Mountain Climbing in Rebok Classics

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Ahoy there! Well, dear reader, this entry was written(and forgotten about) a substantial portion of my life ago. 'Better late than never' is an excuse, so I won't say that. Nevertheless, here are some two year old musings.

I arrived into a warm and sunny Marseille on the afternoon of the 16th of June. My friend, Amandine, was running late so I had plenty of time to read some more of my (rather entertaining) chick lit(White Teeth, before you ask). She evenually arrived and we drove to one of the stunning calanques on the Med coast, where we were greeted by incredibly inviting turquoise water, although a little too cold for a dip. After a hike along the coast we reached a point from where we had a view back to Marseille, over the water. A sign on the path warned of falling rocks. That is the most useless sign I reckon. It might aswell say "random accidents ahead, life's a lottery, be lucky!"(Thanks Jimmy Carr) We were lucky, and made it back to the car unscathed.
Since meeting Amandine in September, I have heard numerous stories and anecdotes realating to Mont Sainte Victoire, a mountain near her house. On the drive back I could see many mountains, all of which I thought were fairly sizable, and one of them must be the famous mountain of which she spoke. As we rounded a bend on the highway, another mountian, this one shrouded in cloud, came into view. That, it turns out, was Mont Sainte Victoire! "Christ," I thought, "we're going to climb that thing?" We were indeed, but not before two days of rich French food and naturally, cheese.
Ratatoullie is a dish typical of southern France, and everyone's mother makes it a certain way. Amandine's mother's was rich and tasty, yet only the usual suspects were used in the making of it. Magic. I shall no doubt be experimenting with that upon my return to Australia! Dinner party perchance?
Sunday was the day that we were going to climb Sainte Victoire. A breakfast of cheese, bread and fruit put us in good sted for the 500 plus vertical metres that awaited us. From afar, it stands out like a cumulonimbus on the horizon, and up close it is even more imposing. Rather than taking the walk-in-the-park-with-a-steady-incline route, Amandine and I opted for the more challanging route. It started out pretty tame, i.e. loose rocks and a 40 degree slope, but is soon turned into near vertical climbs, with nothing but a few sun tanned fingers and a couple of Reboks for security. I lost count of the spots where one slip would be curtians, or atleast five broken legs. One point actually was vertical, and chain bolted to the smooth limestone face was the only assistance on offer, if going up was your perogative. You know when you were a kid and pretended to be climbing a mountain by laying down on the driveway? Well this really was like that. Very good fun I say, but there was one point where I genuinley was scared. About 100 metres below the summit one had to traverse the mountain side via a dirt path no wider than 10cm. Smooth limestone meant no handholds to speak of. A near vertical drop to the left meant no chance of arresting a fall until alteast the southern hemisphere. Leaning into the mountain, one foot placed gingerly infront of the other, we inched across to the (relative) safety of a couple square metres of rock. If one weasn't awake before, you sure as hell were now! A few more sketchy ascents later, we were at the top. About 500 vertical metres in two hours. Mountain goats get much respect from now on! A picnic at 1000 metres was had, with a view to some rock climbers doing it the soft way; with ropes.

There is no doubt more which is worthy of inclusion, however those memories need to be unlocked and subsequently added to this blog. Standby more updates. Ciao

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