Just a thought

Clothes leading up to the unmade bed like a trail of bread crumbs to where I lay, Drunk. Morning, ten past nine to be exact. Urgh, not again. My eyes snapped open, to only screw up again to the harsh white light that feeds its way in through the blinds. Twelve hours previously you would have found me well on my way, enjoying some fine Thai food, surrounded by the rest of the team, flash forwards by six hours and you would have found me with a kebab in my hand, and on my way home from a good night.

So the next sentence will make me a massive hypocrite; Why does modern drinking culture seem to make it so important that unless we leave the pubs completely bent out of shape, it wasn’t a good night. Its kind of built into the aims of most nights, get plastered and all will be fine, as long as this aim is covered.

What’s possibly worse than a hangover after a heavy night out on the town? No I’m not talking about some chick you picked up the night before, who to your drunk eyes, looked, well, lovely. Yet some how over night at a similar rate to alcohol leaving your body, nature has encouraged her to metamorphoses; similar to a caterpillar turning into a incredible butterfly, but rather unfortunately the other way about. No I think even more annoying than this is still being wasted.

So at twelve past nine I loudly declare to Dave in the next room, that I wasn’t going to go out again that night, and that I would much rather go walking in the hills as soon as I wasn’t quite so drunk. But being quite that drunk I closed my eyes, and didn’t wake up for another three or four hours. Sober at last I thought to myself as I stepped into my car at gone one in the afternoon. Well that was most of the day gone and all I had achieved was getting out of bed.

Now I’m not saying I’m never going to drink again, because that would just be rather untruthful, drinking is fun, don’t get me wrong, I have had many a marvellous time on the stuff. But I cant get away from a thought inside me that thinks, is it really necessary to get that wasted, where I wake up in a pretty similar state to how I fell asleep, just with out the memory’s?

Just less annoying than still feeling drunk? Hungover. Yep and it was here, slouched on the sofa, watching trashy TV, at 4 in the afternoon. This is no way to spend a Saturday, one of only two days away from work out of seven. Drunk ambitions from the morning echoing inside my head , I picked myself up, and did the first really productive thing of the day, switched the TV off.  Step one complete. Step two would be harder and, in turn so would step three.  Step two was to pack enough stuff to go out and bivy in the hills.  And step three was to make the two and a half hour drive to the hills. All happened in turn at tortoise slow rates.

Over the course of the drive, it gave me time to think, and inspired me to write this;  I hadn’t left the house until five O clock, and strangely none of my other mates who were around, were keen to join me, reason why?  Hungover, or wanting to go out drinking that evening. I know everyone has different agendas, and I was more than happy to be on my own to fulfil mine.

So after that long and slightly lonely drive, with only a sleeping Collie (Penny the dog) to keep me company I was more than happy to take in the grand views of the Brecon Beacons, it truly is a sight to see. The sky was quizzical of what it might bring, stacked up with heavy fierce looking clouds, a range of light greys through to dark blues, all hanging there in the sky all at different levels, and all with different purposes to fulfil. Where as the ground stood there as always, tall and proud, the A470 was my last road, it runs deep into the heart of the Brecons, splitting Corn Du and the famous Pen Y Fan over in the East, leaving Fan Fawr out to the West, to the East is where I would be heading

I left the car park rather undecided; I have tonight and tomorrow, but I’m not sure how safe my car is. I have enough food for me and the dog to last tonight and tomorrow morning, but not sure if she will fit in the Bivvy with me (for those that have no idea what a Bivy is, it’s like a mini tent, same size and shape as a sleeping bag, just with a small pole above your head, and enough room for a bag) I have a large abscess growing on my bum (Africa, need I say more), will I be able to drive home with it tomorrow morning. So with a rough route in mind, we found our way into the hills, up to where I love. By the time Pen and I had made it within 200 meters of Corn Du’s peak, darkness was almost upon us, the wind was wrapping its way over the ridge, and we were about to enter cloud level. At this point it occurred to me that walking by myself in the dark, cloud, wind and rain might just be a good adventure.

Out of the darkness appeared the peak, surrounded by the gloom of thick cloud, it could have been the perfect place for some kind of old ancient ritual, my torch lit up the surrounding cloud, swirling, bullied by the wind as they twisted around the round circular pile of stones that mark the peak of Pen Y Fan. Was it that way we came from? No that way? It all looks the same, bright white light bounces off the turmoil of the clouds, illuminating only the smallest area of ground. Take a bearing, the compass shows the way. But is it that way? The arrow points that way, but the mind says the other, which to trust?

The needle of course, and within two hours or so Penny was towelled off happy to have been walked, and I sat feeling refreshed, more than happy that I had achieved something with my two days away from work other than just waking up with fifty quid less, feeling crappy and not all too many memories to show for it.