The day Speirsy planned our adventure...

It is a well known fact that certain Verdes adventurers have other pastimes. For example, Dicko runs, Bolt-on, Bod Beag and Mad Dog are keen motor cyclists, Shazza is into martial arts, Tommo likes fishing and Phildo has, on occasion, been seen in a small dinghy.

Speirsy, however, plays golf.

There’s nothing wrong with golf, except when it gets in the way of adventuring, so the following paragraphs depict an alternative tale of adventure that could unfold if Speirsy is ever allowed free rein to do the trip planning.

Picture the scene.

A crowded car park. The rattle of clubs and golf carts making their way to the club house for signing in.

Verdes adventurers are starting to trickle in to the car park and are getting parked up, endeavouring to position their various modes of transport well away from the obligatory Bentleys, Astons and Jaguars. Speirsy, however, labours under the illusion that his Vectra is equally at home in this millionaire’s playground and abandons his wheels between a Range Rover Vogue Autobiography and a Porsche Cayenne.

‘It should be safe enough there’ he quips and disappears behind the Vectra to change.

As we struggle out of the vehicles, we each look around to establish the types of kit we need for this adventure. As aways, Bolt-on is travelling light and has thrown caution to the wind, leaving the golf bag at home and turning up with a mere 5 iron.

‘I chose a mid range club’ he smirked ‘as this will give me length and accuracy. And you’ll see the benefits of having only one club in the later stages, when I’m still fresh and you’re all knackered.’

Sporting his mountain biker goretex and half finger gloves, he looks all set for the onslaught ahead although his SPD trainers do give him a funny walk. At least, that’s what he claims.

Next up is Bod Beag, a complete novice to golf but still smiling like a village idiot. He has borrowed a few clubs from his father in law, but doesn’t have a bag. No problem for our trusty ML – emptying out his 65 litre rucksack, he stuffs the iron ware into the sack, dons his winter boots, slips into his crampons and walks over to where Bolt-on is chewing on a lettuce leaf.

Tommo, our brother from over the border, is obviously no stranger to the world of golf, although it has been some time since he wasted a good walk. He has brought some new graphite shafted clubs and as he slips into his golf shoes and wind proof top, he comments on Bod’s crampons.

‘Yeah, well I don’t have golf shoes’ beamed Bod ‘and I figured I would need the extra grip’

The laughter is broken by the scream of tyres and the smell of burning rubber wafts into the car park. Dicko has arrived in his Turdis, accompanied by Selby, and a better choice of passenger you cannot get; who else would you want in an Alfa than an Alfa mechanic?

The Turdis lives up to its name as Selby and Dicko unload not only 2 sets of clubs, but two golf trolleys, a candleabra, a table, some chairs and a hamper.

‘What’s with picnicware Dicko…aren’t you playing?’ guffaws Bolt-on.

'Thought we might dine in style at the 19^th’ says Dicko ‘besides, with Selby’s knees the way they are, we may hire a cart.’

‘There’s f**k all wrong with my knees’ whined Selby, as he hobbled over to the group ‘ah’ll be reet. And what’s this about hire a cart? I only came coz I thought you said ‘tart’’

All of a sudden there was the crunching of gears and we all dive for cover as a tractor bursts into the car park.

Except, this is no tractor.

Mad-dog has made his appearance on his Moto Guzzi, ChiPs helmet firmly in place and a half set of clubs on his back.

He knows a special place that makes designer bike wear; obviously he has asked them to combine golf and biking into one cunning ensemble, because his leathers are tucked into his boots plus-four style and he is only wearing a biker glove on his left hand.

Fiendlishly clever!

As I walk over to this hardy bunch of adventurers, I ask if we have any missing.

‘Yeah Shaz ain’t coming (as per)’ says Dicko. ‘She’s taking a class on how to wind a 3 iron around an assailants head’.

‘Phildo?’ I ask.

‘Nope’, says Bolt-on. ‘he’s off to Harrogate in his MG , so he’ll be out for a few days.’

‘Ginger? Any word on Father Time?’ asks Mad-dog.

‘Ginger says golf’s for poofs’ I say, ‘ besides, the last time he played, shafts were wooden and brassy niblicks were part of everyone’s bag…’

Throughout all this, Speirsy has been remarkably quiet, hidden behind his Vauxhall golf cart.

Few moments in life capture your imagination; the launch of a space shuttle, the unveiling of a rare masterpiece, the birth of a child, the sight of a tornado.

Speirsy’s entrance will go down as one of these moments.

He has obviously taken a great deal of time and effort to prepare for the adventure that was about to unfold and in many ways resembles a knight of old, readying for combat.

On his head he wears a bright yellow dayglo baseball cap – no, not the latest Tiger Woods, Nike affair retailing at £60 each. No, this was a unique brand – NYCC, stencilled on the back.

Where one would have expected a Lyle and Scott or indeed perhaps even a Pringle adorning his torso, Speirsy has opted for more functional attire. Sporting a brown, 30 tog Norwegian Survival pullover (with full face hood), he has at least paid some tribute to the golfing requirement and has at tied a silk cravat around his neck, over the top of his Helly Hansen roll neck.

A white leather golf glove is worn on his left hand, a diamond encrusted ring worn on the third finger, Alvin Stardust Style.

But these are no normal gloves; Priscilla has been growing his nails lately and he has specially adapted them to accommodate his new found talons.

A marvellous pair of tartan plus fours, with map pockets on the sides, covered his legs and were tucked into a pair of navy blue Ripon Rugby club socks.

Completing this assault on our senses and amidst this explosion of colour, is a pair of black and white golf shoes.

Unlike Bolt-on, Speirsy, a trained JESMEL, can never be accused of travelling light and, in an attempt to cover every golfing contingency, has elected to bring TWO bags and a blistering array of golfing hard ware. Checking that the compass and sat nav unit stitched into Bag ‘A’ are functioning and that the spare batteries are to hand, he walks over to the group.

‘Like the hat Speirsy’ shouts Dicko, ‘whats with the binoculars on top?’

‘They’re not binos, you daft civvy’ quips Speirsy, flicking the assembly down over his eyes, ‘they’re night vision goggles. When you numpties are thrashing around in the dark, I’ll still be playing to my handicap. I’m able to programme my satnav with waypoints to every hole and I can establish range and distance to plus or minus 2 metres, even more if there’s a war and the yanks give more satellite access.’

‘fascinating’ gasps Bolt-on, cleaning his ball. ‘now, can we get on and play, or are we going to stand around here all day admiring your gadgets?’

Our merry band sign in and establish a tee-time and head off to the first tee.

Speirsy breaks out a map and establishs a ten figure grid reference for our location. As Bolt-on tees up and gets ready, Speirsy is on the phone to the Met Office to establish exact wind direction for the north Yorkshire area and has asked for an Environmental agency update to the flood warnings too. Apparently there are a few water hazards on this adventure and our JESMEL is taking no chances.

As Bolt-on goes through his tai-chi warm up routine, Speirsy is furiously punching in waypoints and range information into his sat nav and is trying to secure a real time uplink to a military satellite that can give trajectory and targetting information direct to his Blackberry.

Bolt-on emerges from his trance like state, having slowed his heat rate down to 3 beats per hour. He addresses the ball and rolls his shoulders. His concentration is palpable.

A true master of his craft.

Slowly, he rotates and the club comes up perfectly, shoulders, elbow and wrist engaging in the exact sequence, then the down stroke, the club head is acclerating, his eyes are glued to the white orb that will soon be speeding down the fair way…

‘BING BONG….UPLINK ESTABLISHED’ announces Speirsy’s Blackberry and the hapless Bolt-on pulls his shot, the ball gets topped and trickles 3, maybe 4, metres along the fairway.

‘Thanks for that!’ fumes Bolt-on as Speirsy elects to play next. First he takes a wind reading and punches it into the Blackberry. Somewhere, orbiting at 150km is a Russian satellite that is tracking his every move and working out trajectories, ranges and the offsets that he must punch in for him to make the correct club selection.

It’s all very Star Wars. Never has golf been played like this. No more lost balls, no more ‘in the rough’ no more collateral damage and shouts of ‘fore’.

It’s scary…a new era. And our very own Speirsy is the one pushing the envelope.

Bing bong, his targetting data has arrived and he makes his club selection. He has selected a huge one wood for the task and it rightly carries the brand name ‘big Bertha’.

We all look at each other in wonder. How can mere humans compete in this arena?

Suddenly the battle field we know as the golf course has changed shape and our chances of winning are reduced horribly.

Technology wins.

As he raises big Bertha, we all look down range to see this technology in action. So transfixed are we in looking at the target, we completely miss the fact that Speirsy’s other technology has slipped down over his eyes, turning his summer day into a landscape of greens. The accelerating one wood collides with earth, tee and eventually ball, sending it spinning violently sideways, in what is technically called a ‘slice’, but what Verdes now call a ‘Priscilla’. The ball fetches up 50m from the tee in deep rough and no amount of satellite tracking can find it.

As Speirsy lumbers off the tee, fumbling with his technology, Selby hobbles up to lay waste to the fairway. No technology for this lad. He pulls a 3 iron from his bag, tees up and mashes a credible 150m effort down the centre of the fairway. Bending to retrieve his tee, his knees give a warning wobble and straightening up, he manages to walk off the tee like a young Elvis, or bambi on ice.

Dicko is in a quandary. A left hander, he has borrowed some right handed clubs. After experimenting with various right over left and left over right combos, he finally decides to go right over left.

With the sun in his eyes, the bold Dicko launches a perfectly struck shot from the face of his 3 wood and as the ball bounces twice and rolls up to the flag, he is beside himself with glee…this must be a possible double birdy.

As he skips from the tee giggling, our technology wizard consults his Blackberry, plots a few projections and calmly states that Dicko has played to the wrong hole, as per.

Our left handed compadre has only gone and played to the 17^th, leaving himself with a nasty putt off and a bit of catch up to be made.

So far in this adventure, we aren’t being very successful. Technology is failing us as is brute strength.

To try out ‘ignorance’, Bod Beag was next to the tee. This is a delicate operation, for each step in crampons takes some time.

Selecting ‘the biggest club I could find’, Bod Beag positions himself for his big hit. Cranking up, he takes an almighty swing at the ball and with a loud thwack we all look down range. There is no sign of it and even at full magnification, Speirsy’s goggles aren’t picking up anything.

A mystery: No ball, No clue, No sign.

Except one. A large scar in the grass, a deep gouge. Further examination reveals that at the end of this scar is a small white dimpled object. Bod Beag has driven his ball deep into the tee with such power that the ball has fused with the tee. Retrieval is impossible, so he plays another, hitting a nice safe shot 30m up the fair way.

Mad dog drags his half set to the tee and gets ready. Still wearing his helmet, he uses the darkened glass to subdue the light, thus correcting young Bod Beag’s over sight. Like an ageing Stig, he stands there, arms crossed, waiting for one of us to pass him a club.

Bolt-on takes a chance and passes him a 4 iron. Mad dog lines up and, consulting the architect’s drawings he has purloined for this course, works out that there’s a Tudor period sheepfold 200m to the left of the fair way and it might be worth a look.

Sending his ball hooking to the left, he gets out his laser measure to take some readings at his new find.

Stood there, in my windproof top, I select a 3 wood from my bag, remove the cover and consider the story so far.

Here we have everything golf stands for; technology, garish clothing, dodgy performance and a blame culture. Frustration and glee in equal measure.

It seems like a long, long way to the 19^th and Dicko’s candleabra.

And it dawns on me why, when I have time to spare, I walk past the clubs and pick up the boots and rucksack.

...and why Priscilla can't do Saturdays!

Tommo

Ingleborough, Yorkshire Dales. 16th January 2010

Saturday saw two of the Verdes adventurers head off to the Dales yet again. The Golf course remained closed due to snow which may have accounted for Speirsy putting in an appearance on a Saturday. Our intrepid ML Tommo had put out a call but due to the weather conditions (bad enough to kill a civvy - or even a viking, Ginger!) the response was limited.

Speirsy was first to the fore, closely followed by ??. So with just the two up for a challenge, it was into the Disco and away we went. The drive up was to be a good indicator of things to come. Drizzle followed by sleet then snow made parts of the journey up quite a challenge. However, the skills and nerve of our expedition driver got us to our drop off point safe and sound. (Still think the mighty Vectra would have been there in half the time…)

The weather was looking ominous as we passed the Railway Inn at Ribblehead. None of the tops were visible and a brisk breath certainly cooled the air. We parked up just short of the Hill Inn and prepared to tackle the northern route. Tommo had used this route several times during the Three Peaks challenges, but wasn’t used to seeing this area in daylight or snow. This is the shortest way up the mountain, being just 3 miles (4.8 km) to summit.

After we got kitted up we set off, the initial going was very slippery as the snow base layer had turned to slush. The lower areas were becoming patchy but in places it still came up to the knees. We started out across a limestone plateau with many caves, including Great Douk Caves and Meregill Hole. The wind dropped as we sheltered in the lea of the slope and it was a steady trog up the hill. Going was steady as Tommo had very little in the way of track to follow.

Back from a recent MRT tracking class, (Chief Running Bear) was able to identify 2 sets of tracks: a fell runner and a fairly hard core walker. Astounded by the detail gleaned, when asked how he could tell, he pointed up to the track, stating tread of shoe, gait and stride of foot placement and depth of imprint in snow, and ‘I just saw him run over that hill’ (well it happened something like that).

As the track started to rise away from the road, visibility started to degrade and we were down to about 20m. The going continued to become more arduous as the path passed through gullies and hidden drops. On one occasion our pair had to climb down an 8 footer and out the other side; use of poles and some good toe steps was the order of the day.

As we approached the steep climb to the shoulder of the subsidiary summit of Simon Fell we spotted a fellow walker making his way towards us. As he approached it was as like a vision from one of Tommo's magazines, clad from head to toe in Bergaus Gortex, wearing Goggles and Crampons - this chap was the dogs… He had set off to summit like us, but on the steep ascent could not find the path and felt the conditions were a little too treacherous. As he stated: if this was Scotland, that slope would be an avalanche risk.

Unperturbed, our two adventurers continued on their quest with the aim of getting at least as far as the last guy. As we reached the slope it became clear what the chap had been talking about. Large boulders of snow littered the lower regions; it looked like the sort of ball you get when building a snow man when you roll it along the ground. These bad boys had rolled themselves as they broke away. As we battled away on what must have been about a 60% slope, up to our waists in places, it was becoming clear that to go on would be foolhardy and while we like an adventure, we can’t be reckless (that’s Tommo’s speech, Speirsy was well up for it………)

(Editor's note: come on Speirsy - you were up for it after your third change of underwear..)

So as we reached the furthest most point of evidence of a walker, Tommo left his mark on Virgin snow and it was time to head back down to the wall for a cuppa and snack before heading back to the car.

It was at this stage that we had our first revelation - ‘sh*t I’ve lost a gaiter’. Tommo had looked down to see that he’d only got one on, where was the other? As we all know, they do have a tendency to come off especially when worn under your over trousers. On reflection, he did recall seeing another in the back of the Disco and thinking ‘Speirsy must have the same gaiters as me, I’ll put it in the back’. After some long leg pulling (gaiterless) we did consider grading Verdes days against the amount of protection required and today’s day was a ‘One Gaiter Day’ - I hate to think what a two gaiter day looks like!!!

The use of the slope to aid our descent made the initial extraction from the upper reaches somewhat quicker. It is still believed that Speirsy’s twin check trail can be seen from space..

Watch the video to witness Speirsy in action...

On the way back down we had time to reflect on the morning’s endeavours, it was at this stage that Tommo made another revelation and stated he was like a Ferrari? Was it because he was dressed in Red? Doesn’t start well in the cold? Thinks he’s a stallion? As you can imagine Speirsy didn’t give Tommo a chance to explain so if any readers would like to add why they think Tommo could be a Ferrari then add your comments.

As we returned to the lower plateau we did start to see a few other walkers, however, only one group were going to venture the summit (me thinks not). We did however, meet a young lady walking a lower path and, on exchanging greetings, it became clear she was from North of the Border too. Within seconds Tommo had established a near bloodline and confirmed that they had been born in the same hospital bed and raised by the same wolves….

Once back at the car it was check gaiter number two was present then off to the pub for hot tea and butties.

It was a go day on the hill. Conditions underfoot were testing and challenging. It would have been nice to have hit the summit, but it wasn’t going to be done from the Northern route on Saturday.

Once again it is amazing to think just how much we do have on our own doorstep, so a few more trips to the Dales and maybe the moors are in order for 2010.

Speirsy, Queen of the Desert.

Pen y Ghent, Yorkshire Dales. 10th January 2010

Encouraged by our previous expedition to Whernside, Verdes decided to make best use of the snowy weather this weekend and traipsed back to the Dales to tackle PyG.

Adventurers on this excursion were Tommo, Mad Dog, Bolt-on and Dicko. Sadly Speirsy, Queen of the desert couldn't make the return match as he was 'on call'. We weren't quite sure what this meant but presumably he made some money at it in spite of the bad weather and the lack of shelter behind the bus station.

Our sherpa, Bod Beag, couldn't make it either as he had chipped a nail and couldn't get a baby sitter, so we had to carry our own gear.

The roads over to Horton in Ribblesdale were ok, but the high winds were causing the white stuff to drift; no problem for the adventure wagon though and, giving the middle digit to the greenies, Tommo skillfully carved out a route to get us safely on site.

As we climbed ever higher, the wind got ever stronger and it was really blasting into your face across the moors. As we got on to PyG proper and started on the scrambly bit, the wind combined with icy conditions underfoot to make the ascent both arduous and dangerous.

The aforementioned wind must have been gusting at around 60mph and with temperatures of -6 degrees, it made for a cool trip to the top.

Ginger is probably reading this and saying either:

'ice, -6 degrees, 60mph winds... it was a viking day Davie..go for it!' or...

'bloody morons....I had nothing to do with training him'

...hopefully the former!

We didn't take any snaps at the top (too cold) and decided to beat a hasty retreat via the west side of the mountain. But now we had the full effect of the wind on our right hand side and it was threatening to blow us over.

Time for a Verdes solution.

To our left was a steep slope with a good runout that looked like it would be good to slide on. Emboldened by last weeks tactics on Whernside, it was decided to launch ourselves down this slope and 'see what happened'.

All very technical stuff.

Ensuring we all had a breaking mechanism (Davie's walking poles...and its still broken Dicko!) we took the plunge over the edge and sledged on our rear ends for a good 50m down the steep west face.

A quick(ish) jaunt through thigh deep snow brought us to the path and we used this to get back to Horton.

The cafe was open and the bacon butties and mugs of tea very therapeutic.

A classic Verdes day out; adventure and therapy all in one package.

Davie

Last blast of 2009 - Whernside, Yorkshire Dales. 31st December

As 2009 drew to a close, 3 of the Verdes adventurers (Davie, Rich S and Speirsy (PQotD)) set off on a cold, but clear New Years Eve morning to the Yorkshire Dales. It had been a few years since the Verdes lads had set about the Yorkshire 3 Peaks, but one of them was going to be scaled, which was still to be decided. In previous years it had been an annual ritual to bag all three (hope to resurrect again in 2010).

Rich drove up for the day and Davie provided the transport to the dales. There was still snow on the roads and the forecast was for possible wintry showers over higher ground. Though the Vectra would have been the car of choice, Davie was keen to see if the Discovery ‘could go beyond the school gates!!’. The onboard satnav read like the Times Educational supplement, school league tables’ edition. Never mind streets or towns it was 'Infant' or 'Junior'. (Typical Land rover though, not a state school in the system).

The drive over took the back route through Pately Bridge and Grassington, then via Skipton. This was a most interesting drive as Speirsy kept his two companions enthralled with intricacies of emergency planning. Though Davie and Rich did find it difficult to take the big man seriously as he sat in the front wearing, what was described as a Norwegian Jumper? What in gods name was he doing wearing wool and micro fibre in this day and age. Speirsy stated that it wasn’t wool but in fact made from Polar bear fur (as the Polar Bear is white and his jumper was brown, we can only speculate what part of the bear the jumper came from!!!)

First stop was Horton in Ribblesdale, with a view of scaling Pen y Ghent. As we pulled into the car park, to Davie's dismay he spied a ticket machine and realised that there may be a charge. The canny Scot was having none of it and knew of a place up the road where we could park for free. Plus Speirsy didn’t have any decent winter gear and would have probably struggled on the ascent (he normally does so no change there!!)

So the decision was made to try for the highest of the Yorkshire three peaks, ‘Whernside’ standing at over 2400 ft it is often termed the 'roof' of Yorkshire. We parked close to the junction of the B6255 and B6479 roads by Ribblehead, with an excellent view towards the Viaduct.

Our intrepid adventurers were keen to try and work off some of the Christmas excess developed over the festive period.

(The above picture has been stretched and airbrushed, but Speirsy still looks like Shrek, Davie like the dancing baby and Rich S would get the support of Joanna Lumley should he want to settle in this country - ‘Ayo Gurkali’)


We started out on the standard route via the Viaduct, passed the signal box and up to the Blea Moor tunnel. The path was extremely Icy and there was about 2 foot of snow on the ground, deeper in places where it had drifted.

We were not alone on the hill and several parties were seen in the distance. The walk in was steady with Davie setting a nice even pace. There had been a fresh covering of snow the previous day, which did make the going a little strenuous at times. As we cleared the tunnel and started up the main ascent, the slab area that Rich thought could be an issue was not to be seen (covered in about 3 foot of snow)

We left the main path as it heads over into Dentdale, and took the signed path heading west to the summit. The climb is steady and the views were stunning. The weather was still undecided. It had been good to us thus far, with visibility out to several miles. However, darker clouds on the horizon did signal the possibilities of some tastier conditions.

Reaching the main ridge, the wall and fence were both covered with snow. From the summit we could see Howgills into the Lake District, across Ribblehead viaduct to Ingleborough and Pen-y-ghent in the south east.

The wind chill on the top was estimated to be about -16. (Which wasn’t an issue for Speirsy in his Norwegian Jumper)? The wind had started to pick up and once you stopped moving you did start to feel the cold. As we made the summit the views were pretty impressive! The summit trig is tucked behind the ridge wall. Our band of brothers found a spot out of the wind (Speirsy behind a wall and the others behind Speirsy) and tucked onto a quick bit of scoff before heading down.

Davie at this stage produced the buy of the season, an all in one multi activity eating utensil. This 16 in 1 piece of kit was swiftly produced to aid the consumption of a bowl of pasta. I think the pasta was bigger than the fork!! It was more like something you’d see in a dentist for taking out fillings (only joking)

We were joined on the summit by several other groups amongst which was a family group in jeans and trainers - it makes you realise why the MRT are kept so busy. A couple of chaps appeared with a dog. As we sat eating lunch the wee terrier sat in front of us, turned its head and licked its genitals, Rich said in a thoughtful voice how he wished he could do that, to which he was told if he asked the dog nicely…… (OK the old ones are the best ones!!)

The normal descent is to the south west following the ridge wall. However, this wasn’t always visible due to drifting. Rich was having other ideas, and the sight of him carrying his ice axe, and a Cheshire cat grin was ominous. It hadn’t twigged on the walk in, when going over what kit we were carrying, that our newly fledged ML didn’t have a map or compass and was only carrying his crampons, ice axe and a rope. So when he set off down something that even Eddie the Eagle would have had problems on, the sphincter started to twitch in anticipation.

The route chosen was sloping in places about 50 – 60%. The ice axe came out and the walking poles shortened as all those lessons about moving over steep ground came flooding back. Once we found a couple of deeper channels on the slope, it was time to practice the ice axe self arrest drills. First away was our ghurka ML. With grace and style he executed a perfect arrest, controlling his speed and coming to a gentle stop. Shrek was next, using poles rather than an axe, he carved a zig zag route down the slope, his posterior cutting a channel that was possible visible from space.

(Editor's note: actually it was TWO channels Speirsy...I thought a tractor had passed by... )

Davie was next, with less mass than Speirsy to help him on his way, the 'prepared run' did however increase his momentum and he shot past Rich, poles in hand, with a startled deer look in the eye. However, the initial run had wet the appetite of all three and very opportunity was seized to go down on our ar*es.

Once we had cleared the main slope and reached the lower plain, going did become difficult. The ground was very uneven and drifting snow was waist deep in places. It was at this time that the weather closed in and driving snow reduced visibility to about 50 meters. It was then a worry that we’d be snowed in at Ribblehead, as the only real shelter was the Railway Inn; the idea of trying to explain THAT to the wives would probably take some doing. Fortunately the weather did ease and by the time we had returned to the road, it did become clear that we would be able to get home.

So as the day drew to an end our three intrepid adventurers reflected on a good quality day in the hills. Whernside was a good tester after the Christmas break, clearing the lungs and burning off a little of the Christmas festivities.

This was an excellent days outing in our own backyard. Here's to an active and adventureous 2010.

Speirsy