Leaving Oxenholme

Your passion for Cumbria imbued me, 
it became entrenched in who I am.

As I wait on the cold platform,
the tears begin to fall.
I do not want to go, 
to leave this place behind.

I feel torn and wretched as I board the train.

At Hest Bank, final glimpses of your mountains,
of the expanse of Morecambe Bay.
The train hurtles forward 
and I am helpless as I am wrenched away.

By Galgate I know I have lost you
and my heart breaks once again.
Homesick for a place, a life, those memories
and the parts of me I've left behind.

A girl and her bike

I realised the other day that if I sit still for too long, the thoughts begin to start. Regrets of things said and not said, of things done or left unresolved. It is a sad place, and one which it is fruitless to spend time in. Things are what they are. I will never talk to Pete or my mother again.

Sometimes, the strangest thing will make me sad. Trains were wound up in our life and also that of my mother. When I go on a journey, I often think of them both. I cry silent tears as I pass through stations now imbued with memories. As I approached the Slochd the other day, the Highland Chieftain came the other way and unexpectedly I found that as I peddled along, there were tears flowing down my face.

On my way to see my father

My approach to counteracting all this is to never stop moving. I keep planning things to do and weekends away because if I am in perpetual motion, I am not dwelling on all the bad things that have happened in the last 10 months. There are so many things I am interested in and so rather than thinking that I'll do it someday, I am going to do it now. Even if it is frightening.

Riding my bike helps me, there is much time to ruminate on a 60 mile ride, but these ruminations seem more healthy than those that occur when my brain has headed down the negative track. There are many things that I want to do with my bike, things that were always ambitions but which were never fulfilled due to my ever present and intense anxiety.

Pete was almost a crutch, if he was there, things would be OK, but now, I have to make things OK on my own. I don't want to stop doing things because he is not here, even if I wish he could see the huge changes in me now. With Pete, I went touring, something that I had done as a child but which I would have been petrified to do by myself. I loved it, because it was something I was passionate about, and when I went to buy a new bike earlier this year, when the man pointed out the gravel bike, I was sold.

Lone camping in Kielder 

As I write this now, I can't imagine not going touring by myself, but I am a different person now. Significant changes in medication, months of counselling and the most traumatic year of my life have changed me. I will never be the same person again.

There is a life, there is a future and I am determined that, while I am still fit and able, I will live it to the full.

Bikepacking myself to happiness

Keep on going

There seems to be no handbook for grief and I don't know how to comprehend, let alone process, everything that has happened since last November. It took several months, but I am back at work, albeit on a phased return. It still feels huge, overwhelming, and the realities of life often still feel like they are all just too much.

But you have to carry on. The dead can't come back, those things you want to say can never be said, those things you'd like to do together will never happen. But I can't stop. I can't stop living because those people are dead, in fact I have to live more than I ever did before. I feel like I have to squeeze every last opportunity out of my life. Take every chance I am given, because I don't know what will happen tomorrow.

I have this sense of a desire to challenge myself, to make myself do things that frighten me, to take the anxiety that has plagued my life and stick two fingers firmly in its face. Pete facilitated many things I had wanted to do for some time, now he is not here I have to facilitate for myself. I would rather be frightened, even terrified, when I do things than to sit here feeling trapped by a fear of something unknown, unseen and probably non-existent. It is not an irrational fear by any means, but it does not deserve to be centre stage. 

Of course I would like to meet someone new, to share with them the many adventures I still haven't had, but at the same time, I feel a fierce sense of wanting to be on my own, to prove to myself that I can do anything I want and usually I'll be OK. It's like I might want someone else to be around, but I am beginning to feel that I certainly don't need them to be. Perhaps though, this is my defence, to build a wall so high and so thick that I protect myself from even the possibility of more hurt and pain?

Stuck in a place that is geographically far from ideal, I spend my spare time planning and dreaming of the places I would rather be. I have climbed as much as I can, although I wish I could do more and I proved to myself that the purchase of a set of bike packing bags was a good idea, riding in Wales and Scotland so far. But I want to do more, I want to climb when the weather allows, I want to do a solo tour, I want to wild camp as I ride from Glasgow or Oban to Inverness. I want to catch the Sleeper to Glasgow, Fort William and Inverness and go by myself to explore - even if my anxiety makes me sleep with a knife under my pillow as I do. 

These things, so far have been my saviour. To see South Stack lighthouse in the evening sun, to visit a glen that many have never heard of, to cycle through London at 8am, to climb classic routes in Wales. These things have given an escape. Rest bite from the grief, from the thoughts that go round and round my head, from the tears that fall, from the memories that I no longer want to remember. Without these things, life would have been very dark indeed.

South Stack, Anglesey

Top pitch of One step in the Clouds, Tremadog

I don't know if spending every weekend doing something 'interesting' is the right thing to do, but it feels like it just now. I have lost so much from my life that anything that brings something approaching happiness can only be good. 

For now I wonder, will there ever be an end to this grief, will there ever be a day where I do not cry, will I ever feel true, joyous and unbounded happiness again? It is as if I wear a heavy, grey cloak of sadness and it surrounds me everyday.

But, for all I initially thought differently, you do have to keep living and you have to keep going. I just hope that one day, I will lose my cloak.    

Heading back to Llandudno by the shores of Conwy Bay

The Lake

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
The branches give shelter,
The water bring peace.

"I hope you return here in happier times,"
You said.
Is this now?

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
I stare over the lake,
And I remember.
I look to the hills and I grieve.

The water laps at my feet as I sit under the oak,
Through hazy clouds
A sunbeam lights the water.
As I look to the sky,
Patches of blue appear.

As the wind drops,
I feel the warmth on my skin,
And I wonder,
"Is this hope?"

16th June 2018

Raven

A poem written for Pete and read at his funeral.

Raven

Those moments shared,

And sometimes not, 

Were precious.

Bonds were formed,

And ties were made,

And often there was solace.

As rock was touched,

A calmness fell, 

All that mattered was the present.

You told me once, 

Of how you hummed a tune,

A management of fear.

A placement good,

A foothold there,

Another over here.

And on you climbed,

A mind entirely focused.

In these rocks, and ice,

You found a home,

It was a place where nothing mattered.

It was somewhere you could be yourself, 

The noise and chatter all subsided.

And now you climb on again,

In peace that's everlasting.

On pristine holds, 

The gear good, 

Each placement almost perfect.

And as you disappear from our gaze, 

You look down to us and say,

"Cry not for me, my treasured friends,"

"Climb on."

"Climb on."

Armscliff March 2017

All those things I want to tell you...

Dear Pete

Today was the first time in weeks that I felt happiness. I was whizzing along on my bike, trying to keep in formation in the group and I suddenly realised that I felt happy. Someone else said that they noticed me smiling. It seems a long time since I have felt that kind of intrinsic joy. 

BMCC on the way home to Bicester

We rode 45 miles today, but I have no idea where we went. I learned what the 'whistle' means and tried hard to ride properly in the group. There were a few hills near the cafe, but I didn't get out of the big ring. I imagined you coming with us one day, riding my winter bike and giving it your all. I think you would have enjoyed it for the social aspect as much as anything. We had a stop at Wardington Garden Centre where I had a cheese scone - would you believe that I've gone off cake these days?

On Saturday we rode 44 miles to Waterperry garden centre. Each group did a different route and then ended up in the same place.  I don't know if the cafe knew what had hit them!

At Waterperry Garden Centre

The week after you died was the first time I went to BMCC. When we talked about it, you always encouraged me to go and I somehow felt that I had to honour that wish. They seem a lovely bunch and I have been on a few rides now. It makes me sad that I can't tell you all about them.

I have done a lot of climbing recently too. I have this really strong feeling that you would want me to. I know you wanted me to get involved with the Pinnacle Club and so I went along to the May meet at Cwm Dyli that I had told you about. I remember getting to the top of Sub Cneifon Rib and wishing you were there. The evening sun was beautiful and I felt this incredible feeling of elation and I wanted you to be there at the top to share it with me. I did a little bit of leading at the Moelwyns. I really wanted to tell you about that too. It breaks my heart that we will never swing leads on some quality multi-pitch. 

On Cneifon Rib

I went to the meet in Langdale too, it was funny to see your name and your handwriting in the book but Raw Head feels like home to me. We dragged Suki up to Upper Scout but there was no way we could get her over the stile - she spent the day happily sleeping under a big tree instead. I think I need to get her some kind of sled to go in. That would make me fit! 

I led the first pitch of Route 1 at Upper Scout. I really, really wanted to tell you about that. You told me when we went there in April that I should come back and lead it with Andrea and I hoped that you would have been proud of me. Noelle led the top pitch, I went left this time and it was much easier than the ridiculous thing I tried the last time! I hope that by the end of the summer I will have the confidence to lead the upper pitch.

Pinnacle Club meet at Raven Crag, Langdale

The day after your funeral we went to Trowbarrow. Judi, Andrea and I climbed and Suki watched from below. We did the mod a couple of times, once with Judi leading and once with me. It was lovely and gentle and we talked a lot about our memories of you. As I looked out to Morecambe Bay, I knew I was looking at a view that you loved. 

Judi seconding at Trowbarrow

I haven't been to work since the accident. I don't know what on earth has happened to me. I don't understand why the two people that meant the most to me in the world are dead. I don't know what I have done wrong. I miss talking to you and I miss telling you what I have been doing. I miss hearing about your antics and more than anything, I am deeply sad that we will have no more adventures together. We should have been off to Shetland soon, I was so excited to show you somewhere so important to me.

Tripe

But life goes on, I suppose. Suki has to be looked after, I have to try and look after myself. I keep trying to be the best version of me I can be and to do all those things that I know would have made you proud. I am sure that some people think it is strange that I am climbing, running and cycling, but to be honest, I don't know how else to cope. It's just what I have to do.

I miss you.

Love

Mary x

V 5 ***

With axes in hand, 
Step forth my dear.
Step up.

A soft jangle as you place your crampon firm.
Step up.

Clip the gear, take a breath,
Feel connected to the route.
Step up.

Be in the moment and enjoy the present.
Step up.

Take your fear and challenge it.
Step up.

And as you climb, 
Your brain is free, 
Those noises for once all silenced.
Step up.

Go on my friend, 
With axes in hand.
Step up.

Step up, step up and on and on, 
A route that never ends.

In memory of Peter William Metcalfe. 9th June 1971 to 22nd April 2018 -
The One Who Liked Mushrooms

https://www.gofundme.com/memorial-for-dr-peter-metcalfe