Writing about oneself is a strange experience.
It seems a supremely narcissistic pursuit and yet at the same time it allows focus onto a life and an opportunity to leave something of oneself behind for those that follow to read.
1993 was a watershed year in my life. A year in which I deliberately turned my back on a life of relative privilege that had ceased to have any meaning. A year in which I was reborn.
Leaving school in 1977 I entered the world of work. I chose not to go to University. It was not really expected of one and it was very expensive. Anyway, I had had enough of academia. I wanted to work.
Through a circuitous route I ended up dwelling in North London at the beginning of the 80’s. For 7 hectic years my work took me all over Great Britain and Eire from tip to toe. Thousands of miles racked up in a variety of machines, meeting multifarious clients of all persuasions and professions. My passport was my constant companion. It took me across Europe before the Maastricht Treaty and the Schengen Zone; all the way down to the islands of Greece and to Turkey when that country was still the dividing line between West and East. I sojourned and skied in St Moritz. Partied in Cannes during the Film Festivals. Puffed through the Balkans by steam train. It took me behind the Iron Curtain before the collapse and across the sea to the shores of Africa. I mixed with the most in Monaco and the least in Southern Europe. Staying in Five Star Hotels and slept under the stars in the mountains or on the beach. I bought my shoes and clothes in Geneva, Paris and Milan. I drank in the bars of Glasgow, Greenock and the Gorbals. Got steaming drunk in Dublin and Cork. Took Coffee in the Surêté, sipped Tea and dunked biscuits in Whitehall, dined at the Ritz, lunched with Bankers in Basle. Late night curries at Veraswamy’s in Mayfair. Succulent Chinese meals in Soho. I listened to Jazz at Ronnie Scott’s, partied in Chelsea. Went to the races at Epsom, drove Ferraris around the country lanes of Surrey. Shot rifles at Pirbright, rode horses in Sussex. Swept for mines off the coast of Scotland; Sailed the Costa Smeralda and swam with dolphins. Summered in the Ionian Sea. I met the famous and the infamous. And on and on and on. All the trappings of stardom. The Gilded Age before it became too crowded.
By 1988 I was burned out. Slightly insane and far too fond of Champagne, Gin and Cigars. My Father had finally succumbed to more strokes and died.
Something needed to change.
As luck would have it, it was all taken away. I ended up on the Dole.
For three long years I tried to find an occupation but my particular skill sets were no longer in great demand. Changes in technology and new legislation had made me redundant.
I knew that I had to take a different route, so I went back to an earlier iteration.
I worked with horses once more. You guessed it, had too many falls.
I became a gardener at a private estate and went back to college for a while. He went bust.
I dabbled at being an Estate Agent and hated it.
I bought a flat on the South Coast and started my own business in landscape design and construction. I took an HGV class 1 lorry licence, to help make ends meet. Things went pretty well for a while. After countless failed relationships, I met someone and got engaged. I rejoined the Scouts as an assistant Venture Scout Leader.
And yet, in those still moments during the early hours of the morning. When the mind comes alive and before the hustle and bustle of the day. I would turn away and cry. I was deeply unhappy and confused. I felt trapped in a strange world. The only solace was when the Scout Group would travel to North Wales or to other venues to walk, climb and mess about in rivers.
Business was quiet, a foreshadowing of what was to come and with nothing booked for the foreseeable future, that May I set things aside and took myself off to the West Country to walk the coastal path from Minehead to Padstow.
It was during this trip, with just myself for company, that a vague notion began to form and coalesce.
In spite of a fall on Exmoor, the fresh air worked wonders. I could feel myself growing even stronger by the day; both mentally and physically. Browned by the sun, body honed by the exercise. ( I was carrying a 59kg load), I began to like myself more. I swam in the sea, got up early to watch the stars fade and the sun rise. At the other end of the day I watched the stars and Moon rise and the Sun set. Watched deer in the mornings, stopped to watch the bees playing in the heat of the day. In short I returned to my youth when I had wandered Exmoor and Dartmoor with the school Scout Troop. I had attended a West Country boarding school. The familiarity of the landscape keeping me going through some long days. In all I was away for nearly 6 weeks. It re-opened my mind. As I approached Padstow the weather changed and the rain came. After a particularly gruelling day I took a slide down a wooded hillside. It hurt. I had had enough for the time being. It was time to catch the bus to Truro and head back to Sussex on the Train.
By the time the we rolled into the terminus my vague idea had become a plan. It had gone from “What if I could?” “To How can I?”
My flat seemed so strange on my return. Too small and confining. The town too parochial. I felt hemmed in. The weeks of freedom had got me. I was back on the dole again
I took myself off down the Library where I would spend most of the mornings of that summer in between signing on and half-hearted attempts to find a local job that kept the Jobcentre staff at bay. And lazing on the beach and down the pub of course. I had a bit of a drink problem back then.
So, coupled with reading Das Kapital in the reference section (don’t ask me why), I trawled the yellow pages making lists of Outdoor Activity Centres in the U.K.
One by one I contacted them. Rejection after rejection. I was told I was too old. Too inexperienced. Too whatever. This wasn’t a problem for me as I had faced these types of seemingly insurmountable odds before and come out on top. I just kept going. My plan was to get a job using the Training for Work opportunity, get some qualifications, go to Scotland for the Winter experience and then go off to Europe where my language skills would come in handy. As plans go it was a bit thin on the ground. Nevertheless, I decide to ask the universe for some help.
Sounds crazy, I know. I have always followed the moon. On the last day of October I took myself off onto the South Downs. To a spot I knew well. There, under the light of the Full Moon I divested myself of my clothes. Naked I stood there and looked up at her and asked for help.
One morning, a few weeks later I got to speak to a lass who said that she would get her boss to ring me back. I didn’t think much more, having heard this a million times before. By the time I had got back to the flat again after wandering aimlessly round the streets, shooting the breeze, drinking the odd cheap coffee and generally wasting time watching the tumbleweed roll up the high street, (there was a recession on and the high streets were shutting down) a message was waiting for me on the answerphone. Could I ring this mobile number. I thought about it for a bit. Telephoning mobile numbers was expensive in those days and I had nearly burned through what little savings I had. Beer vouchers had priority and were hard to come by. Business had dropped off a cliff after Christmas ‘92 and I had sold pretty much everything I owned, including my beloved Range Rover. I was down to a bicycle.
I phoned. He introduced himself as Dave, he ran an outdoor centre near Machynlleth. He was halfway up a cliff face in Yorkshire. Could I come up to Wales that weekend for an interview. It was late November 1993. There was another Full Moon.
My life was about to change dramatically.
I packed my Rucksack and grabbed the Train. I rolled into the Station in Machynlleth. There was a scabby old mini-bus waiting for me. Dave, the boss and Julia the voice at the end of the phone were there to meet me along with the group who were staying for that weekend. I ended up staying a fortnight before travelling back to Sussex for Christmas. I was due back on January 4th 1994. Curiously the anniversary of my Dads death.
I rented out my flat; said my goodbyes to my friends with one last piss-up down the pub. My mum drove me up. All my belongings packed in my old school Trunk. It was like starting School again with all the fear and trepidation. I had everything I owned, everything thing else had been sold and the money added to a building society passbook account. I had just over £500.
I was reborn.