Next Stop: Morrocco?

His name is Atef and I almost slammed the lift doors on him.

I can't help it really. I had to heave my suitcase up and down the Tube and by the time I negotiated the tunnels at the interchange, the lift was a godsend for my tired arms.

Happily, I entered the lift, only to hear a plaintive "Waaaitt!" and the sound of slamming doors.

Mumbled an apology as the hapless guy dragged all his earthly belongings into the lift. It seemed that the lift was filled with all his belongings. He had 2 pillowcases stuffed with linen and clothes, one big suitcase and a duffle bag.

The lift deposited us at another platform (this time the Picadilly Line to Hatton Cross) and with a grunt, both of us dragged our luggage to the right train.

He eyed me curiously and asked if I'm heading to Heathrow T4. I said yes, and when the train arrived, he parked his luggage next to mine and stood there, dripping sweat over my luggage.

Now, here poses a dilemma. How do you ask a man whom you've just slammed the lift doors on, to stop dripping sweat all over your luggage, in the most diplomatic manner possible?

The answer: offering the poor man a tissue! Make it a whole pack, as he is pouring sweat in his natty suit and tie.

And so began a conversation. He's rather cute in a youngish manner, and is Egyptian, heading home to Cairo for a break after a training stint in London. He's planning to fly out to Toronto next for a job, so he said.

So that accounted for the massive luggage, but it seemed impractical to wear a suit to the airport when all you do is to just head home...

As usual, travellers fell to exchanging stories about their homes, cost of living in London and I whipped out my Sahara book and asked if Morrocco is a nice place to visit. He said yes, but "Egypt is nicer."

"I could be your guide if you come to Cairo, you know."

I'm very much amused. If my ex-colleagues were to hear of it, they would have said this is my chance. However, I'm not into dubious North African men (yes, Egypt is in North Africa, not Middle East), charming, friendly and handsome though they might be.

Atef asked if I knew that we'd had to negotiate another flight of steps at Hatton Cross to the bus replacement service to T4. I said yes, but I generally had no problems getting people to help me carry loads up stairs.

"Why?", he asked, somewhat astonished. He looked at my 4 ft 10 frame doubtfully. How could a small girl like her carry that much luggage without problems?

"Because men like to help women."

As proof of my words, once at the said flight of stairs, the courtesy porter headed straight towards me and helped me carry my stuff upstairs. I turned to toss a triumphant grin at Atef. In reply, he smiled, shrugged and huffed his way upstairs.

After exchanging good byes at the airport, it dawned on me that in my solo travels, apart from God's protecting hand, men generally do want to help women. My experience in France and UK proved this to be so, although one wondered if people are just being kind or did they have ulterior motives.

Caution, as Linda said, is always best exercised, whenever you take solo trips, although yes, she thinks that people of other cultures tend to be more helpful.

Wise words indeed.

Little Miracles

"Look at what you would have missed if you didn't get to the summit".

With that, Paul passed me his binoculars and directed my gaze to where Scafield Pike, Skiddaw, Derwentwater, Bessenwaithe and finally, my own little hostel were.

From a vantage point 451m above sea level (Bukit Timah Hill was only 163m high and the highest that I've ever climbed), the Cat Bells* is an excellent spot to admire the Lake District for all its beauty. I almost didn't make it to the top.

If not for the help of two persons whom God has sent, I wondered if I could still go on.

I didn't expect it to be so tough. Cat Bells was graded as an easy to moderate route which I could do under 3 hours. Although it has a clearly marked trail, what I didn't anticipate, was the cold, the rain which made the rocks harder to climb and that at some parts, I have to climb down the rock face, guided only by feeling my way down.

It started off well enough. I decided that though inexperienced, I wasn't about to give up fell walking since I toured the District.

As they say, good intentions are not enough. The only stupid thing really was to go at it alone, without a map, checking the weather report. And underestimating the distance and time to take to get up AND down.

After alighting from the jetty and cutting through a forest, I arrived at the foot of the Bells. Strange as it may seems, I was greeted by a bunch of Scout Cubs who were eager to sell me some flapjacks. While the Scoutmaster told me how to get up, he did warn me that I would need enough time to climb down to catch the ferry back home. Or risk walking in the dark (about 3 hours) back. Or if I'm keen, race down the other face of the fell and get to another jetty to sail home.

Undaunted, I calculated that if I can't make it all the way up, I would turn back and make a break for the jetty.

It wasn't too bad after 1 hour. I stood there triumphant, only to be told that the so called summit I have reached, was not really the summit. The clouds parted and I saw that the true summit was about two ascents away.

Damn.

Trudged upwards again, getting on all fours at some points. Halfway up, with rock crumbling underneath my feet, there was a plaque dedicated to some unfortunate soul who lost his life while trekking. Somehow, it gave myself an extra push to try to reach up for the rocky ledge above me... with both hands...

Just as I reached the second summit I took a look at my watch. The last ferry was 5.30 pm and I had to turn back if I want to sail home. The top peak looked tantalizingly unreachable and I prayed that God would guide me on my next step. If I should go on or turn back. If I go up, I prayed, I want someone to guide me up as the mist was rolling in.

As soon as I finished praying, I turned and saw Paul and Tess smiling at me. Brief greetings were exchanged and I causally asked them if they were heading up.

"Well, we hope to if the mist isn't too bad!"

Here's my chance, I thought. "So, where do you two live?"

"Just opposite the Youth Hostel. We drove here."

In the end, my prayers were answered. They were happy to bring me up and offered to drive me back to my hostel.

It was good to have climbing companions. It was pretty hard at first at the final ascent, as it was steep and a lot of rocks crumbled under my feet. Strangely, what forced me to hoist myself up over increasingly higher rocks overhead was my yet to be eaten chicken masala dinner. I certainly have no intention to let another hostelite enjoy my dinner!

The final push was almost impossible. Both Paul and Tess looked over the hanging rock and said that I could do it. With a final grunt, I hoisted myself up and was rewarded with a view of the mountains and the lake. And a view of the ferry scooting across the lake picking its last passengers from the jetty.

After a light tea at the top (you could say that having high tea takes on a literal meaning!), coming down was a problem. It rained and I slipped over the rocks on my butt, while the couple walked down with the surefootedness of mountain goats. We got to the car and we drove back, with them dropping me off at my doorstep.

I looked into the mirror to check the damage. My hair worked its way out of my ponytail and flying in all directions. My jacket and jeans were mud-streaked. My toes were bruised and I could see a big bruise forming on my bottom.

Nothing beats a hot shower, a dinner of chicken tikka masala, a hot cup of teh-o and ginger cookies, while another hostelite eyed my dinner enviously as he supped on bread and soup.

*Old English Catt Belde - den of wild cats.

Close to Ideal

It was a steep climb up the stairs to my room at YHA Keswick.

Given that it has just opened for business after 3 months of renovations, many people were still unaware that it has just reopened.

Martin the cheeky fellow who found my accent "distinctly Oriental" was surprised to see a tiny girl who dumped her luggage at the reception counter and asked for her rooms. Perhaps guilt struck him - I was given a room which faces the mountains - possibly Skiddaw - the 2nd highest mountain in the UK.

Watching the gurgling stream running past my window, and with the magnificent chain of mountains running as the background, I felt deliriously happy! Drunk with delight! What a view! What a stupendous find!

Armed with a vauge map, I decided to go for a tour of Derwentwater to find Ashness Bridge and possibly climb up Walla Crag to have a view of the lake. Martin assured me that even "infirm old people could do it in a couple of hours"!

Having seen only MacRitchie Reservoir, I was surprised to find Derwentwater, which was ringed by mountains, to have a shoreline. Interestingly, the waters were somewhat akin to a very gentle sea, and it is possible to find the waters lapping at your feet as you stroll along the shoreline. I thought lakes were supposed to be still, but Derwentwater proved to be a pleasant surprise.

Came to Ashness Bridge after a long hike and wondered how to tckle Walla Crag. My map proved to be useless at this point (or maybe I just weren't good at deciphering maps). Having climbed up another hill, only to be told that it was the wrong hill by two cute men and their toddler daughters at the summit, I decided to make a quick descent. Finally managed to get to Walla Crag, but halfway up, the clouds started to come in quickly.

Beat a hasty retreat down and began my long trek home.

***
Her name is Diane, and she was a cancer sufferer.

Cheerful and remarkably strong for someone who suffered a major health setback, Diane did not look anything like 60 years old. She has a partner and 2 grown up boys. She is now doing a solo trip to various parts of UK, Prague where she'd booked a ticket to the opera (sigh!), and a few other countries before heading back to Sydney.

While she was recovering from her illness, she was unhappy and depressed. One day, she decided to head to the supermarket for a carton of milk. When she came back, she had an SLR camera in her hands instead. Finally free to pursue her dreams after working as a teacher for years, she finds that life is too short for regrets, and decided to be a full-time photographer and sketcher. Cumbria is the perfect destination for her to capture shots and sketch the mountains.

It was really good to hear such inspiring stories. Somehow, you ended up feeling more encouraged and that there are people who truly knew that life is to be cherished, after a close brush with the Grim Reaper. She is very proud of her children and grateful for the fact that she is now in remission and well enough to undertake a solo journey.

Fragile though life is, she says, one must never waste a single moment of it.