Ghost of Christmas past.

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Bearbonesnorm
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Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by Bearbonesnorm »

With the 'Winter Bivvy' weekend fast approaching, I thought now might be a good time to share a memory of a WWB from a couple of years ago ... you know, just in case anyone's thinking of coming this year :wink:

Water dropped like a cold wet curtain from the overwhelmed gutter above. On the other side, our adversary snarled and cut the air with icy claws. We'd fought for two days but in truth, we’d known from the outset that it would be a battle we could never hope to win. Knowing defeat is inevitable should never stop you fighting but had we fully anticipated the ferocity of the onslaught that befell us, we may have changed tack . Now, here we were, backs to the wall, trapped. The doorway of a rural Welsh community centre was going to be our Alamo.

I pushed at the heel of my left shoe with the toes of my right until it released its grip on my foot and fell onto the floor. Squatting down beside it, I lifted it up and ceremoniously poured the water from inside. My sock followed and another half pint of liquid sunshine splashed on to the concrete flags as I rung it out. Perhaps I should empty the other one and do a brew?, I thought. As I pondered, a car drew into the car park opposite us. “Bollocks, looks like were going after all" said Mike, nodding towards Burtie’s arrival. None of us were new to this. All three of us had seen active service and been on the receiving end of live fire many times. Wet, cold, tired and hungry we could do but this really was something else and deep down none of us wanted to go over the top and rush headlong into another bombardment. Sadly, the arrival of Burty made a tactical retreat far less likely.


Image

"Yer wearing bin bags" said Burty, "and you've only got one shoe on and where's your sock?". I mumbled a reply as the four of us unconsciously lined up, forming a rag tag, thin red line staring out at the battlefield. The realisation that our fate wasn't entirely cradled in our own hands became a stark reality when Karl and Cat arrived a few minutes later. "Okay, so where we going then?" asked a rather upbeat Karl. Two days ago, thoughts of a full Berwyn traverse had fuelled my imagination, now the same thought filled me with a mixture of dread and panic. I looked at Mike, he looked at his feet, my gaze turned to Scott who in return simply turned his gaze deep into his luxurious beard. Burty shuffled round, carefully avoiding Karl’s question and pretended to admire the 80's brickwork of our fox hole. Pushing the barrel of the pistol tight against my temple, I sighed my last breath and squeezed the trigger, "Over the Ber" but before I could finish the sentence and the wet shallow grave I was digging, Cat the cavalry came to the rescue and said, "pub's open, let's go there. We'll have a drink and a warm up while we decide what to do".

With my sock inside out, shoe back on with laces flapping and an errant black bin bag doing a good job of obscuring any remaining vision left by the rain, I cycled the 300 yards to the pub. The old oak door wore its age well, iron hinges let out a squeal of delight as the heavy door swung open and we dripped into the pub. The landlord wore his age less flatteringly, he stood behind the dark wooden bar and gave us a smile that effortlessly conveyed the message, 'don't bother trying to explain, it's quite obvious that either the circus is in town or the village has some new idiots'.


We took the warm welcome to heart and in short order transformed the seasonally decorated snug into a jumble sale. Socks were draped over the fire guard, gloves hung from the mantle and helmets lay gently steaming under the christmas tree. It somehow seems wrong ordering tea in a pub but I've never been swayed by convention, so I ordered two pots. The first one didn't touch the sides and I sat with the still hot teapot resting on my lap as I made in-roads into the second. Scott was nursing a pint of Guinness and I secretly hoped he might develop a taste for it and suggest we spend the remainder of the day and maybe even the night, tucked up in our cosy bunker. The landlord brought Cat a bowl of cheesy chips, which I'm ashamed to say that although not hungry, I looked at it longingly with a desire usually reserved for carnal rather than culinary pleasures.

The clock tick tocked by, the fire was slowly working its magic and the tea having the desired effect. Things were looking up until a voice said, "right then, who's got the maps?". All eyes fell to me, I reached behind, pushed a hand down the back of my damp shorts and like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, pulled out two maps. After quickly looking at the covers, I pushed one back down my shorts. It showed the lands to the north, I didn't want to go north, north would prolong the suffering by an additional 24 hours. I wanted south, definitely south, south was good.

Diplomacy flowed across the table, everyone concerned that all the other members of our merry band would leave the sanctuary of the pub happy. After some considerable time and another round of drinks a decision was made, it involved travelling south, a rudimentary roof for the night and a special guest appearance from the highest road pass in Wales. We readied ourselves for the great outdoor's while fending off questions from bemused locals. We couldn't give good answers, whatever we said sounded stupid in the face of what would inevitably befall us over the next few hours. Telling someone that you enjoy something after they've spent the previous hour listening to you moan about it, really isn’t the hallmark of sanity.

Image

I walked purposefully through the pub, both my socks the right way out, a buff pulled up over my nose and a tattered bin liner providing a last defensive coat of shiny black armour. We had a plan, one that would take us nearer to our final destination and provide more substantial accommodation than a simple sheet of silnylon. It wasn't grand or overly ambitious, remarkably it was sensible and straightforward and it started with the opening of the old oak door. I turned the handle and pulled, a blast of cold, water-laden air hit me in the face but I pressed on. Standing in the open yard the wind made its presence felt, it swirled in every direction, grabbing at my clothes and desperately trying to burrow its way through the layers. I lifted my loaded bike from the floor, the wind roared and tried to snatch it back from me. After propping it against an upturned table, I lifted my arms towards the sky and howled back … if we were going down, we were going down fighting!
May the bridges you burn light your way
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Borderer
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by Borderer »

I have read this before, but I enjoyed re-reading it so much that I burnt the dinner.
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Bearbonesnorm
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by Bearbonesnorm »

Apologies, I hadn't realised this one had seen the light of day before. I'm blaming old age.
so much that I burnt the dinner.
What ya having?
May the bridges you burn light your way
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Borderer
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by Borderer »

I'm sure I read it somewhere - maybe it was on your blog?
Dinner = pies. Courtesy of Morrisons @ 8p each.
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burty
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by burty »

it was a tiny bit windy that day :lol:
and it is a good job I had my posh new top on ,that turned out not to be warm ,windproof or waterproof as claimed by the label .
I think it was in the charity pile a day later , piece of crap
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Scattamah
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by Scattamah »

Ohhh...I had a taste for that Guinness alright...fortification for the climbs to come. Rides like that are priceless.

Greetz

S.
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BigdummySteve
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Re: Ghost of Christmas past.

Post by BigdummySteve »

Grand piece of literature that was stu, is it too late to ask for a refund for the winter event :o
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I woke up this morning but I’m still in the dark
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