Learning Our Horses’ Alphabet

Learning our alphabet is the first step of learning any language. And dressage is no different. Except that learning our alphabet isn’t quite the right phrase, really we need to be learning our horses’ alphabet.

Elizabeth Ball

As horses are movement itself, and the best way to access a horse’s brain is through his body, learning our horses’ alphabet actually means learning the alphabet of our horses’ movement.

First, the gaits. The step pattern, the footfalls, the sequence of pure gaits. How will we know if we have a pure walk or a good quality canter if we don’t know what the pure gaits consist of?

Humans are born with the ability to make every common sound heard in every language, from the Welsh ttthhh to the Xhosi nk. Babies learn, by imitation, to repeat the sounds they hear the most around them; they perfect those, the voicebox adapts and they may lose the ability to create other language sounds.

I learned to speak French in the Ecrins mountains when I was 10. I have a regional accent that most native French can pinpoint to that area, and I always get a very warm welcome when I go back to that region.

Glacier des Violettes- the best mountain HVS in the world runs up to the left of the glacier- Ailefroide

But there is one telling detail that a true linguist would spot, one omission- my rrrrrr is weak. I can just about roll my rrrr, but not quite like a native.

Coming down from the Violettes

In the same way, horses are born with every variation of every gait at their disposal. Some will come easier than others, some are bred selectively, such as the tolt or the pacing gait, but all foals can do all gaits at the beginning. They learn first by copying their mothers, and their peer group, which gaits are the easiest for day to day life. And then in training, we reward them for the four pure dressage gaits, and every variation thereof. But we can only do that if we know how the four pure gaits are meant to look , feel and sound.

A young Milton with Caroline Powell- brought on slowly and correctly to become the world’s most successful show jumper

The reason these specifically defined pure gaits have been selected as the most desirable over the centuries is because time has shown that these gaits are the most efficient for the horse to carry a rider in a healthy biomechanical posture.

And we have to understand that aberrations of these gaits are not healthy, and should not be ignored, let alone rewarded. How many lateral walks do we see in FEI dressage tests, not only ignored but scored highly, against the directives?

Then we need to remember that horses are born crooked. Just as humans are born right handed or left handed, the symmetrical, perfectly balanced horse has not yet been born.

Training is therefore first rehabilitation, followed by therapy, and finally it can become gymnastic.

To complete the training of the dressage horse we need to be able to speak to his body in sentences, in combinations of aids that combine targeted exercises and accurate patterns to enable the horse to develop strength and suppleness.

CDK talks about the daily vocabulary of training; like a virtuoso musician practising their scales every day, a trainer must help the horse to run through his full physical repertoire every session- all bends, all gaits, every length of neck, every length of stride, all directions of travel.

Paul Belasik

Run through, not drill.

Simple repetition does not bring about improvement- targeted focus does. When doing scales we did them fast, slow, staccato, slurred, syncopated da deee and deee da, forwards and backwards. Every variation, to avoid strain and boredom.

The quality of each movement will vary according to the horse’s level of training, but a fragment of each exercise will be possible in every horse from the very beginning.

This can be achieved from the ground, in hand, or from the saddle.

The brilliance in the virtuoso comes from a solid foundation, from the long hours spent perfecting the details of the basics.

Perfect practise makes perfect.

So know your horse’s alphabet, and help him to write three dimensional poetry in motion.

Make the Mental Transition to “I can”

We must make sure that we do not inadvertently teach ourselves to fail regularly in our training. It is important that we learn to make the mental transition to” I can”.

I heard a story this weekend about a very high achieving golfer. Every time he takes a lesson to improve one aspect of his game he goes out, applies the lesson and plays much better. Instead of being pleased that he has played better, he then looks for the gaps in his recent good game, focusses on those, practises those aspects which he has not improved and then goes out and so has a horrible time again. Essentially he has trained himself to fail, repetitively.

Golf and dressage have much in common.

Golf swing fundamentals

We must train ourselves to bank the good stuff first, especially in riding where there are two sentient beings involved in the encounter. I’m not saying that we shouldn’t learn from our mistakes; reflection, adjustment and testing is a key part of experiential learning of a practical skill.  But we must learn just as much if not more from our successes.

 

I have started videoing myself riding more regularly. A friend once made the comment that high definition video is the most brutal feedback anyone needs. I don’t have hi-def capability but a mobile phone propped up on the arena fence is effective enough.

The first time I watch the video I am always appalled. I look like cooked spaghetti, what are my legs doing there, what on earth makes me think I can ride….

Then I look at it again and watch the horse…and generally there are some nice moments. And I have to remind myself that if the horse is improving then I can’t be that bad…

If the horse wasn’t improving, I would possibly have appalled myself so much that I would have given up.  I am my own worst critic.

Do as I say, not as I do!!

But luckily for me the grey horse loves the nitty gritty of training, and loves the way good work makes his body feel. Which means he loves me.

If we want to improve a movement  or an exercise then we have to pick one aspect to work on. We can’t just “try it again” and hope something will improve globally by accident. Practise doesn’t make perfect, perfect practise makes perfect. So you have to be consciously competent enough to choose one aspect that you can change to improve the overall performance of the task. A bit like teaching surgery….

Which means we have to choose other aspects to leave alone, or even better, aspects to keep because they are already good.

So for example; I’m doing trot halt, rein back, trot, transitions in step sequences of four. Four because even numbers make it predictable for the horse so the transitions should occur with less resistance. (That bit is magic, don’t question it, it just is, even number of steps for predictability, odd number of steps when you want change).

I ask myself what I can do….generally I can count to four, the transitions occur when asked, the rein back is diagonal, the line of travel is straight, the trot out has lovely oomph.

What do I want to improve? Lets just say one thing- the softness of the topline, for now.

Do I throw all the good qualities away just to focus on the topline? Do I say topline first and foremost, at whatever cost, no matter how many steps, no matter if it’s straight, …

Or do I try and add another quality to the good stuff I have already?

I have written before about how essential  positive feedback is to the horse if you want to keep him on side. The horse is never allowed to think he made a mistake.

Every Opportunity to Praise

Imagine how dispiriting it would be for a horse if, every time he does a movement or an exercise, to the best of his ability, exactly as you have aided it (because again that is the truth) and you say “No, no, that was terrible, it was all wrong, we have to do it again, we are just so rubbish!”

He wouldn’t keep trying for very long would he?

Imagine if, instead of saying “we just can’t do that”,

you made the transition to thinking I can,

if we thought “We can do that even better! We can do that more like an advanced horse. What’s the most we can do?’….in the example, “What is the best most elevated and elongated topline we can do that rein back in? How would Granat feel doing that reinback?”

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What is the maximum we can ask for?

Not demand…that’s different. If we ask for the absolute maximum possible that we can imagine, the horse will give is the maximum he is capable of, in that moment, and he might just surprise himself and you!

Our limited expectations can limit our horse’s potential. I know I am often guilty of trying to make every step the best step, when sometime it just needs to be the next step. Sometime we just need to make progress, in the work and across the arena.

Dinner needs to get cooked!

Never mind if the balance goes awry, what is the biggest length of stride the horse can offer?

What is the longest neck he can keep that balance on without going splat?  He has to go splat at least once for you to find out the answer to that question. If he doesn’t go splat how do you know you have asked enough? Obviously you ask for a touch less next time.

And then the next time you pick another aspect.

So in my example; yesterday I worked on quality of topline. And the response to the aids also improved. Today I worked on responsiveness to the aids (and topline came for free with a few repetitions). Tomorrow I will need to find a different sequence or a different usage of that lesson (pretend piaffe/passage transitions with rein back legs maybe, or what does reinback leg do to the canter walk transition) otherwise I am drilling my horse, and sucking all of the joy out of his psyche.

So to get the best out of out horses, we need to learn to make the transition to “I can”.

To I can do the most magnificent trot, halt, rein back, trot that I can imagine, with this fabulous horse I am lucky enough to be riding in this moment. The horse doesn’t know this is a difficult exercise, he just hears your thoughts, well before your aids.

So make those thoughts worth listening to. Make him feel magnificent.

The magic is in the transition- when every possibility is available, everything is possible.

And teach yourself and your horse to succeed,  a little more every day.

 

Don’t feed the Trolls

Don’t feed the trolls. Or to paraphrase; don’t waste your energy worrying about what the bad guys are doing, because, as we all know, energy follows thought. I have been on a fairly steep learning curve this year in various ways, and one of my newly acquired and necessary skills is not to feed the dark side in any way, with energy or attention.

Dont feed the trolls. Every time we post a completely negative image of a horse ridden incorrectly, whether it is to stir up outrage or simply to dissect the ‘finer’ points of training, we are creating three inadvertent effects.

One is that we are exposing this image of incorrect training to a whole plethora of people who may not have seen it otherwise. If there are 500 people on my friends list, that is 500 people that have been exposed to a incorrect photo unnecessarily. Wouldn’t I rather ensure that those 500 people are exposed to the best most beautiful example I can find?

No photo is perfect, of course not. And not every photo of every old style SRS rider or every ODG is perfect.

But how much better to discuss nuance that would lead towards perfection rather than just complaining again and again about the head cranked in and the flinging legs.

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Don’t feed the trolls. All we  see in Horse and Hound and the other trade rags are horses held behind the vertical with cranked nosebands and flinging forefeet. If the general horse people don’t read other material and don’t go back to the old books where we can find the good photos, and the correct pictures, they may well never have seen a single image of a horse moving correctly.

And what is more, they don’t even understand that lack in their education.

When gold medals are won, it is a natural assumption to think that any image of that gold medal wining horse must portray the most correctly moving horse in the world moving correctly. How do we explain to those who don’t understand the fundamentals and have never seen correct that actually it is the most successful horse in the world, not the most correct; that they are simply the most successful horse/rider combination from a selection of horses and riders chasing a false paradigm.

Operating within a false paradigm

How do we explain to those who don’t know any different that this riding that is so highly rewarded in this current era actually causes horses to break down long before their time?

It is up to those who do know better to share the best possible images, and to keep explaining in a clear, concise and kind way why these better images are correct and beautiful and harmonious. It is up to those who do know better to keep teaching, with positive emphasis. People learn much better when they feel, relaxed, encouraged and safe. So rather than making them feel stupid, we have to teach, not preach. If people ask me why I ride the way I do, then I do my best to share what I have learned; as I do for the barefoot husbandry.

It is my duty and pleasure to help others on their journey.

The second problem with showing incorrect images is that our subconscious just absorbs those images. Our primitive brain doesn’t discriminate between good and bad images,  it just retains whatever visual information it is exposed to.

  • We retain 80% of what we see, 20% of what we read, and 10% of what we hear
  • Visuals are processed 60,000X faster than text

This means the picture of the incorrect horse has gone in and been filed before we even get a chance to analyse it. As we stare at it, picking it apart, the details of that image are going in even farther. This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t use pictures as a visual aid to learning,  but that we need to be scrupulous about how we use them. We need to ensure that we are exposed to many more good images than bad; so that it is the good images which are normalised and internalised.

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We need to get over ourselves and accept that our analytical brain is simply not as quick as the lizard brain. We need to train our eyes so that the good images still have the ability to make us feel happy and incorrect images of uncomfortable stressed horses make us feel uncomfortable.

Think of  Tarantino’s film “Kill Bill”. At the beginning the gore and violence is shocking. By the battle scene at the end, a bleak homage to the darkest of Samurai cinema, the violence is choreographed like a cartoon and we are strangely immune to the horror.

Tarantino is a master of manipulation of the human psyche.

So ideally we need to see at least 3 good images to every single poor image. The good images don’t need to be perfect, but they need to be near enough to good balance that we can see the next step might be better.

The third part of the problem is more subtle and a bit woo woo energy.

Energy follows thought.

We all know this. It’s why your mother always say “Oh I was just thinking about you” when you phone her, it’s how the dog knows you are coming home, long before he can possibly hear the car, it’s how the horse always makes sure he is at the far end of the field if you are in a foul mood from work, before you have even parked the car.

By sharing, discussing, dissecting a picture, be it with love or outrage, we are directing energy towards the subject of the photo. In the energetic universe, we are feeding them, powering them up. How much better it would be for all of us if we could direct our energy to power up the good teachers, the shining examples, the worthy mentors. And starve the others of attention and therefore energy.

That simple change would create the most amazing positive feedback loop.

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I am doing other, to the best of my ability, and shining as bright as I can in my little corner. And I just hope the light from my horses’ eyes is warm enough that people feel the difference and are drawn towards it. Then we can show them how to do better.

Seeking lightness in riding

And that shift in my mindset had provided a much better head space for me and the horses to work in. Riding is the ultimate martial art. And all martial arts are about discipline of the mind first.

If I tell you not to think about pink elephants, what have you just done? It is impossible to not do something without thinking about doing it. Rather than not doing what the bad guys do, do more of the good stuff.

Just do better.

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May God Prevail

I chose you my people
To suffer through fire
I it was who loved you
As you struggled in the mire
The sting of oppression
Only kindled your desire
To see what lay beyond
The walls I laid to waste

Through centuries of wandering
I watched you unappeased
Through famine and disaster
Sought to bring you to your knees
When at last you answered
I promised you a home
Years in the desert
Again you were alone

The homeland stolen from you
Yet still you turned to me
Petrified the awful truth
Destroyed by history
For two thousand years you fought
To safeguard a dream
The kingdom a reality
Broken by your screams

The temple was built at last
Carved from blood stained stone
Raised of ruins and ancient songs
Gold and soil a conflict zone
I tried then to comfort you
Your pain I couldn’t ease
My hands bled as I listened
To your impassioned fading pleas

I wish that I could bring meaning
To the evils you have known
Show you that man has learned
From the sand riddled with bones
Show you a world of justice
Of love as yet unknown
Yet the man I have created
My love would still forego

Forgive me my children
I would not have it so
For profit wrought in pain
For power etched in blood
For all, forgive me
You gaze unflinching as the bell tolls
Wallking to your death
Lit by the halo of eternity

Copyright Fran McNicol circa 1990

The Familiar

Kest came back to haunt me,
Her words both sweet and sure.
Cloying clinging poison,
Her twisted truth the lure.

Crouching in her corner,
My joyous gleeful sprite,
Begging my forgiveness,
So harmless in the light

Dark and deadly shadow
As soon as night-time fell.
She smiled at me and cackled
Hear the tolling bell.

She told tales of hate and dying
And love to chill the bones.
Power games for mind fucks,
Terrors faced alone

I watched in vivid detail as
She shone and whet the knife,
Felt the burning ice of pain
As death embittered life.

With deadly deft and agile cuts,
She tore my heart to shreds.
Made mincemeat of my vanity
And stained my tears red.

Through crimson haze I laughed aloud,
A crazy whirling dance.
Dull and drear was sanity
As I cast my soul to chance.

Through the roar of falling,
I shrieked my freedom songs.
Exalt my heart in fear and pain,
The knife edge knows no wrong

And then my thane he turned to me,
He too caught in her spell,
He bathed my wounds in salt and bile
And swept us both to hell

And then he held me tenderly,
Chased my sprite away,
Banished all my fears and pains
To the dreams of long done days.

Night turned into morning,
Sun and sand and waves.
Despair returned to living
As I strolled among the graves.

© Fran McNicol 1992

Published 1993

Some Stories only have One Ending

The SOS call from an unknown cousin,
the frail bird bones you had become,
lost in the hospital bed,
the fierce blazing plea a shock
as our eyes met.
I knew you instantly, knew you to your soul,
felt your pain and also knew straight away
that you were dying.

You were Dad’s cousin, another generation,
Too old to matter as I was growing up, and yet
closest to Great Aunt Belle,
the dragon lady I would love to meet again,
now that I have the wit to listen.
You were the ultimate grey man, desk jockey, civil servant,
yet there were whisperings of traffic
from the massive secret bank of computers,
the possibility that all was not as it seemed.

And as I finally got to know you,
poised on the edge of the abyss,
I find that you would have been my favourite McNicol.
Proud, warlike, formidable, lord of your isles,
You too sought silence and solitude,
to leave the world behind and follow the wind up to the high ridges.
You too loved the story that the rocks tell,
the myths of their beginnings and
the journey from the centre of the earth.

Some stories have only one ending
Ours was a brief moment in your time not mine,
All I could do was ease your passing
And mourn for another relative stranger.

****************

The blast from the past that breezed into clinic,
Sporting a lump, there for some months,
Suspicious and needing removing.
Several new tragedies had affected your circle of
friends that used to be mine.
Fear of cancer eroding your equipoise,
the denial plain in your eyes.
To cut out the lump might involve a ballectomy,
even in our darkest moments
I would never have wished that on you….
How I feared for you those anxious weeks
The eventual operation less radical,
The weird histology positive relief,
This story may have many more endings.

****************

Pinned high alone amongst giants
The satellite phone died first.
The community bitched with baited breath
But the winter vault didn’t relent.
The champions of old went out to do battle
so the clan might escape unscathed-
in the same way you took on our dreams,
majestic peaks, climbed in the deftest style,
treading lightly on the high places,
leaving no sign of your passing.
You wore riches beyond measure, of sky and precipice,
you plumbed the depths of your own desperate hell,
dug into your soul and there perhaps you found peace.
Your story only ever had one ending.

Copyright Fran McNicol 2009

Disco Dancing Queens

We are the disco generation of climbing, boogying away on plastic holds, piercing the cliffs with fool’s gold bolts, bright in the spangled Goretex uniform of our times, and living out the marketing men’s dream.
“To climb – to move oneself upwards especially by using the hands and the feet”.
Such a staid definition does nothing to encompass joy, meditation, absorption, satisfaction, freedom, or abstraction- the metaphysical reasons why we climb. In many ways however this sterility describes the direction that “climbing” is taking. International competition may have driven the exponential explosion in climbing grades but rewards only technical prowess, the physical action of human moving upward on rock, the measurable progression of trained straining muscle and sinew.
“Mountaineering – the sport of climbing mountains”.
Sport? This is anathema- surely mountaineering is a pastime, a lifestyle, a state of mind, a lifelong three dimensional meditation on the meaning of life and of human frailties exposed best in the wild places….
We live in an increasingly risk averse society. Climbing has metamorphosed from the historical preserve of the rich, exploring classes, through a period of alternative, fringe activity, practised by the dispossessed, to now being an inclusive, healthy, leisure pursuit, supported and promoted by a government, and serviced by a thriving consumer industry which has even spawned a new breed of self improvement professional.

Ice-climbing is listed as a must-do before you die, but only on a top rope in a safe environment supervised by a qualified instructor. It has become unacceptable to take responsibility for one’s actions. When unfortunate accidents happen, these must be blamed, investigated, litigated or explained; mistakes, poor judgement, weather, conditions, gear, or worst of all, your own twisted selfish psyche for daring to risk your life alone out in the dark dangerous hills.
In this sound bite obsessed society where every experience is packaged in easily digestible diverting snippets, twittering and sport climbing are the ultimate expressions of our times. Easy access, instant gratification, objectives which are specific, measurable, achievable, time limited, safe, vain, narcissistic, you can compete, preen, impress, win, all without paying the ultimate price. It is difficult to express the complex welter of emotions encompassed in even one move on a traditional climb within the 140 characters allowed in a tweet; certainly impossible to describe the suffering, deprivation, stamina and slog of Alpinism or Himalayan endeavour in a smooth, slick slogan.
“Adventure- a bold unusually risky undertaking, hazardous action of uncertain outcome.”
The back lash must come. Surely it is only a matter of time before the prescription pill of pseudo-adrenaline offered up by the modern convenience cragging experience palls like sickly saccharine placebo and the newly awakened break for the wilderness once more.
It is our duty as temporary custodians of crag and mountain to ensure that, when the frustrated anarchic punk rock rebels break free from mass media marketed tribal conformity and head out once again for true adventure in the wild high places, we have not irrevocably altered the nature of the challenges that we chose not to face.
Disco must die!

 

A Gilded Cage

I carefully built this nest of mine
According to a flawless plan,
Gilded the cage a bar at a time,
Feathered the gaping gaps with books
Stepping stones to safe suburbanity

Grade by test, certificate by exam,
The snare tightened slowly to stifle
The bewildering array of possibility.
Medicine the longest road, the broadest church,
The route’s prescriptions offered perverse freedom.

A new language, fascinating precision,
Ancient echoes chanting scientifically,
Poetry in the purity of parsing.
Predictable targets, hurdles easily cleared,
Requisite focus obscured the final goal.

A better doctor than I could ever be a person,
I found a strange kind of love in healing,
Surgery surprised a powerful passion.
The first cut shocked, the first cure thrilled, I craved
The addictive lure of fixing nature’s ills

Total absorption, drip feed adrenaline,
Instant inviolate clarity precious beyond time,
Technical challenges, perfection, satisfaction,
What greater good could there be but reward
Me crafting stronger lives for living

Daily dingy tragedies wear out the best in me.
Unbidden warmth eased passing and recovery.
The luxury of cancer a wealthy old disease,
Prolonging the inevitable, the cruellest joke,
Death is not the greatest fear nor the worst fate.

The ghosts have slowly grown in number
They chill the soul, these whispering dead.
There is a limit to the well of caring.
There must be a way to be good again,
To share the skills that better fitted me for life….

The Economy of Lust

There he is, he’s here again. I knew he’d be in, well let’s face it that’s why I’m here. That’s why people drink here; it’s THE pub in St Andrews where the talent hangs out. How else does Herr Flick palm off the most diluted beer at the most exorbitant prices in town? Why else does nobody mind when they can’t get a seat…you can’t check the room when you’re sitting down anyway.
God, he’s gorgeous…blond of course, aren’t they all? Built well, he played rugby at school…there’s a point, wonder which school he went to? I bet it was one of the names, where you mortgage the country cottage for connections, kudos, and an entry to that most elusive of societies, the old boys network. A chance to excel at conforming maybe pick up an A level along the way. Yup, that’s the accent, gilt-edged with poise, the supreme self-confidence that nothing is beyond one because, after all, everything does have a price.
I wonder what he drives. He does drive that’s for sure. I bet it shifts anyway; none of the old tin can on wheels crap that I might just manage to afford one day.
He is sooo cool. OK so his clothes help. He probably spent more on that shirt than I will spend on toothpaste in an entire lifetime. Funny how they all seem reluctant to get out of uniform- lumberjack shirts, Arran jumpers, a mass identity to affirm their superiority. The Establishment has nothing to fear from this lot- give them twenty years and they’ll be rotting within the hallowed halls of Whitehall. There’s no brave new world budding here.
I watch from another world. I too went to one of the schools but Daddy didn’t pay for my accent. There’s no gentrification going on in my part of London, although we did get a 7-11 store and a dual carriageway. When all my mates got cars, I got a bike and beat them all to school.
Do you think he’ll notice me? Can he fail to? I knitted this jumper myself when I was thirteen. I t doubled as my spare tent then, now it just does duty as a scarecrow when the wind’s up. Out on the bike in a stiff breeze I must look as if someone dropped a house on my sister. As for the rest I make up for in colour what my clothes lack in cut. Eccentric chic I call it. One thing I can guarantee is that he will notice me.
Especially when I’m here with my mates. They say Julia Roberts made a fortune out of her laugh; she has nothing on me. The rats in the pub must pray for the return of the Pied Piper as a blessed release. When the lads from SAUSAC are in and we spend hours retelling the best jokes and the tallest stories, I’m sure the architect could quote structural damage. Come to think of it, my laugh would probably register on the Richter scale.
OK so he’ll notice me. The fact that he will probably run a mile is irrelevant; he’ll just never talk to me. I’m just not in the right crowd. Not to mention the aloof expression I have been cultivating for years, a supercilious smirk, a cross between Cleopatra and Buddha’s cat. Let’s face it, would you talk to a girl sitting cross legged on the bar with a full pint, a cigarette and a superiority complex to match even your father’s bank balance? In front of all your rugby mates?
Well then
HE SPOKE TO ME….I ca’t believe it, I want to skip and laugh and dance and go wild, I want to run down the street singing West Side Story. Get me a Tequila, a fag, anything, to celebrate. He spoke to me.
OK so he was pretty damned rude. The attempt at humour may pass in a prep school locker room but really….maybe I spent too much time as an appendage to the bar with the diving crowd. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to flirt?! Maybe he has no sense of humour. Tongue-tied? I couldn’t even light a cigarette for crying out loud, my hands were shaking so much. OK have it your way, maybe humming the tune to Thunderbirds in response to a particularly inane comment was just a tad obscure. OK, so I have no small talk, that’s never bothered me before. No, I’ve never been to a cocktail party. So? I’m going to be a doctor. I don’t need small talk, just an endless supply of platitudes, silly jokes and gruesome stories for endless dinners.
Once he got talking to me? Well he disappeared pretty quickly, to talk to a girl in a matching jumper.
So I’m doomed to watch him across a crowded pub. So we have nothing in common, or if we do it is beautifully disguised. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. We do not have blast off. Crashed and burned.
How do you spot money anyway? Does it have a special smell? No manners, no sense of humour? Or does it just drink anther type of coffee?
One thing though. Why do you talk to me? You’re one of them. Oh thanks, live on the backhanded compliment with sledgehammer attached, delivered with consummate skill. Thanks. Time for the Buddha act again.
Double Tequila please, with the works. To this chip on my shoulder. To a brave new world. To oblivion. Cheers.

Copyright Fran McNicol
published The Chronicle 1999

Huts Matter

The Vagabond Mountaineering Club has its’ club hut and spiritual home in Nant Peris, the cluster of slate stone cottages guarding the Llanberis Pass, cowering beneath the mighty Snowdon. The hut has recently been renovated and refurbished to a very high standard. Those of you who know the Vagabonds will be all too aware of how desperately overdue this work was, and of how the VMC struggled to maintain numbers, activity and cohesion as a club whilst without an effective base from which to venture forth. This article attempts to summarise the saga, in the hope that other clubs may benefit from our experiences. It has been a long haul but we finally have a Hut with a capital H, to enjoy and to share with the wider climbing community.
The Vagabonds MC started life as a splinter group from the West Derby YHA Club in Liverpool. YHA clubs were originally set up in 1943 to promote wholesome outdoor activity but membership was only allowed to the maximum age of 21. In 1948 a keen group of members at West Derby YHA were approaching cut-off time and decided to form their own club. The group first met on Tues 11th Jan 1949 and became the Vagabond MC, taking the name from a local tennis club. There were 9 original members; including 2 cyclists who resigned in the first year, the rest were walkers and climbers. Trips were mainly to North Wales by hitch-hiking or later by motor bike, staying at Idwal YH or the Tyn-y-Shanty, with occasional trips to Ben Nevis and Skye. The club membership grew slowly; in the mid ‘50s the Vags numbered about 30.
In 1952 the Vaynol estate had many unoccupied cottages and one in particular, near Nant Peris, had come to the club’s attention. Initially a 7 year lease was agreed at £13 per year and an additional £34 was raised to make it habitable. Water came from the stream via a tap but there was no sewage or electricity. The hut was officially opened on 6th September 1952. The Vagabonds club continued to grow steadily over the years, in numbers, objectives and stature. Club mags from the 70’s report early and significant Alpine ascents, exuberant cragging all around the country and a healthy social (drinking) scene centred on the Vaynol Arms in Nant Peris. Around 1980 the hut was sold by the Vaynol estate to a private owner, but the lease continued until 1989. The Vagabonds were in limbo for several years and finally decided to try and buy the property, valued then at £35,000. In 1994 after raising £9,000 from donations, we received a £30k grant from the Foundation for Sport and the Arts and the hut was ours. In 1995 £2.5k was spent on essential repairs.
However it soon became apparent that, after the years of uncertainty regarding the lease and the resultant lack of renovation, rising damp and a perishing flat roof meant that we needed to spend considerably more than this. The hut was lacking basic amenities, cold, damp, unhealthy, infested with rodents and people were increasingly reluctant to spend more than a single night there, particularly in winter. In 1998, proposals were put to AGM for a total re-build and accepted by the majority of members. Requirements included a better toilet and washroom, shower, new entrance, wet room / drying area, better kitchen, improved parking, and removal of the wooden stairwell (fire hazard). There were some strong objections; climbing huts were meant to be basic, certainly did not require a shower and there were fears that change would lead to a loss of the hut’s unique character. Around this time the BMC set up the Hut Group, a support committee which organised an annual symposium aimed at assisting clubs specifically with hut management, insurance, outside usage and other issues. This meeting and the associated resources were invaluable.
Planning was a minefield and took years to negotiate. Bed spaces in the Snowdonia National Park are closely monitored, as is undue expansion. Extensions have to be in character and materials used appropriate. There was little local support; as outsiders we were simply lucky not to conflict with home-grown interests. Plans were first presented in 1999 to raise the roof by one metre, move all sleeping upstairs, and extend into the car park, (estimate £60-70k for re-build). In 2000, Snowdonia Park turned down the plans, citing overdevelopment. Modifications were presented and turned down again. In 2001, a third set of plans on a new design were submitted, and rejected, still regarded as overdevelopment.
Eventually, a meeting was arranged between a Snowdonia Park official and senior club members, at the site, and a design thrashed out on the back of an envelope, with modifications in keeping with local tradition as recommended by the Park official. These hand drawn plans were then re-submitted to the Park Committee. In November 2001, the plans were finally accepted. Detailed drawings were completed by architect Allan Owen and three loose quotes were obtained from assorted local builders. We chose Mike Bailey, a CC member who came highly recommended by Ken Latham.
Now all that remained was how to fund the expansion? There seemed to be money available, lottery grants, sports foundation money; other clubs had been successful. Application followed application, tedious, time consuming, eventually fruitless. Sports England Lottery revised its policy in Feb 2001 to focus on sport development (Olympic) and disadvantaged groups. In 2003 they rejected our application as our hut development was of no strategic significance to the development of mountaineering, did not contribute to ‘sport development’, and offered no opportunities for target groups. There was no evident partnership funding or other source income and Sports England Lottery stated that they would only come in as a last resort to top up a prime sponsor. The Foundation for Sports and Arts could not offer a grant but suggested that they may offer an interest free loan. In later correspondence they would rescinded this offer as money was scarce. The Welsh Tourist Board offers grants for developing sites and buildings such as caravans and stables but would only commit to a cause if local jobs were to be offered. There are literally hundreds of minor sports charities in the North West that offer up to £3-5k to develop social amenities of an outdoor nature. We contacted a selection of these, all of whom would only offer support if the club itself had charitable status. We even wrote to a few sports stars and celebrities with connections to Merseyside, out of curiosity, asking for a hand out! Only 1 major soccer star replied, again in the negative. After 4 futile years of applications we came to the grim realisation that as a small and effectively private members’ climbing club, we did not qualify for a single penny of outside funding.
The solution that was found and the rebuild achieved is a truly magnificent reflection of how climbing can inspire and unite a group of disparate individualists into a team pursuing a common dream. Anyone who walks into the hut now, bowled over by the dryness, comfort and the warmth, is benefiting from the fruits of a collective obsession. We decided to fundraise within the club to cover the cost of the basic building work and to rely on members and work meets to subsequently fit out the interior. This tiny club, a total of only 60 members, spent its’ savings and in addition raised the money for a substantial loan from regular contributions from members and supporters. We had assets of approximately £18k and planned a loan of £20k. The entire membership committed to a small monthly payment, usually about £20, for 3-5 years, in order to service the loan and enable us to start work. Everyone has paid; many former members who haven’t been seen for years continue to contribute. There was no overt pressure applied yet the only excuse employed not to pay (temporarily) was unemployment.
The keys were handed over and the hut acceded to the architect in Easter 2004, supposedly for a year. Mike Bailey worked tirelessly and mostly alone for the best part of 3 years. There were some delays. It is not quite clear whether it was the heavy work on the cottage or the Ogwen guidebook which led to his heart attack! Luckily his recovery was relatively swift, although he went back to climbing well before he resumed work on our cottage (it was a dry autumn). The plans had to be returned to the Snowdon Park for minor alterations. For those 3 years we were vagabonds in more than name. The Climbers Club saw a vast influx of Vags, particularly the girls, keen to benefit from the convenient accommodation in our home turf and keep climbing. Helyg was the most popular, cosily communal, it felt the most like home. We also owe huge thanks to the Ceunant Mountaineering Club (Birmingham / Nant Peris) for their generosity with beds when we had none, often associated with vast quantities of port and Stilton. The Ceunant have been true friends indeed; they provided us with practical help and DIY expertise, fund raised for us as well as their own club, and finally donated a floor, which was then graced with “Bunney” tiling.
In autumn of 2006, we were returned the keys to a shell, which was warm, dry, insulated, and sound. That first weekend, we all rushed out to Wales to test the weatherproofing! We slept on the floorboards in the new bunkroom upstairs and the excitement was palpable. It was at this stage that the club really pulled together in a spectacular fashion. A year of work meets followed, all attended by 20 plus people, laughing, singing, working, painting, mixing, plastering, carpentering, plumbing, tea making and even doing a bit of climbing. Folk were generous with equipment, money, time, skills, and labour.
The first showers were symbolic, surreal and almost solemn moments, the smells of soap, shampoo and drying hair around the new fire a heady aroma of homecoming and success. The opening party was pure emotion; the recycled gymnasium floor was thoroughly tested as we danced ‘til dawn with the doors thrown open, light, music and fireworks pouring down the valley. Members came flooding back, those who had previously eschewed the cottage as a grim health hazard came in for a peep and ended up staying. New members were keen to join; 14 aspirants attended a weekend meet and have kept coming back. The club is buzzing again now, a vibrant climbing cooperative, based in Liverpool, commuting to North Wales nearly every weekend, climbing their socks off.
There are many reasons to join a club. The “old” reasons were partly financial: to share lifts, to split the cost of accommodation. But the true benefit of club membership is the opportunity to meet like minded folk with whom to dream and plot and scheme. With the advent of indoor climbing walls, new partners have become easier to find. Since the roads have improved, Liverpool to North Wales can be done in a day trip, although rising fuel prices may curb this tendency! However, the best part of any climbing trip is the craic around the fire; glowing with adrenaline, alcohol and achievement we can re-enact the highlights of the day, retell the tall tales, rehearse the dreams. Without a functional hut, the Vags were drifting and fading away. There was climbing aplenty going on; individual achievements in those homeless years were spectacular, (E7, 8a, new mixed routes in Scotland, new routes on the “Great Wall of China”, new peaks in Greenland) but there was no cohesion, no collective inspiration. Now we are a family again. The hut is occupied every weekend, membership is increasing, beers downed and routes climbed soaring. The crags of North Wales are crawling with Vagabonds!
If you are lucky enough to live in the Cheshire/Merseyside area you can join the Vags. If you live elsewhere but are a member of an “adult” BMC affiliated club then you can apply to use the main room and see North Wales in its true glory. This room is available one weekend per month, see website for dates and rates (www.vagabondmc.com). We are justifiably proud of our Hut, the location is truly unique and the facilities now more than adequate for your perfect climbing weekend. We will share it occasionally, partly because we are still paying for our collective dream, but most of all because we would like others to have the chance to see the sun set over Snowdon from our front lawn after the best of climbing days!
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