us into his home – another tin shack. It was neat with very little in it – notably a chair on which rested his youngest child – a little mite only days old. He and his wife were so proud. I came away humbled and promised myself I would never complain again – which of course I did!

My second memory was going with a nurse to this little blue hut village. We went by van – over tracks and arrived at the bottom of the hill. We walked the rest of the way to the small painted hut. Inside were wailing women surrounding a woman lying on a wooden platform. Her six children were there too. My nurse friend said we would have to take her to hospital, so we brought the woman down the hill and placed her on a mattress, which we had put in the back of the van.  We set off – three hours to the nearest hospital – then a four hour wait for her to be seen by a doctor. The prognosis was bad – she had AIDS and would probably die. We left her in hospital.

Later that week I visited a small home run by sisters. It was a place for abandoned children – all of whom had AIDS. I spend a morning trying to feed some of them whilst others clung to me wanting only a bit of human contact. These sisters worked so hard just to provide a shelter and food for all the children. Again they told me that many would die.

A very forceful  and committed religious sister ran a project just outside the township – again made up of little thatched huts – and bigger ones too. Here she taught skills – bread making, candle making and coffin making – the latter mostly for children. The people in their grief were often exploited by funeral directors, so  this sister decided on making affordable coffins so people could bury their dead with respect.

I could go on telling stories of that memorable time in my life but will end  on a happier note.

My last picture – or two –  were taken at an initiation ceremony after the boys had come home following their initiation ritual. One of the religious sisters I stayed with belonged to this tribe – hence our invitation. It was joyful and the lads so proud to now be men! We ate a cow which was ritually killed and pieces boiled in a huge cauldron.

I give thanks for women like Sheila who is so generous and loving. The people climbing with her and her family are in for a treat. May her efforts bring much funding for the charities which are close to her heart and for the ones bringing relief to the needy of Africa.

I was a very defiant child.  If someone told me “No!”, it made me absolutely determined to do whatever it was – and to some extent, that’s never changed.  I like to think that I am reasonably law abiding nowadays and have respect for other people, but within these parameters, I don’t like being told I can’t do something, without good reason.

I got into real trouble with this, when I was eight years old.  It was the playground season for handstands.  In those days, school playgrounds were not staffed during breaks and lunch times.  The children were left to themselves, unless a fight broke out, when help would be sought indoors from a teacher.  There would be a few weeks when everyone was playing skipping games, then perhaps it would be ball games, hopscotch or one of many other games.  Almost all the children would be involved in whatever the game of the moment was.  It had been handstands for several weeks, when we were told by our teacher that handstands had been banned.  No reason was given and we were all very surprised that the staff were even aware of what the current craze was.

Immediately after being given the handstand veto, we were sent out for playtime.  I remember going straight outside, finding myself a nice wall and doing a handstand against it.  As we filed back indoors, our teacher was standing at the top of the stairs, and I heard almost every child in front of me saying something along the lines of “Please, Mrs Mitchell, Sheila Wilson did a handstand” as they passed her.  There were four Sheilas in the class, so they had to make it clear which one was the sinner!  When we got into the classroom, my punishment was the usual Scottish one: the tawse.  I had to put my hands out, one on top of the other and hold them steady while I “got the strap”.  How unthinkable is that nowadays?

I didn’t learn, however!  Aged twelve, I set off on a much worse escapade.  I knew I was not supposed to climb out of windows, but one day the sloping roof below our bedroom window became too much of a temptation.  There was a skylight to the kitchen in the middle of the sloping roof, and I thought it would be fun to scramble across the roof and stick my head down through the skylight to frighten whoever was in the kitchen.  I never made it to the window.  A loose tile skidded under my foot and I went shooting off the roof down to the ground.  My sister Leslie, and step sister-to-be Jan rushed downstairs, and quickly carried me upstairs.  They kept me hidden for a couple of days until I was strong enough to walk again.  No adults found out about this for a full two years, when the pain in my back got so bad that I had to own up to what had happened.  This resulted in me being encased in plaster (and subsequently in a horrible boned corset) for many months, as described by Jean in her blog of 28th May.  When signing me off after this, the specialist said that I should not have children nor ever stand for more than ten minutes.  Of course I didn’t do what he told me: that’s clear to see!!!!!!!!  There would be no 3GKiliClimb if I had.

Roll on a few more years and I was told to take daughter Gwen to the orthodontist.  I had completely forgotten about this, until my daughters reminded me of this not so long ago.  I took Gwen for her appointment, and was told that she needed a brace.  Her teeth should all be wired together for a six month period, or otherwise there would be a gap between her two front teeth when she was older.  The girls tell me that I grabbed Gwen, telling the orthodontist that a gap between her front teeth would look just great, and marched her out of the door.  I got lucky that time – Gwen has the most beautiful teeth, without ever having had any intervention.

One of my grandparents’ obsessions was that it was very dangerous to sit on stone.   It was certain to result in piles – haemorrhoids to the uninitiated.  Any time we tried to sit down outside, a cushion would be pushed under us, as in the photo of Leslie and me as children.  Half a century later, on a trip back to Hawick, Leslie joined me in a bit of rebellion: we sat on the same steps in the garden which had been our grandparents’ WITHOUT ANY CUSHIONS!  They were wrong: we have been sitting on stone and lots of other cold surfaces all our lives and don’t have a pile between us to show for it!

When I see notices telling me not to do things, I still want to do them.  Stew and I travelled in a taxi in Bangkok last year with this great strip of DONTS.  It immediately started me off fantasising about how many of them it might be possible to do during a short taxi journey.  By the way, in case you are puzzled, the second DONT from the right is about durian, that wonderfully smelly fruit.

On one of my regular walks between Whitstable and Herne Bay, I pass this NO SWIMMING sign.  The beach there looks no different from lots of other beaches along the coast where people regularly swim.  I am very puzzled as to why that particular stretch is prohibited, and am very tempted by it.  I have resisted taking matters any further so far……….

However, I had better behave myself on Kilimanjaro, hadn’t I?  I do know that there is a reason for the rules they have on the mountain and I will not do anything that could put any one of the three of us at any risk at all.  OK – so you have that in black and white!

There has been an alarming amount of stripping off (and talking of stripping off) in recent blogs and this reminded me of an earlier incident in Sheila’s life.

In 1982, Sheila organised a cycling trip to Holland for five women.  Leaving our poor young children in the care of their fathers, we set off by train to Sheerness to catch the overnight ferry to Vlissingen. Sheila arranged the whole thing – train tickets, sea crossing, maps and youth hostels – we were all in our mid to late thirties but fairly hard up!  As you might expect, the organisation was superb. The only slight blip was when we found ourselves cycling along a very busy stretch of dual carriageway and a kind Dutchman rolled down his window and yelled at us that this was forbidden.

In those days, there was a rather luxurious service across the North Sea run by the Olau Line, a Danish company.  The highlight was the smorgasbord, which was a very exciting concept for those of us who had never travelled to Scandinavia. There was the most delicious selection of smoked and fresh fish, open sandwiches and salads.  And you could go back as often as you liked.

But, before the smorgasbord, we just had to take advantage of the sauna and the tiny swimming pool in the bowels of the ship. Four out of the five of us had brought our swimming costumes but Marta, who is a Czech doctor and the only one who had used a sauna before, was having none of it.  She explained that when her mother used to take her to the sauna in Prague, nobody wore swimsuits.  In fact, we just wouldn’t benefit from the experience at all if we didn’t go naked. So, as Marta is rather a forceful personality and there was no-one else around, we all did as we were told and stepped into the sauna.

Everyone (except Marta) was a little embarrassed when a male crew member suddenly entered the cabin to stoke up the charcoal.  He didn’t even blink! It was then that I realised for the first time that naked people are really quite anonymous. The following day, however, we did draw the line at using the mixed showers in the Dutch youth hostel, suddenly feeling very middle aged and British.

You may wonder what all this has to do with Kilimanjaro.  It is simply meant to reassure Sheila that, should she have to take off all her clothes and go to the aid of a fellow traveller suffering from hypothermia, as discussed in the blog of 24^th February, she should not be bashful. That person will be very grateful for the skin-to-skin heat and will have no idea afterwards whose body it came from.

As a child, had I been asked, I probably would have said that my main hobby was stamp collecting.  Both my sister Leslie and I were started off on this at quite an early age by our mother, who had quite an impressive album of her own, which she had brought to this country in her bag, when she arrived here as a refugee from Germany immediately before the start of the second World War.  Her album clearly was very important to her, as she had only been able to bring what she could carry herself.

The stamps in her album that left the biggest impression on me where a set she had of a beautiful young Queen, surrounded by black.  Our mother told us about Queen Astrid of Belgium, who went on holiday to Austria in 1935. In a tragic accident in Kussnacht (Switzerland) the royal vehicle, driven by the king himself, crashed, and the Queen was killed instantaneously. She was only thirty years old. Although severely injured, the king survived the accident, and returned to Belgium to resume his duties as both sovereign and single father of three young children, the youngest still a baby.  It was a very sad story, and the stamps issued by Belgium in her memory were very beautiful and we loved looking at them.

Almost all my friends collected stamps, when I was a child.  We would swap any duplicates and often spent our pocket money on going to stamp shops to buy more for our collections.  Even Hawick, the very small town where I lived, had a shop devoted to the hobby.  I think I probably learned all the geography and some of the history I know from stamp collecting.  I would carefully look at every stamp to learn about each country and what was portrayed on it.  When I was about eleven, the present I wanted and got for Christmas was a Stanley Gibbons stamp catalogue.  In it was detailed every stamp that had been issued in the world: it was a treasure trove of information.  That was in the late 1950s and after that, stamp production and design spiralled to such an extent that it was never again possible to produce one such volume.

Pocket money was also spent on what were called “approvals”.  All of the comics that we read at the time carried advertisements, encouraging us to send away for books of stamps “on approval”.  Enticements of free stamps would be offered: there was no obligation to buy any of the stamps from the books sent to us, but we were able to look at them and show them off for a while, before sending them back.  It was such an excitement to receive a bulky envelope through the post, even if we knew it had to be sent back again.

I was unhappy that all British stamps at that time portrayed our Queen and nothing else.  Other countries were producing beautiful images of geographical features, nature, interesting people etc – but all we got was a mug shot of the monarch!

A terrible thing happened in 1959, philatelically speaking.  I was a proud Scot and very aware that it was the bicentenary of the birth of the Scottish national poet, Robert Burns.  I hoped that our country would make a break with tradition and produce a stamp to celebrate, but no such luck.  I felt so embarrassed that year when the Russians chose to produce a stamp bearing his portrait.  It should have been us!!!!  I felt shamed.  I am pleased to note that since then the tradition of only having the monarch on stamps has been broken, but it was not in time to save my Scottish pride.

Although I have not collected stamps in any proper way as an adult, I have been unable to throw or give away interesting used stamps.  For years I have torn all such stamps off envelopes and popped them in a drawer, in hope I suppose, of a child or grandchild taking an interest.  None have.  I acquired my knowledge of the world and the countries in it from philately.  I suppose Jae’s boys, my grandsons, have got just as much knowledge – possibly more – from following world football.  They know all the flags of the world and where all the countries are and what their capitals are as a result of their interest in the game.  That was not an option for children raised in the years before television was generally available, so I guess stamp collecting filled the space.

I dug out my old stamp album recently, to see what stamps I have relevant to our Kilimanjaro climb.  I have a page of stamps from Kenya, Uganda and Tanganyika – Tanganyika being what Tanzania, where Kili is situated, used to be called.  Not one of the stamps had Kili on it.  So that is why I did not know in which continent – let alone country – Kili was in, when this climb was first mooted, as admitted in a very early blog post.  If I had had this 2/- stamp issued in 1954 in my collection, I would have known for the last sixty years exactly where Kili was!

Today – 18 June 2015 – marks the 200^th anniversary of a great victory, the Battle of Waterloo, which brought to an end 23 years of war against Napoleon. The British commander, the Duke of Wellington, is being commemorated in exhibitions, newspaper articles, TV programmes and lectures all over the UK.

This level of publicity is a reminder of what happened in the 100 years after Waterloo when he was so famous that pubs, hotels, schools, streets and even towns here and abroad were named or renamed after him.  In 1850 a new street in Hawick was built and given the name Wellington Street and both our grandparents lived there when they were young.

By the time we were growing up in Hawick in the 1950s  this once elegant terrace had turned into a bit of a slum. Our grandparents lived at Woodgate, a lovely detached house on Sunnyhill, a desirable part of town,  and did not often talk about Wellington Street. They would never know but it was eventually demolished in 1973, the name living on in Wellington Court, sheltered housing built on the site.

In the 1950s Hawick was still the headquarters of the UK woollen trade, with some 25 woollen mills dotted along the banks of the river Teviot. A self-made man who left school at 14, our grandfather had made his entire career in that trade, working his way from the bottom to the top. Much of his job involved travelling widely, to Australia and New Zealand where much of the wool was now being sourced, and to the US where his company, Braemar, sold 70% of its cashmere sweaters and earned for Hawick the title, “Million Dollar Town”.

And now comes the connection to the 3G Kili climb. In 1953, his company provided long johns and woollen jerseys to the  British Mount Everest expedition, led by Colonel John Hunt. They were the first team to conquer the mountain and news of the successful climb arrived in London on the very day of Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.

Later that year, the newly knighted Sir John Hunt and Lady Hunt were received by Grandpa when they visited Hawick to say thank you. The 3G climbers are fortunate to be making their ascent in the 21^st century when they will wear the most up to date clothing but for old time’s sake, Sheila has every intention of wearing one of our mother’s old cashmere jumpers (see blog post of 28^th February). Here’s to another successful climb in 2015, the 3G Kili climb!

Stew and I are both keen members of Canterbury U3A – The University of the Third Age.  For those not familiar with U3A, it is an organisation for “older people”, which arranges classes and interest groups about all manner of things, mainly during the winter months.  It is run on a voluntary basis, and costs very little as none of the teachers are paid and a fair bit of the teaching takes place in people’s houses, village halls or even pubs.  There are close to 2,000 members in our area, who form themselves into hundreds of interest groups.  Stew has generally attended classes about erudite subjects, particularly historical ones.  He has also taught one about the Wars of the Roses for the last couple of years.  My choice of subject is much less serious.  I am not very good at sitting still in “talk and chalk” type classes, although I did happily survive Conversational French in the last academic year – see the blog of 2nd May.  My absolutely favourite class is Patchwork and Quilting: I have attended it for about seven years, I think, and have learned something new from the two wonderful teachers at every class.

This year, I have agreed to co-ordinate the U3A sea swimming group during the summer months.  We are really just a collection of people who turn up about once a week for a dip in the sea and a blether together.  I love swimming in the sea, however I am not strong minded enough to take myself in alone, but being part of a group of oldies is just great.  We had our first meet up in my caravan recently, followed by a swim.  We all had to get out our diaries and tide tables to sort out dates for the next couple of months.  Everyone seems quite happy to swim near my caravan, but the downside of that is that because it is so flat around there, it is only possible to swim at high tide – hence the need for tide tables.  At low tide, you could walk for half an hour towards the sea, and it would still only be ankle deep.  We have therefore arranged a couple of swims further along the coast at locations less dependant on the tide.

My first swimming experience was in the swimming pool which my grandparents had in their garden, when I was a very small child.  Of course, the water was freezing – it was in Scotland and the pool wasn’t heated – but I remember loving it, and thoroughly enjoyed splashing about with cousins and aunts.  Sadly, as they got older, my grandparents became very anxious about the pool, and by the time I started school, they had mothballed it.  They covered it over with wire netting so no-one could use it.  So then my sister Leslie and I attended the local public baths for swimming lessons.  We had individual lessons from a member of the pool staff – probably for about ten minutes each week.  The lesson consisted of being suspended in a kind of hoist attached to a pulley hanging from the roof.  The teacher would have hold of a rope which dragged the child along in the water, while the teacher yelled at the child what to do with her arms and legs.

I have searched the internet for photos of such a gadget, but have only managed to find this one image of anything like what I remember.    I doubt whether we learned much.  How much better swimming instruction is nowadays: grandson Samson in Sydney swims like a fish at six years old, and when Oscar was only nine years old, he was brave enough to take a flying leap into a swimming pool, when he and I were in Oz together.

My daughter Gwen – Jae’s sister – has always been a very enthusiastic swimmer, and as a teenager, decided to learn to become a life saver.  She signed up for the class, but was a bit concerned when told she had to have a “buddy” along with her.  None of her friends were able to join with her, so slightly reluctantly, I agreed to join the class too, although I knew that I was not a speedy enough swimmer to qualify as a life saver.  My memory is of spending several sessions being a body and getting rescued.  I would let myself sink and wait to be yanked to the surface again.  It wasn’t the pleasantest of experiences at the time, but had a very positive outcome.  When Gwen went to university, she got employment as a swimming teacher and life saver in the evenings and weekends, and managed to come out of university with very little debt.  Result!!!!

At the recent first swim with U3A, I brought out once again my towelling jacket with polar bears, dating from 1962 I think.  We were going on a family holiday that year,  and it was decided that the girls had to have a towelling jacket to keep themselves properly covered up.  We went to a department store to choose the fabric with which to sew our jackets: quite why I thought polar bears were appropriate, I have no idea – but they have stood me in good stead.    After the swim, as we had another cuppa, one of our number said how wonderful it is to have all these swims to look forward to during the summer.  We got into a discussion about how important it is to have things to look forward in old age – and it really is.  We might talk about the past a lot – maybe that is what we remember best – but to be able to look forward to something in the future is absolutely key.

In that respect, I guess I am luckier than most!  In August I will be attempting to climb the highest free standing mountain in the world with my daughter and grandson.  I find it hard to think about anything much else right now!  However, sometimes a little voice in the back of my head asks me what will I have to look forward to after attempting to climb Kilimanjaro?  I will definitely have to come up with something else: seven months of training and blogging is almost a full time job!  Any suggestions gratefully received.

This post might never have been written if Sheila had taken more care over the facts, when she was interviewed by the reporter from the Kentish Gazette about her small, but hopefully growing group of ‘KiliClimb Calendar Girls’.  She made me a year older than I am.  Isn’t that a heinous sin?  Actually I am not that fussed about my age, although hubby Jim would disagree and present evidence to the contrary.  I always think that being old is a state of mind rather than to do with years passed.  Some people are just born old, while others manage to maintain a youthful outlook well beyond three score and ten.  The reason why this would not have been written is that Sheila, who has written more than a few times about altitude sickness, said that she didn’t want any more stories about it.  But this one will be told.

Five years ago, when I was just 63, we set off on our Bucket List trip to South America, with a focus on Peru and Bolivia.  Machu Picchu and Lake Titicaca were among the highlights of our trip.  It had been touch and go whether we would make it as just four months before the trip,  I went to see an orthopaedic surgeon as one of my hips was playing up.  In fact it had been playing up so much that my pelvis was on the point of collapse.  So I had emergency surgery, involving three trips to the operating theatre just twelve weeks before our departure date.  Maybe it wasn’t sensible, but we went.

We were in a small group of twelve and our itinerary had been worked out carefully to acclimatise us slowly.  We saw wonderful Inca sites, some I thought rather more interesting than Machu Picchu, eventually reaching Cusco at 3,300 meters – a lot lower than Kilimanjaro.  Cusco was a fascinating town and we were in a hotel with a ‘borrowed’ history in that it was build around a dramatic Inca Palace that Pizarro, the conqueror of Peru had chosen as his base while in Peru.  Some of the public rooms had great stretches of Inca wall, made from unimaginably large, irregular blocks of stone, each fitting its neighbour with barely a hairsbreadth between.

It was the time of Halloween and All Saints Day when the Peruvians honour their ancestors.  It was startling to see how they had conflated North American ‘Trick or Treat’ with their own version of Christianity.  Young children took First Communion decked out as witches with plastic ‘turnip’ lanterns.  Fireworks were going off everywhere.  And this was where I chose to get altitude sickness, possibly helped by visits earlier in the day to sites at even higher altitude.  At first I thought I had picked up a tummy bug as my splitting headache was accompanied by D&V.  Immediately our guide put me on a diet that excluded everything except dry bread and cereals and Chicken Soup.  I had altitude sickness, probably because I was still somewhat anaemic after surgery.

My biggest worry was about the following day, when we were taking a ten-hour train journey over the Alto Plano at about 4,000 metres.  To be on the safe side I took some Immodium early in the morning and at first, on the rather glamorous train, I felt fine.  At about ten o’clock I felt really light headed.  Our guide called the train hostess who brought oxygen.  After ten minutes of oxygen I started to feel better.  It didn’t last and I realised I was going to be sick.  Sod’s law, the toilet was in use.  I propped myself by an open window to get some air as I waited and that was the last I remember.  Jim and Patti, our guide, filled in the blanks.

I certainly put my new hip joint to the test as I slithered down the wall into a tight little ball.  Patti and one of the hostesses straightened me out along the corridor and arranged me in an appropriate position.  I slept on, and on and on and the crowd of worried ladies around me grew.  Jim started to wonder where I was – and also about what was going on in the train corridor.  He looked closely and was reassured.  He recognised my rather natty grey and lime green basketball boots and thought I was in good hands.  A few minutes later he thought again and ventured towards the group, just in time to hear Patti and the Chief Hostess discuss a helicopter evacuation.  Oh Dear!  Then the Chief Hostess started to fill in some ‘incident report’ with Patti providing the answers, like name and nationality.  Then she was asked my age and replied, “About 70”!  Most of the group were about that.  Apparently, I sat bolt upright and announced, “I’m not 70”, before sliding back, while still retaining consciousness.  The shock must have brought me round and Jim maintains to this day that I must be quite paranoid about my age.

I was a bit ‘untidy’ as Sheila’s bear Mary Plain (blog 2^nd June) would have said, had about forty minutes of oxygen and a couple of those luridly-coloured sports drinks to rehydrate me and while not quite as fit as a fiddle, I managed to watch, photograph and write notes for the rest of the train trip.

So the lesson from that for Sheila, Jae and Oscar is to prime each other with some terrifying words that will raise them from their sickbed.  And don’t go if anaemic.

Sorry Sheila!!!

Hindsight is a fine thing!  I spent a great summer in Jersey in the late 1960s when I was a student. The sun seemed to shine every day and I was with some lovely people – but unknown to me at the time, child murder, torture and rape were close by!

A friend in Glasgow set up for me to work in Jersey children’s homes during the three month university holiday.  My fares were to be paid for me and I wouldn’t have to pay for my keep, but nor would I be paid.  That was fine by me: in these days there were no student fees to be paid and I actually received a grant, sufficient – with a bit of scavenging – to live on during the student terms.

I was off to the sun.  I was told I would be going to Haut de la Garenne.  If you google that, you will find it was a home where there are historical allegations of abuse and of children being murdered and their bodies being hidden in the grounds.  Happily a couple of days before I set off, I was told there was a change of plan: I was to go to La Preference, a small home for twelve children run by the Vegetarian Society.

I wasn’t a vegetarian – they were rare on the ground then, and I don’t think I had ever met one before – but that was no problem.  The home was run by “Nanny”, who was probably about the age I am now.  She was a sweet and gentle, but strict woman, who had a great way with children.  She had her own flat at the top of the house and the children loved being invited to spend time there with her: she knew each child really well as an individual.  There were a couple of other girls around my age working there too, as well as a cleaner, who did the bed making and bed changing too.  Nanny’s son in law, Ted, could be relied on to do the garden and odd jobs.  We girls were responsible for feeding and entertaining the children, getting them up and putting them to bed, overseen by Nanny.  We had an old van, which one of the girls could drive and we often piled all the children into it and took them to the nearby beach at St Martins for the day.

I am sure this would be considered unacceptable these days, but there was an enormous communal clothes cupboard and adults and children alike were free to help themselves from it.  I loved wearing the motley collection of clothes in that magic cupboard: the best fitting pair of shorts I have ever had in my life came out of there, but of course had to be left behind at the end of the summer.

The children were not vegetarian when they arrived, but they, like me, agreed that the food was fine. There were loads of lovely fresh vegetables, eggs, cheese, creamy milk and Jersey potatoes and we made lots of proper puddings like spotted dick and treacle tart.  Oddly enough, the diet was also supplemented by tins of “meatless sausages” and “meatless steaks” as we called them.  I suppose this was before the days of easy availability of Quorn, soya and other vegetarian substitutes.

It was a pretty idyllic time, as far as I was concerned, and a great change from the rather dirty and violent place Glasgow was at that time.  It was a few years later that I stumbled across a book about “The Jersey Beast”.  I was very shocked to discover that Nanny’s son in law, Ted, our obliging odd job man, had been entering people’s homes at night wearing terrifying gear and removing, torturing and raping children!  It had been going on at the time I was there, but the lovely people at the home were quite unaware of it.

Now I have to concentrate on foresight – not hindsight.  I hope I can do a good job of working out in advance exactly what I will need to take up Kili with me.  There will be no magic cupboard for me up there, if I fail to pack anything essential in my bag before I set out!

Today’s blog post comes from the gorgeous Megan Russell. Megan and Jae met four years ago through work and have since become good friends and “career confidantes”!

I have always been fascinated by the butterfly effect; the belief that a small change in one state can result in large differences to a later state. It may be my ‘last child syndrome’ rearing its narcissist head here but I have always wanted to believe that my movements can have an impact on the world in some shape or form.

The theory goes that something as small as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing can ultimately result in a typhoon on the other side of the world. The butterfly does not directly cause the tornado but helps to bring the right factors in place to enable it.

In a world where we are constantly reminded of our insignificance in the grand scheme of the universe, isn’t it motivating to know that we can leave our own glorious footprint? Does it not empower you to know that you are responsible for how the world will move in 10 or 20 years time?

Take the 3G Kili Climb as an example. One seemingly small conversation between a family has already started to beat its beautiful butterfly wings around the world. Let’s count the ways.

Close to home, friends and family have been inspired to write articles, raise money and possibly even take on the challenge themselves. I have enjoyed guest articles (causing me to volunteer myself to the task!), smiled at motivational videos and been moved by the money pouring in for charity. Imagine if this climb inspires others to do the same?

On a personal level, the 3G Climb has inspired me to climb Kilimanjaro in January for my honeymoon. Without the 3G Climb I could be planning another beach holiday sipping cocktails, but hearing Jae’s enthusiasm for the adventure ahead challenged me to turn the honeymoon on its head. So thank you Jae, Sheila and Oscar for what we certainly be a honeymoon with a difference!

And the wings beat even further; the money raised from the climb will improve the lives of the homeless and vulnerably housed through Catching Lives, and Exodus supported projects – through Baraka and Friends of Conservation. Just think about the change this will make to lives and communities, not just now but in the years to come. It is humbling to even consider.

But the best thing about the butterfly effect is that you can’t predict how long the wings will beat and who they will touch along the way. 3G continues to make its presence known now but I like to think that this adventure will continue to inspire long after Sheila, Jae and Oscar are back. Which family will be the next 3G and what impact will that have on their family?

Will this climb inspire Oscar to become the next Tenzing Norgay?!

So I think I speak for many friends, family and distant supporters when I thank Sheila, Jae and Oscar for how they have impacted people, places and personalities around them. And I urge you all to ask yourself what your Butterfly Effect will be…

The last eruption on Kilimanjaro was between 150,000 and 200,000 years ago, so it is fairly safe to assume that despite what we said in the blog on April Fool’s Day, there is little risk of any volcanic action.  I am very grateful for that: I feel very sorry for the poor people in Nepal whose lives have been devastated by the earthquake in the Everest area.

There are seven official ways up the mountain: we will be taking the Lemosho route. Climbing Kili is strictly regulated by the Tanzanian Government.  You have to be part of an organized group: you can’t just decide to go up with your mates!  The Lemosho route is possibly the longest route and that is why we are taking it.  It will take us seven days to walk up to the top – if we make it – and the longer it takes, the better the chances are of getting up. Exodus say that 95% of their travellers make it to the top on this route, whereas in general, less than 70% of climbers succeed.  Taking our time gives us a better chance of coping with the change in altitude.  People who are used to living at high altitudes – like the guides and porters who will be with us – are much less likely to get altitude sickness.

I was quite amazed to read that a mountain guide ran to the top and back in August last year in six hours forty two minutes.  I can’t start to imagine that level of fitness!  So many people spend several days climbing and still don’t make it – it is all so hard to understand.

Exodus has been taking adults up Kili for decades, but the family group departures in August this year will be the first time that they have taken teenagers.  However, it seems that a seven year old American boy Keats Boyd has climbed the mountain, despite the fact that the park authorities make it clear than no-one under the age of ten is permitted to enter.  It seems that his parents lied about his age: they say he was absolutely determined to do it.

Although it will take us a week to climb up, it is expected that we will come down again in a day and a half.  We do the last bit of the climb up between mid-night and dawn, when the scree at the top is frozen.  That makes it easier – I am not sure that is the right word – to climb on.  When we start to come down, the scree will have defrosted and is likely to be moving about.  On holiday in Dorset recently I wondered if clambering on Chesil Beach was a bit like it will be on the descent.  The pebbles were piled up really steeply and it was very scrabbly to move about on them at all.  Perhaps I should go back there again for a bit of practice.  They say that you can develop a kind of yomping style of moving over the scree, sort of running and going with the movement underneath you.  Maybe I will try to find a bit of steep pebbly beach on the Kentish coast and give it a go – though I might get a few funny looks from those around me.

The oldest woman recorded to have done the climb was an eighty-four year old in 2010 – so I am fairly young in comparison.  She, however, had a history to climbing behind her, whereas I am still pretty much a mountain virgin.  If we make it, we will be the first three generation team including a granny, ever to do it.  I dare say almost straight away afterwards, there will be another feisty eighty-something year old doing the climb – a great-granny as part of a four generation team.  But maybe we will make it and hold the record for a wee while first.

I have been enjoying Sheila’s postings, especially when she writes about the ‘olden days’, that is the days of her childhood – and mine.  How cold it was before central heating, how inconvenient before there was hot water on tap and how smelly it was with coal fires, paraffin heaters and clothing that was washed less frequently than needed (the hot water problem).  And then there was the permanent fug of tobacco smoke (my apologies to any unredeemed smokers reading this).

One thing that Sheila hasn’t mentioned, or only obliquely, is the invention of “Gore-Tex” and similar waterproofing materials, especially when used in shoes.  Oh, the joys of wet soggy feet when all we had to deal with snow and rain was a pair of black school shoes, usually of the lace up variety.  No matter how well polished they were kept, they always let in.  The alternative was wellington boots.  Modern wellies are a lot better, helped no end by the fact that they are usually worn with trousers.  In the ‘old days’ little girls wore skirts with woollen stockings reaching to below the knees, kept up with elastic garters.  As soon as you took more than a couple of steps in wellies, the socks slipped down and down.  Net result was an alternative winter, without soggy feet but instead painful red chapping all around the legs where the wellies rubbed.  It is good to know that Sheila, Jae and Oscar will not have to bear such tribulations, as we all know that Sheila’s Kili drawer is well stocked.  A hundred and one memories of these oh so different days are lurking in my mind and I constantly rejoice in how much the world has changed, in every aspect of life it sometimes feels. And then something pulls me up in my tracks.  Recently hubby Jim and I were raking around in ancient ruins in Greece.  That happens to be one of our ‘things’ although we have had our moments at high altitude.  (And that has given me an idea for another guest post.)   But to return to things ancient.  We have been to many countries with long, long histories of civilisation stretching back thousands of years.  One of the oldest settlements we have visited was in central Turkey at Catalhoyuk, at its peak about 9,000 years ago although it survived for 2,000 years.  Some of the artefacts, like tools and rugs, were so like their counterparts of today; and in South America we saw similar.  Right across the settled world and the aeons, mankind seems to come up with similar solutions to the problems of everyday life, even the problems of waterproof clothing.  In rural China they make waterproof capes and hats from reeds.

Admittedly we are of the first generations to have telecommunications – and that has really changed the world.  Returning to Greece, we were on the island of Delos, a now uninhabited archaeological site with a history of civilisation reaching back more than three thousand years.  It was an important place of pilgrimage honouring Apollo before becoming a thriving trading centre with money to spend on embellishment of the environment.  By great good fortune the major excavations took place long after the days of the international plunderers aka 19^th century archaeologists, so a lot of what was found has remained on the island, housed in a beautiful light and airy museum.

And at last I am getting to the Kili point of this.  Sheila and Jae have agonised over dealing with their hair on Kilimanjaro where all water has to be carried by porter from the bottom.  The ancient Delia ladies must have had a similar issue because right before my eyes, in the museum I saw a beautifully carved marble head of a lady with ‘corn-rows’, one of the solutions Jae has been pondering.  So is there really anything new in this world?

PS I must concede that attitudes have changed.  Can you imagine Sheila’s Grandma of the bosoms taking off to climb Kilimanjaro with son Robert (Sheila and Leslie’s dad) and one or more of the grandchildren?  I think not, although she did go on some cashmere buying trips with her husband to northern India.

I bought this book – How to Conquer a Mountain: Kilimanjaro Lessons – and read it in an afternoon.  I felt a bit more confident about my ability to reach the top before,  than I do now, having read it!  Maybe my research should stop right here.

The book is written by a couple, and the woman, Sue, must be about twenty years younger than me – but she struggles with the climb really from the very first day!  She gives details of her pulse rate and blood pressure, which sent me shooting off to Stewart’s blood pressure monitor to check my levels.  When I first spoke to my GP about the climb – see the blog of 12th February – he said my blood pressure was slightly raised, but that it might be because HE was running late, and that I should come back again in a month.  When I went back a month later, the doctorwasn’t running late and my blood pressure was fine.  He said that I should check my blood pressure every so often during the coming months, and if it was more than 150/85, that I should check back with him before I go.  Stewart, of course, has every handy gadget known to mankind, so it has been easy enough to use his magic monitor.  My blood pressure readings have not been higher than advised during the last few months, and my pulse rate has varied between 55 and 72, which is pretty low, I think.  Sue Irving had a resting pulse rate of 103 just before starting the climb – and it seems that she did have some undiagnosed health problems.  She made it as far as the third day of the climb, before she was told in no uncertain terms that she was to go back down again – so her husband John continued up and made it to the top, while she had to twiddle her thumbs in a posh hotel for the rest of the week.  She was told that she had altitude sickness, which resulted in her having trouble with her breathing.

I can see that Americans, as one would imagine, have ingenious ways of preparing for climbing and breathing at altitude.  They have various machines that simulate the conditions at the top of mountains.  You can lie in bed at home at night in a sort of tent, which deprives you of oxygen while you sleep, by way of preparation.  I think that’s one sort of preparation that I will avoid!  I will just keep on with lots of long walks, Pilates and the odd bit of cycling.

The Irvings took the same route up the mountain as we will: The Lemosho Route.  I am glad to see that they refer to it as being scenic and non-touristy. They describe climbing through all the climate zones.  I don’t think you could do that anywhere else on earth in the space of a week.  I love the idea that we will be walking through a bit of jungly rain forest and also through a desert before we get to the snowy bit on top.  One of the guides points out to Sue some of the wonderful flora en route, such as pink impatiens plants (Busy Lizzie to most of us) which have grown to the size of bushes,  red fireball lilies with flower heads the size of tennis balls and daisy-like everlasting flowers, which are dotted all over the Shira valley floor.  I am really looking forward to seeing these exotic plants, as well as the more mundane heather, which grows among strange palms and cacti.

However, it isn’t all loveliness! There is another animal to worry about in this book, adding to the leopards and rats (10 March),  fire ants (7 May) and big scary birds (13 May), which I have already blogged about!  John Irving has a mouse nip his toe while he is dozing in his tent and the mouse proceeds to scurry all over the place and then sits on his pillow to get its photo taken!  He describes the rodent as having interesting red fur with white stripes on the back – which might be lovely BUT NOT WHAT I WANT IN OUR TENT, though I guess Oscar may think a bit of wild life would be intriguing.

What I did find interesting is that the Irvings seem to have been either starving hungry or falling asleep – sometimes both simultaneously – most of the time when they were not walking.  I had envisaged having longish periods of inactivity and card game playing, but that doesn’t seem to have been their experience.

I think what we should take from this book is that there are several different possible outcomes from our trip, and whatever happens, we need to view it in a positive light. After all, Sue didn’t even get half way up, but has co-written a successful book about her journey.  It is the journey that matters, people often say, not necessarily getting there.

We would love if all three of us got there, but even if we don’t, we will have had an amazing experience, raised a substantial sum for worthwhile charities and, who knows, we might write a book too!

When I read about what to take up Kilimanjaro with me, sweets and snacks seem to feature large. People get enormously hungry at times while walking, so they welcome them then and, conversely, when it becomes difficult to eat much at all at altitude, it seems to be easier to force down sweets and snacks than whole meals.  It seems that people stuff their bags with Mars Bars, Twix, Snickers etc – things that I love, but absolutely never normally allow myself to eat, because of the calories they contain.  But, it seems, we will have carte blanche in August to stuff ourselves with such delights.  Given that I have been really careful with what I have eaten since the start of this adventure – I have lost a stone and a half and my BMI is now bang in the middle of the “healthy weight” category – I am looking forward to a bit of a blow out on forbidden foods.

I have always had a sweet tooth: I am Scottish, after all!  Scotland has a higher rate of consumption of sugar per head of population than most countries in the world, and also one of the lowest for eating fruit and veg.  One of my earliest memories is eating Hills’ Hawick Balls, a delicacy which used to be produced within a hundred yards of where I lived as a small child in the Scottish Borders.  I think that the Hill family were actually related to us: John Hill, who owned the “factory” was possibly married to one of my paternal grandfather’s sisters.  As small children we would be allowed to go into the building where the famous balls were produced.  It was in a building like a very large shed up an alley way adjoining Uncle John’s house.  That was where Uncle John, Uncle Fred and Uncle David worked.  I hasten to add that all of them were probably not relatives.  We had dozens of what we came to call “phoney” aunts and uncles, when we were children.  All of my parents’ friends were known by their first name preceded by “uncle” or “auntie”.  In these days: it was not considered proper for children to address adults just by their first name, but too formal to call them “Mr” or “Mrs”, if they were close family friends.

We could smell the sugary minty smell as we went up the alley and it was quite overpowering in the shed.  Big copper pots of the sugary syrup would be bubbling away, and when ready, the contents would be poured out on to the marble slabs and pulled out into enormous golden brown snakes.  A length of snake would then be placed between wooden boards, which would be moved about for a while, then the brown Hawick balls would suddenly appear, when the board was removed. It seemed like magic, and I loved standing watching the men work.

The other delicacy produced by the Hills in the same big shed was meat paste. This was made on the other side of the space.  There was a fridge full of animal pieces, which were somehow reduced to this delicacy.  All of the town’s food shops stocked the meat paste: it had a great reputation locally.  This was long before anyone knew or cared what the ingredients were!  The paste was sold in white waxed carton without any writing on at all.  I have got a very clear memory of being in the factory one day watching the balls being made, when Uncle Fred came up to me and told me to put out my hand, and when I did, he placed a cow’s eye in the palm of my hand.  I was all set to take it home with me as a bit of a curiosity, but my mother insisted on me returning it to him, before I was allowed to leave.  She must have been appalled! So I guess that’s the kind of thing the delicious meat paste was made out of.  I doubt there were any Heath and Safety inspections then, or concern about sweets being made within feet of raw meat processing.

Hawick Balls have quite a provenance.   Bill McLaren was a famous rugby commentator, who was famously never without a “poke” (bag) of the traditional sweeties named after his home town. He used them to start conversations, elicit information and garner gossip that would then be added to his ‘big sheets’ – the detailed information he used to support his rugby commentary. Despite McLaren’s deserved reputation for impartiality, however, the members of the England team were apparently never invited to partake of his sweeties.  

Now produced in the town of Greenock, legend has it that Hawick Balls were first made in the town in the 1850s by one Jessie McVittie. She used to ‘pull’ her boiled sugar mix by hanging it over a nail and allowing gravity to stretch it out. Although the exact recipe remains secret, today the “bools” are still made in open copper pans, which caramelise the sugar, with oil of peppermint providing a minty hint. The resulting sweet looks a bit like a pickled onion (or, according to some, a sheep’s testicle). The flavour is buttery and actually quite grown-up, with a hard crunch setting them apart from other traditional sweeties from Borders towns such as Jethart Snails, Berwick Cockles and Galashiels Soor Plooms, which have a rock-like texture.

It seems that Chay Blyth, another local lad, took some bools round the world with him when he made records sailing in his yacht and some have been buried at the South Pole by a local explorer.  However, I can’t find any record of the Balls having been taken up a mountain. I wonder if I should take some up Kilimanjaro with me?  I dare say I might make myself popular among some of the porters and guides if I did take a tin or two along.

Today’s post comes from the brilliantly supportive Kate Gordon – FD at Exodus Travels. Kate is always one of the first people to “like” our 3GKiliClimb posts on Facebook, and we’re really grateful for her encouragement.

I have always had someone in my life to be in awe of, its been a variety of people, those like my father who told me at 16 that unless I pulled my socks up then I would end up picking out burnt crisps at the local crisp factory (!), to others who have guided my way through my working and home life. My work mentor helped me to get to the lofty position of Finance Director, and I still thank him for the support he showed me when I was not really all that interested!

The person who I am currently in awe of is Jae Hopkins our Marketing Director and one of the three who are doing the 3GKiliClimb.

Jae has three boys, a full on job, a husband and a million and one other things on, but is still seen dashing around at the weekend, and evenings, giving her time away with a smile and the famous “its flippin fab!” which I think is her mantra.  Her mother Sheila does even more by the look of it from the blog posts, it makes me feel sort of exhausted!  I have tried all sorts of things to get the 3GClimbers further into the public conscious (think viral!) currently to no avail, but I will keep trying.

This all made me feel that if they can climb Kilimanjaro then I can get fit.  Those that know me well know that having a Sunday nap with a good book, and then a nice glass (or three) of red wine is my idea of heaven!  So I have been on a get fit and diet routine over the last two months and I am working towards my own personal goals.  My current mantra is that “nothing tastes as good as slim feels”!

I wish them so much luck, I read the blog every morning before I get up (which is early!) and am disappointed if it’s not been posted before I have to go to work.  I find it really inspiring to see what they are trying to achieve for the charities, and I expect they will charm everyone on the trip!

No calendar pictures I am afraid! (Not yet anyway!)

10 Interesting Facts about Kilimanjaro

Rising majestically above the African plains, the 20,000-foot Mt. Kilimanjaro has beckoned to climbers since the first recorded summit in 1889. Here are 10 interesting facts to help inspire your own future summit:

1. Mount Kilimanjaro is the tallest mountain on the African continent and the highest free-standing mountain in the world.
2. Kilimanjaro has three volcanic cones, Mawenzi, Shira and Kibo. Mawenzi and Shira are extinct but Kibo, the highest peak, is dormant and could erupt again. The most recent activity was about 200 years ago; the last major eruption was 360,000 years ago.
3. Nearly every climber who has summitted Uhuru Peak, the highest summit on Kibo’s crater rim, has recorded his or her thoughts about the accomplishment in a book stored in a wooden box at the top.
4. The oldest person ever to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro was 87-year-old Frenchman Valtee Daniel (although his achievement has never been recognised by the Guinness Book of Records).
5. Almost every kind of ecological system is found on the mountain: cultivated land, rain forest, heath, moorland, alpine desert and an arctic summit.
6. The fasted verified ascent of Mt. Kilimanjaro occurred in 2001 when Italian Bruno Brunod summitted Uhuru Peak in 5 hours 38 minutes 40 seconds. The fastest roundtrip was accomplished in 2004, when local guide Simon Mtuy went up and down the mountain in 8:27.
7. The mountain’s snow caps are diminishing, having lost more than 80 percent of their mass since 1912. In fact, they may be completely ice free within the next 20 years, according to scientists.
8. Shamsa Mwangunga, National Resources and Tourism minister of Tanzania, announced in 2008 that 4.8 million indigenous trees will be planted around the base of the mountain, helping prevent soil erosion and protect water sources.
9. South African Bernard Goosen twice scaled Mt. Kilimanjaro in a wheelchair. His first summit, in 2003, took nine days; his second, four years later, took only six. Born with cerebral palsy, Goosen used a modified wheelchair, mostly without assistance, to climb the mountain.
10. Approximately 25,000 people attempt to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro annually. Approximately two-thirds are successful. Altitude-related problems are the most common reason climbers turn back.