Feature / Addiction, Peppa Pig, pain and Black Sheep

I feel the urge again. ‘Go on, do it’, my mind goads me. I resist the temptation for now but I know it will not be long before I feel that compulsion and desire again. Is this addiction I ask myself – an overwhelming desire to continue with a course of action? It is not affecting me physically (yet), but I confess that my mind is elsewhere. I’ve fed the addiction with ever increasing frequency in recent days but the last 24 hours have seen it rise to a level where I am suffering socially. I talk of nothing else. Friends, family and colleagues all suffer. I can stand it no longer I must have my fix!

I check the latest weather forecast on the BBC website. It shows little change to when I last checked it, just 30 minutes ago. I’m calmer now; I’ve satiated my desire. Other questions feed my mind – can you really become addicted to the BBC weather forecast?

The outlook isn’t kind. Gale force winds, torrential rains and amber flood warnings for the high ground. But this is July, I keep reminding myself, it wasn’t meant to be like this. Got to continue though, the weight of expectation is palpable and can we really give up this endeavour that we set six months ago? The simple answer is no, too much to lose.

The journey to our preparatory retreat is long and tedious. The clouds lash down their rain and night draws in. Harrogate, Blubberhouses, Settle. Evocative names of Yorkshire pass by with the occasional aquaplane of tyres working a little too hard for the wet environment. Eventually we arrive at our destination, warm, cosy and atmospheric. The olfactory sense being pushed to overload – hearty food and strong ale mixed with damp from outside. I partake of the food but Duncan teases me with a pint of Black Sheep Ale. I resist – my reward will wait until tomorrow, for now it is orange juice. Early to bed – one final check of the weather: it looks better; light rain for the morning. Addiction satisfied. Sleep comes easier than I expected.

The alarm rings. We both jolt; 5am start. I claw for my Blackberry, pushing the buttons furiously. I must see the final weather forecast. It gets better; dry with sunshine and clouds, rain due late afternoon. I utter my thanks to the weather gods. We breakfast in relative silence, a little too early to be excited and a little too late to be worried. The boot laces pulled tight, the rucksacks packed, we bid farewell to our Yorkshire abode. The next time I see you my lovely, I intend things to be very different. We will celebrate together, Yorkshire Beer and Lancashire lad in harmony and mutual respect.

We join the throngs of people slowly traversing their way to the foot of the first obstacle. Our differences are palpable – some seemingly prepared for Everest to those in just shorts, singlet and water bottle. A slow trudge upwards begins. We both feel fresh catching and passing numerous others as the climb becomes steep. It is then that the combination of Black Sheep and early morning fever catch up with Duncan – his mind comes back into sharp focus as he pictures his waterproofs still hanging in the wardrobe. Nothing for it now, we vow to complete this before rain comes to this part of England’s green and pleasant land. We reach the summit of the first of the major hills on our path. Visibility is negligible but a certain sense of satisfaction becomes us as I record the event. We feel fine and are ahead of schedule. The weather holds. Our own delight turns to wonderment and humbleness as a fellow human being with two prosthetic limbs slowly works his way to the summit.

Down, down, down. Knees jar a little. At last the visibility clears and we begin to enjoy our stroll, stretching to a brisk pace. A bog – large, long and little option of avoiding. We press on, the strength being sapped from every step as we haul our feet through damp, wet, boggy, mud for mile upon mile. I’m reminded of my daughter’s delight for Peppa Pig and ‘Jumping up and down in muddy puddles’. I feel no delight here – this is just a slog.

The Victorian majesty of architecture comes into view. It stands across the valley, a monument to an age long gone of steam and coal. Its beauty draws you towards it, its setting amplified by the hills around it. In our modern times this would be faceless steel and suspension wire but in the Victorian age brick was the chosen tool of construction. Our legs respond a little and pick up wanting to get nearer to this structure. I confess the prospect of a hot sausage butty with lashings of brown sauce also draw us on – a snack van by the side of the road did not seem out of place to this weary duo.

Refreshed we press on, tiny as we pass under the huge expanse of the Victorian viaduct. We opt for short and steep. Foolish? Perhaps, but we put our faith in the guidebook and start to climb the second obstacle. It is still very damp under foot, each step seeping water from the ground with a gentle squelch, just a bit more strength being drained away in the trickle of water. There are less people now. Perhaps some have given up; some taking longer to avail themselves of refreshment; others taking a different route to the same high destination.

We set our sights on a lone figure in the distance. Small targets help break up the monotony of the climb. The solitary figure is struggling, pausing more than we do for frequent rest and water. The catch is on the steepest part of the climb – he is weary, calves cramping. What little encouragement we can muster, we give freely, joking together as the sun breaks the cloud. Oh the irony of the sun, teasing my addiction. The path levels out and we call back with glee to our short-lived companion, letting him know that his pain will soon be over, for a while at least.

Destination two reached we take our time to appreciate our efforts and the efforts of Mother Nature beyond us. The Forest of Bowland, the Lake District hills and Yorkshire Dales all resplendent in the sunshine. I look longingly towards Lancashire; the fells where I grew up now visible. I appreciate their rolling beauty so much more now that my visits to them are somewhat infrequent. Maybe one day I’ll return permanently. Reflection and reminisce fall away and we look towards the final objective.

Down, down, down; knees jarring more now. The skin blisters slightly, toes cramp in the front of boots. Shouldn’t coming downhill be fun? The sun and strong breeze starts to burn the sweat on my face. An irritation, just an irritation, at least it’s not raining. Then something really irritating happens. I didn’t see him, didn’t expect to see him either. Why would I? He was only slight of build, a mere wisp compared to my own frame. His cheery ‘hello’ reaches my ears only after he ran past me. Regular, precise, sure-footed steps force their way fleetingly and quickly down the path before me. Into the distance he trails. A fell runner. Ten years old, perhaps. Shortly, his dad is past us in a blur also. When your energy is draining and your body feeling the pain do you really want to be reminded of your own frailty? Whilst the mind wished to run after them and ‘kick’ them the body was simply unable to keep pace. I satisfied myself with a muttered curse as the sun laughed at my addiction and my face cooked in the sweat of the energy expended.

This is it. Final obstacle. Conquer this and your burden will be relieved. We started the final climb together, any remnants of conversation long since dissipated. Quiet determination, aching limbs and painful feet. I trudged. That is all I can describe it as – I trudged. Duncan fell behind a little, I became embroiled in my own thoughts – not long to go now I repeated. Slowly the ‘Devils Staircase’ came into view. Steep, very steep. One man was standing at its foot looking outwards not at it – the message clear; this is not about physical strength, the body is already weary. This is about mental strength; can you keep on trudging as the increasing steepness takes its toll?

I trudged, slowly. Duncan caught me. Again no conversation; only a look into each other’s eyes. Pain. Yes this was going to hurt. Really hurt. The burden of expectation now pushed through and the realism that I couldn’t turn back even if I wanted to. Finish what I had come to accomplish; there wasn’t an alternative. So upwards we went. I can’t recall too much other than the fact that I was weary, lungs bursting and feet blistering. As the summit approached it all fell away quickly, enthusiasm and quiet satisfaction took over in the final few metres. A sense of achievement as we celebrated with photos at the trig point; taking our time to take it all in and helping others to record their own achievements. At last I knew I could be grateful to those that had given freely to our small endeavour.

A familiar face walked towards us, weary, yet bright, a large smile across his face. He had been our companion for such a short time on the second slope but we had felt his pain. The quiet satisfaction of reaching his own goal radiated across his face. I shook his hand heartily.

And so the descent again. Down, down, down. Yes the knees jarred, toes crushed and blisters nagged but psychologically it was over. Now it was just about consolidating the achievement and driving the weary limbs to their destination. It even rained. I cared not, my addiction now quashed, withdrawal by three peaks. My thoughts now were about what awaited me – the pace quickened. It was a long and dull two-hour descent, but finally there she was – my Yorkshire beauty, arms open, waiting to smother her Lancashire lad in her bosom of Black Sheep Ale.

Postscript

My daughter Libby Pearl was born six weeks early and spent a number of days in the special care baby unit at Leicester General Hospital. I vowed that I would put something back into ‘special care’ when I was able.

On 7 July Duncan Hanslow and I completed the Yorkshire Three Peaks challenge in a time of 10 hours, 56 minutes on behalf of Bliss (the special care baby charity). My thanks go to all that sponsored us and should you wish to make a donation then the website is still open www.justgiving.com/Ian-Baines . To date we have raised over £900 on the website.

A special thank you must go to the HFMA. I was both touched and humbled on 5 July when the HFMA FT conference dinner raised £1,780 for Bliss as its charity for the evening. The generosity of the attendees at the conference dinner was wonderful. The evening was a complete surprise for me so my thanks to all involved in organising this and in keeping it secret from me.

I pleased to say that Libby is now two and, although a handful, is in fine health.

Ian Baines is director of finance, IT and estates/ deputy chief executive at Dudley and Walsall Mental Health Partnership NHS Trust.