Chapter Four

Friday 14 Sep
Promptly at two, George arrived in his little red Austin Mini, with Fergus in the back. He took my rucksack in hand and slung it in the tiny back. I did not fail to note what was missing – no tent or other camping gear, though I had brought a sleeping bag, along with rock shoes and my personal collection of essential pro.
'We're not camping?' I asked as I slid into the passenger seat.
'I have something else in mind,' he replied enigmatically, with a Cheshire cat smile.

It was nearly five hours to Cumbria, but we made it in under four thanks to George zipping down the motorway at 70 miles an hour. On the way, he regaled me with climbing stories. At length as twilight was setting in, we reached Wasdale and he braked in the carpark at the Wasdale Head Inn – the most famous climber's haunt in the Lake District.
'O my God, we're staying here?'
He smiled. 'I thought it worth the while.' He leant and kissed my cheek. 'All for tha.' He had lied by omission to the manager to get us a single room, which I found very interesting. But, as he said, they wouldn't have allowed it us had he let on that we were not married. To his credit, it was under his own name and not 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith.' I should have taken this as a portent of things to come, but I did not.

We had a little room under the eaves, up a steep and narrow staircase, one of the six old ones in the place, although it had been converted en suite, and when we had sorted out belongings into personal and climbing gear, we went downstairs to the old, famous residents' bar and pored over the Wasdale Climbing Book with drams of Laphroaig. Such names and ascents were there: the 1st winter ascent of Steep Ghyll by Norman Collie; John Robinson's account of the 1st ascent of Moss Ghyll; G.A. Solly's comments on Eagles Nest Ridge Direct; Fred Botterill's impressions of Botterill's Slab; a long forgotten 1st ascent on Pillar Rock by George Mallory; Herford and Sansom's ascent of Central Buttress; inscriptions by W.P. Haskett Smith, O.G. Jones, Aleister Crowley, Oppenheimer, the Abrahams – I was over the moon. George just smiled and stole an arm about my waist. I had exclaimed over the paraphernalia in the bar, the autographs and bits of climbing gear by legends in the climbing world.
'I'm glad you like it,' George said.
'Have you been here often?'
'Once or twice, mostly in the public bar. I've never stayed here before either.' He kissed my cheek. 'I saved that for you.'

After dinner we went for a walk beside the River Irt with headlamps, holding hands, enveloped in the blessed quiet. There was no civilisation clear to Nether Wasdale and Gosforth, both villages up the valley. It was sheer heaven.
'I could live here,' George said thoughtfully. 'If a living could be had.'
I went along with the thought experiment. 'What would you do?'
'Make crumhorns and recorders to sell to tourists,' he said, not missing a beat.
I stopped. 'You make them? As well as play?'
'Something I learned from David,' he said with his usual modesty.
I shook my head. His endless talents were amazing and impressive.
I considered. '...Do the Phil mind their star intern risking life and limb climbing?'
He pressed my hand. ' Oh bugger the Phil! This is where my heart and soul lies, if not in the Grampians. I'd die if I had to stay in London all the time.'
We walked for a time.
'...Would you really live here?'
He regarded me seriously. 'Yes, lady, I would.'
'I could do that.' My mind turned to reproductions of Morris' furniture and other country crafts. We'd have to depend on the tourist trade, a rather unpleasant thought, but it could be done.

We returned about nine and Fergus led us up the stairs. When we came inside, he plopped himself down before the bed and we settled in with a fire in the grate and another tot of Laphroaig to read Wordsworth from a small old brown volume George dug from his rucksack. I looked at the date: it was from 1798, and was a collection put out by Coleridge and Wordsworth.
'Oh God! Where did you get this?'
'At a bookseller's in Fleet street for 5 quid ,' he smiled. 'I don't think he knew how valuable it was.'
' I should say not! Aren't you the least bit guilty that this should be in a museum?'
'No,' he said, deadpan. 'Caveat emptor. Let them have their Elgin Marbles. I shall have this.' He pronounced it properly, I noticed – 'El –gin' rather than 'El – jin'. Keats would be proud.
We read Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew Tree. Oh, he was showing his soul here, in the most delicate way:

Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb;
What if these barren boughs the bee not loves;
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,
That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind
By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
Who he was that piled these stones, and with the mossy sod
First covered o’er, and taught this aged tree,
Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade,
I well remember.—He was one who own’d
No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d,
And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint
Of dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdain he turned away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o’er,
Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene; how lovely ’tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time,
Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel: and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,
Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale
He died, this seat his only monument.

Sweet it was to read, stanza by stanza by turns and to listen to the echoing timbre of his public school accents. Here there was no cynicism or artifice. Here was a beautiful soul, made fine by fire. Sweeter still was to sleep long and long entwined with him. He said, of my pink vintage silk chemise, 'well, it is no sword, lady, but will keep us chaste, mayhap.' He was referring of course to Guinevere and Lancelot, to Tristan and Isolde, Troilus and Cressida, and Diarmuid and Grainne. I caught it, and appreciated the wry humour.
"Make no mistake,' he murmured into my ear as he settled in behind me, throwing his leg over both of mine, 'I do like it. Very much.'

Saturday 15 Sep
When I woke with the alarm, George was already up and dressed in his Liverpool jersey and old climbing trousers, making tea. It was four in the morning, and I was impressed.
'Good morning, cupcake,' He said, crawling over the rumpled bed to lay a hand on my head. His eyes roved over all the sleepy dishevelment. 'Cup of tea?'
I nodded, pulling my hair out from under my leg, squinting at him. My eyes hurt.
'You're dressed and everything. How did you manage that?' I asked when he handed me a cup.
He smiled ruefully. 'Restless.' He was teasing. He took a breath, long and deep. 'I had to get moving,' he admitted. 'The temptation was far too great. I might enjoy the art of chivalry, but Blind Willie does not... and I am a morning person anyway.' I caught that and its implications – warnings? – for the future, and found myself breathless and blushing scaldingly.

'Oh...' He murmured slowly. 'Look at you. How lovely....' He rang a finger down my chest above the chemise. There was a long moment of falling into one another before he sighed heavily. 'Right. Feed the dog!' He leaned and kissed my forehead, and I laughed as he got up and went to rummage through his rucksack for kibble.
I went into the tiny loo and changed into climbing clothes. When I came out, elastic in hand for braiding hair, George looked up from smoothing the bed over.
'Mmm. Trousers. God you've got legs a mile long.'
I could only grin. 'You're one to talk. Do you know what it’s like to watch you walk away, all arms and legs and sinuous movement?'
He smiled. 'Well now, this shall be an interesting day!'

We went downstairs for a quick breakfast in the lounge with about a dozen other climbers. Everyone's gear was perched against the wall near the entrance. Brekkers was heavy on the protein and simple carbs – tea with mounds of sugar, jam on toast, rashers, eggs. He ate it all and had more. I shook my head, watching him. He was very lanky, indeed all arms and legs and muscles and not a bit of fat on him. Excess nervous energy surely burned through whatever he ate. But at last he had eaten enough and off we went to Pillar Rock.

We walked down the valley to the left from Wasdale Head, and after a mile followed the path that led to a valley on the right hand to the top of the ridge. Here we turned left and after another half a mile dropped down to the right. Pillar was another half a mile amid spectacular barren scenery. This was our ‘easy day’ – if you can count the Northwest by West route graded Hard Very Severe as an easy day. It was technically a 5.9, but George climbed at a 5.12, so it was not a terrific challenge for him on a good day. We had been worried about the recent rainstorm, but the rock had dried out and the sun was shining. Mallory had solo free climbed this route in 1913 with Siegfried Herford– the first ascent named in the Climbing Book – and so he did it today.
George had climbed this a couple of times, and as I watched him scanning the route, I had the feeling of watching a surgeon at work; there was that precision. After a bit, he chalked up, flexed his hands a couple of times and up he went. No hesitation, no fumbling, just a sure and strong reach, a smooth follow-through, toes finding footholds instinctively, in a ballet of graceful movement. He started north of the top chockstone of Waterfall Gully and climbed to a crack some 50 feet up. There was a slab that faced nearly north, with the line of ascent directly above the chockstone. From there, he vaulted himself up a 10-foot wall. Following a short crack to the right, he traversed over to the pinnacle and climbed up a shallow groove, then swarmed up to the belay, 50 feet above, and stood grinning at the top.

‘Do you want a belay?’
I considered. ‘Yes. I may not need it, but best to have.’ Down came the rope, and I tied in and started off. Not having the arm strength of a man, certainly not what George had, I had learnt to climb with my legs – and I had recognised in him that same swift high foothold that I used. It gave speed and kept one from hanging, which was always bad. The first pitch was not difficult, and I got to the slab with ease. On the short wall I had to find holds in the middle, where he had just vaulted up. The pinnacle to the groove was actually fun, a wonderful challenge, slightly awkward and a stretch, but the last 50 feet were very difficult and required patience and strength. But I never asked for help and he never offered any, only watched with interest, the rope loose but not slack, until I came up on the left instead of the right and he held out his hand for the last bit over the top.
I was winded, but pleased.

‘Well done,’ he said, laying a hand on my back. ‘You could have done that without a belay.’
‘Thanks.’
He regarded me keenly. ‘You never struggled or panicked, or worried what I was doing. You were present. Well done.’
I smiled. ‘But I was very conscious of how easy it was for you.’
‘Claire!’ he exclaimed, ‘I’ve done this three times – four now – and I’m a foot taller than you, and a man. Go easy on yourself.’ I had to laugh now.
‘Okay. Thanks.’

Down we went via the grass slope and around for the South West route, which was of the same difficulty but longer pitches. He asked me to lead, and I did well, but when he came up he did it in almost half the time. I hardly had time to haul in the unused rope before he was swinging himself up beside me. We did the Rib and Slab climb then, Routes I and II, the Appian Way, the West Wall and the Nook, and the Girdle Traverse. The Girdle was long – six hours - and we did it after lunch, after which we were toast for the day. It would be well dark by the time we got back to Wasdale Head. It was a good day.

We took a break after gathering up the rope, lying in the grass with the dog, listening to the faint sounds of the countryside around us: insects, and the breeze rippling the grass.
‘What will you tell Hamish?’ I asked into the silence.
‘Eh?’ He squinted at me, and smiled lazily, his hand falling heavily on my arm. ‘That you are patient and steady, don’t rattle easily, and completely present to those behind you on the rope. Steadfast, not a whinger, courageous when needs be.’ He turned his head and looked at me. I was moved to tears by his next words, ‘in short, a perfect complement.’
‘Oh!’
He sat up and gathered me into an embrace. ‘I love you,’ he murmured. ‘I love you.’
Fergus, nosing into us, whining, broke us up. George laughed.
‘Oh, you want in on this too, you playboy! Come here.’ We ruffled and petted the dog for a while and then rose and slung our gear on for the long walk out.

In the evening, after a huge dinner, whiskey and hot baths, he had a surprise for me.
‘Do you know how to meditate?’ He asked from the bed where he lounged with a book while I dried my hair. I looked at him.
‘Mmm? More or less.’
‘Would you do it with me? I should like that.’ He patted the coverlet before him, and I left off blotting my hair before the grate and came to sit tailor fashion with him, knee to knee.
‘No come closer.’ He said. ‘Put your legs over mine, there’s a good girl.’ He pulled me nearer until I was sitting encircled by his feet, as close as I could get without sitting on him. He put his arms around me and leaned his forehead against mine. He smelled of soap. ‘…Oh, God, ‘ he muttered. He sighed deeply. ‘Just breathe, baby,’ he whispered. ‘Just follow my breath.’

I did, and soon I didn’t notice the cold room, the ticking clock. Warmth flowed between us, and behind the peaceful sound of his breath in my ear was a humming- the thundering echo of silence. The heat increased, and the humming, and I felt an electric tingle in my legs and arms, which I knew wasn’t from strained muscles. It was perfect unity, and a deep bliss. He moved his head and kissed my ear, and it was like drops of hot oil, and he was humming softly, his hands moving down my back, pulling me nearer. I felt dizzy. He broke into a sweat, aroused. The hum became an ah, and I wanted to cry. I gave him my weight, all suppliant.
‘…Oh…. Good girl. Good girl,’ he whispered, and went back to humming. Only after a long time did he stop, and we rested together in peace until, sleepily, we disentangled ourselves and burrowed under the blankets.

Sunday 16 Sep
When the alarm rang, George was still in bed, but he was wide awake, watching me. I turned to look at him and he sighed, smiling. ‘Good morning cupcake.’ He smoothed the hair from my face. ‘Thank you for last night. I never thought I would be able to do that – practise sublimation outright. You’re bringing me along my path, you know. You have given me back my innocence-’ to my astonishment, he broke into tears. They fell down his face unheeded, and he was smiling blissfully. ‘I love you.’ What a start to the day!

We went out to Scafell Pike and did our hard day, and hard it was, at least for me. George was playing at the top of his game, but for me it was a stretch to 5.11, literally as well as technically. We did the Shamrock, the Mickledore Gully, Charerteuse and the Overhang on the East Buttress and the Central Buttress on Scafell Crag. On the Pinnacle, done last, we did the West Wall Traverse and the Deep Ghyll Wall. The last were E2, and I was about topped out at the end of them, or we’d have done the Def Arete as well. But it was good to be challenged, and satisfying to know that I could do them, with a proper leader.

It was about three in the afternoon and we hadn’t had lunch, so we ate in the car while driving over to a walk to the place above the Wye where Wordsworth had written Tintern Abbey. Sitting at the edge of the mountainside, looking down on the ruins drinking tea from the thermos was sweet enough, but George pulled his vintage copy of poems from his rucksack, and began to read the poem.
Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

He gave me the book and I read the next stanza:
These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:--feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,--
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

He read the next, and went on to the last:
If this be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity,
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue.

He looked up here:
And I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

He looked up again, putting the book down, reciting from memory all the rest, his stormy eyes holding mine and there was nothing else in all the world than his eyes and the sound of his voice:
Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes.
Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once,
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

I could hardly breathe for tears, and he was crying too, his strong fingers catching mine fast, his face pale, his steady gaze aching. He swallowed and took a breath.
‘Claire,’ he murmured huskily, his voice breaking, ‘will you marry me?’
I was breathless, speechless, and could only nod, for when I tried to speak, nothing came out.
‘Oh-‘ he kissed me, a lover’s kiss, the first he had ever given, the first I had ever got, and I was dizzy at the end of it.
‘When…’ I managed, though it sounded strangled. I could hardly breathe.
‘Today,’ he declared, and I smiled. Impatience!
‘I love you,’ I laughed. I think I was on the edge of hysteria, laughing and crying.
He kissed me again until the world dissolved and there was that electric feeling again. We were both breathless. I would follow him anywhere, do anything…
‘Why didn’t you do that before?’ I whispered.
He shook his head.’ I couldn’t trust myself! I can’t now! See!’ He took my hands, still breathing hard. I saw. I kissed him, and he yielded, but broke away again.
‘What of chivalry?’ he asked, desperately.
‘You gave me your promise, I have given mine. I will not renege. Nor will you. In Scotland that’s all that’s needed.’
He smiled a little, ruefully. ‘Oh… don’t talk to me of handfasting!’ He kissed me again, like a man starving or drowning. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes!’
He looked up at the surrounding countryside, more beautiful than any cathedral.
‘Well, for God’s sake, let’s get out of the open!’

We gathered up our things hastily and plunged through the woods to a place that was cool and dark, and that was our marriage bed. He was shaking so strongly, but even in that state, his control was superb. He was a good teacher, with a perfect discipline of tenderness and command. And completely present. We laughed, we cried. We found our Elysium forever. Nothing could break this bond, for it was forged in the soul.

I turned to her as the sun went down. All my senses reeled....
She was safely gathered in my arms when from the barn
Drifted the sound of a violin and we hurried back to the farm.
And all were dancing in the lantern light and music filled the air,
And I thanked my stars for the harvest moon and the girl from the hiring fair.