a slower week

Definitely been in a funk this week. Unsure of exactly why, which in turn means it is always harder to shake off. Partly I want to blame being tired; but I don't want to whine.

Hold on a minute, this is my blog. I can whine all I want to. (I re-read that in my head to the tune of 'It's my party and I'll cry if I want to' - thanks Mum and Dad for always having a song for every occasion).

Last week brought a post-Munro glow which meant I could justify any lazy moments; comforted by the knowledge that I had conquered the 184th highest mountain in Scotland.

I did go swimming, but was almost bullied out of the pool. I really don't want to rant but I go to the pool based on the schedule they provide. I avoid times when there are school lessons, because the lanes are removed and it becomes a 'free for all'. Last Monday, a bunch of spotty school kids turned up who weren't on the schedule (cue tutting and sighing from those of us in the pool. I do take pride that I can swim - albeit slowly - and be visibly pissed off at the same time). The staff - who obviously were aware of the planned lesson - thus removed the lanes, and the real fun began. I stayed right to the edge of the pool, and was quite happy going up and down. But as more and more people joined the fray, what should've been an exercise in relaxation and, well, exercise, became socially aggravating. People just started swimming towards me!! I thought I was being helpful sticking to the one place and keeping my imaginary lane; turns out everyone else far preferred the fun of dodging each other and seeing just how many feet they could touch on each length (hardly a length - more of a squiggle). Infuriating. And hard as I tried to keep my territory through will-power and sheer determination (unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, it is just not the done thing to pee in pools anymore), I got plain fed up of having to dodge people. I was out.

But it was okay. I could justify a 40 minute swim (instead of the hour I was aiming for), because I had climbed the 184th highest mountain in Scotland just a few days before. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I at least thought I could shout it loud enough so the cellist through the wall could hear me.

I met my cousin, his girlfriend and their gorgeous baby for a delicious tapas lunch (baby did not join in). I met with my boss. I met with my good friend from North Carolina. We enjoyed a delicious lunch at Mum's (formerly Monster Mash) on Forrest Road, complete with haggis, amazing strawberry cider, and good conversation. I went to a few appointments. I filled my week, I felt positive.

But this week has been far quieter, far slower, and although I wouldn't say it was a necessarily a negative week, it has been far less positive.

I did bask, for a short time, in the glow of another walking achievement. The forecast for last weekend was dreich; wet, and wild. So it was decided, a walk along the coast would be perfect. The route was set; Crail to St Andrews, a mere eleven mile walk. Off we set, around 10am on Saturday morning from a sunny cloudy Crail; Mum, Dad, a few of their good friends (good walking company!), and my man and me.

A reprieve for the Anxious Ambler - not a mountain in sight! But the walk brought its fair share of anxiety for me; from walking alongside some fine Links golf courses on the Fife coast, desperate not to disturb that rare angry beast we could see doted all over - the native golfer, to the injured cow passed out with tongue lolling on the sand. I was anxious that I'd come prepared for the awful weather, yet it was strangely warm, and the sun beating down on us made me sweat even more in my wet weather gear. Now I understand why Helly Hansen is known to most as Smelly Hansen. I was anxious that I'd started the day on two croissants (obviously saving the porridge for serious walks), and now it was almost lunchtime with no sign of St Andrews and no food - apart from a few Werthers Originals rolling around in my pocket. And all that was before we reached the sign that said 'St Andrews: 7 and a half miles'.

It truly was a lovely day though, so on we went.

Though it was tough walking along the sand, we appreciated even more the interlude into the woods, near Boarhills, and our pace quickened. Hunger pangs and the threat of dark clouds also increased that pace...

The toughest part came near the end. With St Andrews almost in sight, like a cruel mirage in the distance that taunted us at the same time as it beckoned us towards it, we trudged up wee - but steep - hills, and back down again. It rained briefly, but we also had a lovely rainbow. Which of course reminded me of one of my favourite bits from The Office, where Ricky Gervais (as David Brent of course) quotes Dolly Parton: 'If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain.' Not just a quality quote, but made even funnier by Brent's quick-witted description of good ol' Dolly, as Office fans will know :)

Around six hours after we left Crail, we finally arrived in St Andrews. Not eleven miles, but in fact fourteen and a half. Much like not being able to see the top of Ben Lomond, I was glad not to have known the full length of the walk prior to setting off. That extra three and a half miles would have made it a totally different ballgame.

A grand day out. Good company, good weather, good views. Yes, a certain amount of anxiety, and a wee bit of rain, but as always, a large amount of achievement. And also a large amount of pain.

A full twelve hours after our 2 croissants, a delicious Indian takeaway and a few beers were enjoyed. There followed a fairly solid sleep, punctured occasionally by moments of what felt like agony, and then a perfect dreary Sunday spent watching Casablanca whilst curled up in a blanket. Here's looking at you kid...

But a sore back and sore hips has plagued me since, and I've felt less motivated this week. It is amazing how much tiredness can affect one's mindset. Or am I just whining...

After all, if you want the rainbow...

a favourite photo

Taken on the way to St Andrews (see next post). The remnants of a long-lost pirate ship perhaps...

one down, 282 to go!!

I think it is important for me to mention that this is absolutely not a blog about Munro bagging. That being said, I will be writing about each Munro as it happens...but nae technical stuff mind, just the Anxious Ambler's authentic experiences of each mountain.

Think of me as a blogging bagger, not a bagging blogger. And now we've cleared that up...

Last Friday (the 9th of September) I bagged my first Munro!!

Awoke early feeling groggy, and achy. My hips were sore; I blame swimming and possibly lugging luggage up into Edinburgh's old town a few days prior, helping a good North Carolinian friend who has moved to this fair city. But there was also a hint of excitement in the air, of nervous energy, of, dare I say it, anxious anticipation...

I started the day as I'm sure all Munro climbers do. Breakfast. I mention it because I'm not really a breakfast kinda gal. But even I know that you need fuel in the car when you're going up a 3,000foot mountain. It had to be a Scottish breakfast - no, not an unhealthy fry-up (who said Scotland has a bad diet??), but the food of the gods - porridge. Microwaveable porridge, no less. Only it was so hot I couldn't eat it for at least 10 minutes. And I won't lie, mid-way through the bowl I really had to force it down. I kept thinking to myself, its mountain fuel, its mountain fuel. I think me and porridge will have to work really hard on our relationship...

Met Mum and the wee-est brother Ross at Hillend, before making our way 'oot west' towards Loch Lomond. I told Mum to drive fast, before the porridge wore off.

It was a horrible day. Misty, wet, or to use a better word - dreich. I love how the Scottish language (as it is, after all, a language, nae a dialect!) gives you such appropriate words, that really sound as they mean, and mean as they sound. Dreich. I love how the Scottish weather presenters use it. I don't love how frequently they use it, but it truly is perfect. And thats what it was that day, pure dreich.

It took us about an hour and a half to get out to Rowardennan, the start of the walk. The forecast was optimistic, the mist was to clear later in the day, and we felt that after travelling all the way out there, it would be foolish not to attempt the climb.

And off we went.

It was hard. I was under no illusions that it was going to be easy, but it was far harder than I had imagined. I'd heard a lot about Ben Lomond, about the tourist track to the top, how it was a "motorway of Glaswegians" all the way. I was also aware that for many people, it is the first Munro they do. It is the most southerly of them all. So perhaps with all these thoughts in my mind, I thought I'd find it easier than I did. But, to give myself credit, I'm not fit, and regardless of how "easy" the terrain is, Ben Lomond is still a mountain over 3,000feet, and you're not that far from sea level either.

Thank goodness we could not see the summit at any moment of the climb. There were a few hilarious moments where we thought we were further up than we were ("this must be half-way!!"). Mind you, we only realised how wrong we had been on the way back down, when visibility was more than 3 metres. Had we realised how much was still to go, how much was still ahead of us, and how steep it was...well, physically and mentally it would have been tough. As strange as it may seem, I was immensely glad we couldn't see very far in front of ourselves.

Most of all, I was very aware of going through different phases of the climb. Not just physical things, like the change of terrain, the change of weather that occasionally enabled us to have some views, or the change of gradient, but also changes in the way I saw the climb. Emotional changes, from feeling up for the challenge, to feeling demoralised by the seemingly never-ending effort it required, to ultimately the feeling of...I can't give up, I just can't. But should I be this out of breath? This sweaty? This unfit??

The moment a strand of hair brushed my lips and I tasted salt in my hair I knew I was really struggling.

It seemed like it would go on forever. Two hours had passed since we left Rowardennan, and still no way we were even close. Needless to say, there weren't many people on the mountain that day, but those we did see were very encouraging. The mountain camaraderie is something not to be underestimated. The banter mainly centered on the tremendous "views" we would certainly not get from the top.

The last bit was the hardest. Every person we passed said we were close. Yet we couldn't see anything more than a few steps ahead of us. How would we know where the summit was, and when we would get there?! It was the most surreal experience, but what a buzz. And then eventually:




the summit of Ben Lomond, my very first Munro

 We did not spend long at the top. You couldn't see a thing. But what the hell, I already know what Loch Lomond looks like. It seemed unfair and disproportionate to have taken two and a half hours to get to the summit and then spend less than two and a half minutes up there, but the swirling mist, wind and rain made me cold to my very soul. Plus, we still had to have lunch.

So off we went back down! The descent was tough going. Buoyed slightly by deliciously squished sandwiches, a few swigs of Miller (ok not quite champagne but indeed the champagne of beers...or so they say - they being Miller of course), and the sense of achievement, we made our way down. It took about two hours to get down, and it was utterly miserable. The sheer pain; in the knees and the hips most of all. They were like jelly. I longed for it to be over.

Thankfully, we got some amazing views on the way back down (typical!). I just love the clouds in Scotland. They do such different things every single day, and so no view is ever the same. We got some particularly nice cloud movements on the descent:

Five hours after we had started, Mum, Ross, and me made it back to the car. We ached all over. We were wet; through equal measures of sweat and moisture from the mist. Our feet hurt, our boots were muddy. But we'd done it.

Despite the fact it was so hard, and so miserable at so many moments, the feeling of getting to the top was a buzz like no other. It must be what gets people hooked on this.

Pain, but lots and lots of pride.

The Munro Plan

I've had a lot of time to think recently. Sometimes I go round in circles; sometimes I make some progress.

I'm determined to "kick the habit" and the habit for me is anxiety. I have never known how to define my way of thinking, until recently, when life has taken a totally different route than the one I thought I was on.

It is a good thing though. I finally feel ready to do something about it.

So I've been filling my time: sleeping, reading, baking, swimming, walking, meeting friends.

And wanting, more than anything, to write.

I've always been unable to write the first sentence. The first sentence is my Everest. I don't know why it is so difficult; probably because there is so much I want to say and yet I don't know where to begin.

Blogging is something I have always wanted to do. I hope to write books one day, and I'm starting here.

So that explains the blog, and the anxious part of my title. But the ambler? Well, a couple of weeks ago I woke up (always a good start), and my activity for the day was climbing Arthurs Seat in Edinburgh, an extinct volcano that dominates the skyline. Mum and I were planning lunch at the top (you just cannot beat squashed sandwiches). The day before, I'd just finished a hilarious book called The Hills are Stuffed With Swedish Girls, by Richard Happer. It is all about walking the West Highland Way; a challenging 95 mile walk from just outside Glasgow to Fort William. I sometimes feel very lazy, and feel the need to challenge myself more. So I thought about making my blog about my attempts to climb the WHW.

But thats just one walk! Sure it would take me over a week to do, but it would be the shortest blog in history! So I needed something more challenging, with a bit more blog-able longevity. And so my thoughts went immediately to....Munro bagging.

A Munro. A mountain in Scotland over 3,000 feet (914 metres) high. Named after Sir Hugh Munro; who never actually climbed them all, but published an initial list in 1891. There are 283 of them, the highest being Ben Nevis - at 4,406 feet it is the highest mountain in Britain. Actually until recently there were 284 of them; they are constantly being re-evaluated and re-assessed. So now one has gone from the list, I figure this is as good a time as any to start bagging them.

I am quite unfit, despite the fact that in my younger days I was, as my family will tell you, a keen runner. I used to play volleyball, hockey, and badminton. But then I got lazy. The pursuit of beer, boys, and broader horizons seemed more appealing (sorry Mum). I always feel guilty that I lost my fitness (lets be clear though, I was never that fit, I was always the red-faced sweaty girl).

And so, in an effort to challenge myself, to get fitter, and to have something to blog about, the Munro Plan was born.

Many people have done many Munros. But I wonder if anyone has been quite as anxious as me about them. I intend to amble up these beastly beautiful mountains, no doubt full of anxiety, until I've had enough. Now that be until the day I am cured of my anxious thinking (well, I've got to think positive, there's a cure...right?); or that may be the day I've done them all...but I rather hope it is the day I become a world famous published author and I can retire. I almost wrote 'retire to a villa in the south of France'...that may be the dream of some, but Scotland is my land. And I intend to stay here, in this beautiful, wonderful country.

But maybe I'll take a helicopter to the top of Ben Nevis....

So come with me, the Anxious Ambler, on a journey around Alba, to far flung places with insane weather. Walk with me, sweat with me, struggle with me, and make it to the summit with me.

Sirens and seagulls...

On another anxious day, I was sitting in my flat trying to read. I can't remember whether I was attempting my Overcoming Anxiety book, or whether it hadn't yet arrived in the post.

Anyway, each passing minute brought new and different noises. I have noticed recently in Edinburgh that it is rare not to hear a siren going off somewhere in the city. Not necessarily near me, as it is a fairly quiet part of town when it comes to crime *touch wood*, but just somewhere close enough that I can hear it.

Then comes the barking. Someone from a nearby flat appears to be attempting to train a dog in the communal patch of grass outside. Dog objects to being raised in residential Edinburgh...

The seagulls start their merry music. Sqawk....sqawk....SQAWK, as they soar over the rooftops. And when I say soar, I really mean scramble. There is nothing majestic about seagulls. They are loud, and they are annoying.

Through the wall, a cellist plays. Now this is interesting, because they are in the building next to us. So I have no idea what sex this person is or what he or she looks like. They are a faceless neighbour. And they really love their cello. Whether it is 9am on a Saturday morning, or 10.45pm on a Tuesday night, the cello gets action. And whilst you may think this would be enjoyable to hear, it has become extremely tiresome. I can hear it right now.

Above me, the sound of heavy feet clomp over the new oak floors in the flat above. A year of noisy noisy noisy renovation (and our kitchen and bathroom being flooded) and the guy upstairs has chosen to forego the friendly traditional carpet in favour of the new trendy barenaked wooden effect. Stylish, sure. Noisy, yes. I don't particularly need to imagine where and why he paces.

So I thought to myself, when was the last time I heard actual silence? All these noises individually are short-term and not that annoying. Yet all at once, altogether, when you are just trying to read in peace, are incredibly frustrating.

And ok, I'll admit it, they make me anxious.

It was during a talk by photographer Colin Prior in Kinross earlier this year that I first thought about actual silence. He asked the question; when was the last time you had literally no noise in your life? Nothing. No outside noise, not even wind, just pure and unspoiled silence.

I realised how rare that is these days, and how underestimated it is.

I sometimes find it here.

Who knew shopping for a book could be so stressful?

Imagine you are about to buy a new book. Quite an exciting event for many, including me. You anticipate its untouched pages; just waiting to be bent out of shape, to have its corners folded over, to be smeared with your fingerprints, to have rings from endless cups of tea and coffee imprinted on its cover. There is just something magical about buying a new book. Shiny. Crisp. Yours.


Imagine that new book has been recommended to you. The anticipation builds! You know it will be worth buying. Useful, thought-provoking, hopefully enjoyable!


Imagine you have searched online and the shop you are heading to has that book available! Oh, the wonders of modern technology; you know before you get there that the book is in stock. Those magical words. It is there...waiting for YOU.


Sure, you could order it online. But you want it in your hand, that day. Hey, the shop is a mere half an hour walk away. You need some fresh air. You can be reading your very own copy of the book this very day!!
Off you go.


And when you arrive at the shop, having fought your way through crowds of people (August, Edinburgh, busy), you have to catch your breath before you enter. It is a rather large shop. But you know from past experience where the section is you are looking for. It is upstairs; not just one set of stairs, but two. Worth it, worth it, worth it, you chant to yourself as you pant on the uphill climb.


You get to the right section. Breathe, recover composure, find book.


But imagine the book you are looking for is nowhere to be seen. You search nearby shelves; certain that its catchy title will, indeed, catch your eye. Nothing.


Frustrated, you seek help. You approach the nearest desk and, flustered, you muster the following words to the reasonably helpful-looking member of staff:
"Excuse me, I'm looking for a book, I searched online before I got here, and you have it in stock, only I've got here and I don't see it, and I wondered if you could help me, and maybe find the book, and I'm sure its here, thanks, cheers"
"No problem, what is the title of the book you are looking for?"
"Ah, um, well you see, its called, um, Overcoming Anxiety"
"Ok, I'll just have a look for you......yes, it seems to be in stock, follow me and I'll get it for you".


Reasonably helpful member of staff then takes you right back to where you were and proceeds to search in exactly the same way you did, just those five minutes ago. And despite his super insider member of staff knowledge, he can't find it either!!


"Oh. I'm very sorry, it seems to have been moved from where it should be. It is definitely in stock, it must be in the store somewhere. There's no way of knowing where exactly it is. You should probably order it online. Sorry."


And off he goes.


Feeling frustrated? Annoyed? Wanting to start hunting round the whole store to find who the hell has your book? Perhaps even slightly anxious? Where is the book????

Imagine all those feelings. Then scroll back up this post a bit, and re read the title of the book I was searching for that day.
Overcoming anxiety.
Test number one: spectacular fail.