I didn’t think anything could be more difficult than hauling myself out of bed at 4am. Five hours later I revised that opinion. In terms of effort and sheer exhilaration, hauling myself up a mountain certainly beat the drop from mattress to floor.
Reaching the top, my legs groaned uncharitably, as I lowered myself onto a rock to study the view and the other walkers who had made it up before us. My husband cracked open a bottle of Côte du Rhone and dug to the bottom of the ruck-sack for the cured ham and saucisson. I avoided the incredulous stares from the others as they ate their cereal bars and raisins whilst we tucked into goat’s cheese and hard boiled eggs.
Our 8 year old son huddled under his coat from the wind. For some reason I have yet to fathom, we had made contingency plans for him, in case reaching the peak was beyond the capacities of his little legs. Those “little legs” however took him up the mountain at a trot and down it at a run.
Trying to keep up, I tripped on a rock on the way back. I sprained a finger, gouged my knees and acquired a bruise that has spread like an oil stain over my left buttock. Today, I can go no further than the chair in front of the computer. And to the freezer for ice-cream.