A Walk in the Woods

The cabin stood at 1,500m in a cloud, battered by wind sweeping up from an unseen valley. We made our way out of the forest towards the stone refuge. Soaked and hungry, we were glad of the shelter. We had not seen anyone for hours but inside there was eery evidence of human activity; a newspaper dated two weeks before and half-burnt logs in the fireplace.

We had climbed into the Pyrenees from the village of Saint-Pe-D’ardet in the Haute-Garonne region of South West France, through thick stands of fir, pine and beech. On an overcast day the views to snowcapped peaks were absent so we turned our eyes down, to the delights blooming in the undergrowth; dog roses, cow parsley, hellebores and wild strawberries - delicate splashes of colour on the carpet of green.

With it’s deep quiet, the forest felt like a forbidden place. I imagined we were downed airmen escaping occupied France during the Second Wold War. The secret paths of the mountains bordering Spain, such as the Freedom Trail twenty km to the east, offered salvation to thousands of such fugitives. 

We stomped upwards through the soggy shroud of mist. I peered at the laminated map folded many times over by other walkers, and my notes, scrawled on a piece of scrap paper. I wondered if the weather worsened would the notes become illegible, stranding us on the slope. 

At the cabin we had to make a call; to the summit or not? We looked at the vague impression of a path disappearing into the cloud and decided not to risk a snapped ankle for the sake of another glimpse inside cotton wool. 

Descending, we slid on muddy rocks next to a creek. The tumbling torrent played its gentle music to the trees. We passed a ramshackle hut containing a homemade stove where there were used shotgun cartridges strewn about. Nearby, a ladder rose high into the canopy. A treehouse was visible, luring me with the promise of spectacular vistas. I climbed ten rungs or so and the ladder creaked alarmingly. The construction had probably not been used since the previous autumn’s pigeon hunting season and was badly in need of maintenance.

Traditional pigeon hunting still exists in the Pyrenees. Decoys are thrown towards the masses of birds flying low across the mountains on their migration. Reacting as if under attack, the pigeons dive lower and straight into nets strung across narrow gorges. Thousands of birds can be caught without a shot being fired. The hunters get a better price for those left alive. 

The next day, 100km to the east, we stood under a blue sky on the shores of Lac du Montbel. Sparrows darted about our heads, tireless despite the heat. To the north, the ragged line of Pyrenean peaks was clearly visible, rising and falling above the landscape like ocean swell, their snow dusted summits like foamy crests.

The Pyrenees, seen from Lac du Montbel, SW France

Mr Sandman, bring me a dream...

Buying a flat has broadened my horizons. I have spent a Friday evening at DFS (walked away empty handed - I’m not quite ready for a cream leather sofa) and tackled a dead pigeon in the chimney (poked it back up and forgot about it). But the real excitement is DIY. To look on a newly installed bookshelf/toilet roll holder/machine gun emplacement, and say, ‘I did that,’ is a source of pride and satisfaction. Or shame and embarrassment, depending how it goes. Spilling your blood, sweat and tears on the pile of bricks and mortar you are now financially chained to creates a real feeling of ownership. As if by drilling into its masonry and painting its surfaces you are showing it who is in charge. ‘Take that!’ I cry, while fixing a cabinet to the bathroom wall. ‘You are not the boss of me!’

Out with the old

The floorboards in the bedroom had been finished with a deep brown stain by the previous owners. ‘It’ll be nice to paint them,’ we thought. We decided on a calming green. I did my research and set about the project with gusto, starting with hiring heavy duty sanders to strip the boards.

Anyone who has used a floor sander knows it is a beast imbued with satanic power. Once turned on, it revs into life with a screech like a banshee marshalling the forces of darkness. With barely contained fire in its metallic belly the machine tears into floorboards like a starved hyena locked in a cupboard with a zebra foal. These things could smooth out mountain ranges. Without physical restraint it will run away from you, smash through walls as if they’re made of Wotsits and drag you into your neighbours’ lunch. 

No pain, no gain

With ear plugs in and dust mask on, I sweated through 7 hours of back-breaking labour. The edging sander is designed to get in close to skirting boards, and also to cripple human beings. It is about 50cm high and heavy, shuddering with power. To operate, you hold it firmly and lower yourself into a squat. The kind of position you might adopt to strangle someone lying on the floor. From there you shuffle around the room, led by the furious device, feeling the muscles around your spine contracting by the minute. 

As the dust settled and the ringing in my ears subsided, I surveyed my handiwork. The natural beauty of the wood had been revealed once more. I toasted my efforts with a Polish lager and patted the still warm sanders with satisfaction. They glared back at me, red eyes glowing.

The next stage of the project began on a Monday. Painting 16 square metres of floorboard with a brush took two hours and with the sun shining through the window and Wimbledon on Radio 5 Live it was not an unpleasant task. I responded to Claire Balding’s request and Tweeted a photo of myself and the half-painted floor, #mywimbledonseat. I was abused by wood purists, complete strangers who assailed me for ruining ‘those wonderful boards’ with paint. Who knew you could be trolled for home improvements?

#mywimbledonseat

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday I applied the green floor paint - thinly, with a brush, allowing 24 hours between coats. With each layer the colour deepened, gradually assuming its final gentle richness.

One step too far

Thoroughness dictated that I should protect the floor with a final coat of clear varnish, to ensure the floor stays lovely for years to come. This stage is not essential but I imagined it would be infuriating to watch paint chip away with use simply because I had not done two more hours work. 

The varnish went on. I cleaned my brushes and left the house. When I returned after several hours the result was not what I had expected. The supposedly clear varnish had dried yellow, like streaks of piss, ruining the paint job. I felt like I was seeing my beloved floor through a pair of those tinted glasses so beloved of perverts and Bono.

‘It must not be fully dry,’ I thought to myself, hopefully. The next morning there was no improvement. If anything, it was worse. 

I showed the result to my girlfriend. I was firmly in the second stage of grief, denial, and reluctant to countenance the notion that it would have to be rectified. It was only by her coaxing that I came to see the truth. The rancid stains would annoy us for as long as we live in the flat. Action had to be taken. 

Destroying a week’s work is not a satisfying experience. The sander ripped through the paint all too easily and at the end of the day I was back where I had started. I was hot, tired and depressed. I made one final pass with the edging sander, removing the last of the green paint. I was jostling the machine close to the skirting boards underneath the radiator when a jet of water shot across the room. The sander’s spinning disc had sliced through the copper pipe sticking out of the floor. In panic, I shouted to my girlfriend.

‘Can you come here now please!’

She ran like a paramedic to a train crash. Perhaps the sander has ripped off his arm, she thought. It was much worse than that. After blasting brown liquid onto the freshly painted walls, the pressure had subsided somewhat but water was still flowing freely, soaking the floor. We relayed the mop bucket and washing up basin back and forth, emptying them into the bath, until the leak reduced to dribble, and then stopped.

All above board

The plumber came the next day, repairing the damage in exchange for wads of cash. Once dry, apart from the spots of paint lurking in gaps inaccessible to even the ravenous floor sander, the bare wood looked as good as the first time. I bought some quick-drying varnish, non-yellowing, and put on three coats in a day. Now it’s done and I will not touch the floor again, even if a priceless hoard of Viking treasure is tracked to the recess beneath it.

I have climbed a steep learning curve, with the occasional dramatic slip to keep things interesting. Thanks to the energy expended the flat does feel more like a home. I Tweeted a picture of the varnished boards to the stranger who had mocked me for vandalising them. He didn’t reply, but I know he’s out there, chuckling smugly. 

The River and Sea are One

We spread mum’s ashes in the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire. We found a quiet spot, undisturbed by walkers and dogs, where an overgrown island divides the water into two channels, making it run quickly over the rocks. The music of the river accompanied the scene of drooping willow trees caressing the ripples and a thousand shades of green fractured by intermittent rays of sun. 

I read on ‘On Death’ by Kihlal Gibran and was pleased with the line ‘just as the river and sea are one.’ It felt right that Mum’s remains would enter the eternal cycle, flowing to the ocean, evaporating into the clouds and then falling as rain on the mountains, before returning to the spot where we stood. The sense of movement was important, a current and a breeze, to help her on the way. 

The peace that follows an outpouring of grief settled on our small group. We spread a picnic blanket on the uneven bank and, harassed by midges, ate strawberries and drank Prosecco from plastic tumblers. 

The cork, fired skyward, landed among rocks at the water’s edge and lodged there. Suddenly all our attention was focused on this small object bobbing obstinately out of reach. It became symbolic of mum’s passing and her journey to the beyond. Nature heard our silent prayers, a duck appeared and freed the cork with her furious pecking. 

We threw the strawberry tops into the river where they were gobbled up by the same duck who pounced on the morsels before they were swept away by the current. She stuck near to the bank where the water was slower, all the better to grab our cast offs. Once or twice a greedy lunge launched her into the faster flowing water and she was swept downstream, backwards. She seemed unconcerned, expertly surfing the rolling flow until she could exit, like stepping off a travelator at the airport, and paddle back to us. 

The ceremony, which took place the day after our granddad’s (mum’s dad) funeral and a few days before the 2nd anniversary of her death, was an important milestone. I still get a shock when I open my wallet, see her picture and remember that she is gone. But by sharing grief, one can process it better and begin to accept what cannot be changed. 

Bridge over the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire