The French Connection
Christine on her way out of Cregols. Image: Jo Croimins
The Lot region of France, adjoining the possibly better known department Dordogne, is a mecca for cave divers.
I first visited in 2006 as a trainee cave diver and in my sidemounted 12 litre cylinders, had a blast visiting all the ‘classic’ sites such as the Emergence de Ressel, St Georges, Cabouy, Fontaine de Truffe, Source Landenouse as well as the lesser visited sites such as Emergence de Cregols.
The following year I supported Rick Stanton and John Volanthen in dragging all their gear to sump 5 in the Truffe while they pushed the end at sump 12. Subsequent trips were in a similar vein, a mixture of tourist diving, training and exploration. And of course, enjoying the wine, food and scenery the region had to offer, in addition to excellent canoeing on the rivers Celé, Lot and Dordogne.
Going on holiday to the Lot with the Cave Diving Group always leads to adventures and we always took our ropes ladders and dry caving gear to have a ‘day off’ from diving to visit the other caving systems in the region.
Despite visiting the region regularly on and off for almost 20 years, it had never once occurred to me to ride a bike there.
Now, with my newfound passion of cycling and triathlon, I was very excited about visiting such a stunning region and being able to combine my two sports on the same trip.
I was super keen to kick off with a loop of the two rivers that run through the region, the Lot and the Dordogne. Peppered with classic cave diving sites I loosely named the route ‘cave divers loop’ and the 100km mostly flat ride, took in some stunning scenery.
The first thing I noticed was that, by being on a bike, I was obviously going much slower than a car and could notice the classic French buildings nestled in the rock faces, the wildlife and the beautiful summer river ambience that you just don’t notice when you are driving to the dive site, your mind on the job ahead.
I started in Marcilhac-sur-Celé which boasts probably the most famous cave diving site in Southern France, Emergence de Ressel. That would come at the end though, as I set of in the opposite direction to do the route anti-clockwise. I passed through beautiful gorges, passed old water mills and stunning villages. I stopped halfway in Cajarc, hoping that being a Sunday lunchtime something would be open for some proper food. There were a couple of restaurants that claimed to be fully booked and I finally managed to get some nice pastries and a cold cola from the patisserie. I was never really sure if the restaurants were booked or if they just didn’t like English cyclists. I had noted a rather less than friendly tone in France since the Brexit debacle. I’m still not sure what that whole thing was meant to achieve. All it has done is made it harder to take French wine back home.
Not far from Cregols I was somewhat surprised to see the Canyon-Sram ladies pro team bus parked up. I got a bit bedevilled on directions at the roundabout and was very relieved to set off without having any clip-in fails in front of the pro peloton!
La Piscalerie. A nice (but out of bounds) dive worth doing just once.
I set off again in the glorious sunshine and it was getting rather hot as I tackled the only climb in the route. I started to flag a bit over the last 10km and was glad to see the familiar roadside cliffs which indicated the Ressel on my left. It was the first time I had seen the new car park which had been built to accommodate the ever-growing cave diving community.
Back in 2006 you would be lucky to see another car perched on the side of the road near the cave. And if you did, there was a good chance you knew the diver or had heard of them. You would undoubtably end up in a bar with them later.
Now, the car park had been built to get cave divers off the road as the line-up of multiple cars and vans was getting more and more dangerous and unfair to locals. I stopped to take a look. It was absolutely rammed.
I arrived back in Marcilhac-sur-Celé disappointed that the ice cream shop was closed, being a Sunday afternoon.
Feeling the effects of a 100km ride in the heat, I went for a lay down by the river and ate a banana. It was tranquil, apart from the toad chorus that echoed around the Celé and the sound of water rushing down the wier.
La belle France.
I took a day off and fettled my diving gear, thinking about where I’d like to go.
Diving solo isn’t very sociable but I’ve never really had an issue with it. I had got used to diving with others as it was kind of drummed into me over the last 12 years. But I was always capable of diving alone, having been brought up in UK caves where diving as a team wasn’t always possible. I found it much safer than diving with a poorly trained buddy. Poorly trained being the key words. A well trained buddy is a huge asset.
I needed some gas so drove to Gramat to get some fills from Olivair. Olivier set up the gas station just along the road from where we always used to get gas from Frenchman, Andre Grimal. I missed the spontaneous parties and BBQs we would get tangled up in waiting for gas, and the excitement of meeting and befriending other occasional cave divers you might come across at the same time. Andre would test out his homebrew Eau-de-vie on us and it was quite deadly.
I arrived but the gates were locked. He was unlikely to be gone long, so I waited. Then another car pulled up. A Belgian cave diver called Jo was also waiting for gas and we got chatting. He was here with his girlfriend but she didn’t dive, so he was also facing diving alone. It didn’t take long before we were planning dives together and I was grateful of the company.
Over the next week we had some very cool adventures, though mainly in places I had been before. I added some interest by trying to take photos and showing Jo around places he had never been, such as the Cregols. I was amazed to see other divers in there. In years gone by it was the place where you were guaranteed to be alone.
We did some touristing and photo dives in Ressel and Truffe and a disastrous fail at trying to find Combe Negre. But I was itching to get back onto my bike and try my hand at an ascent of Rocamadour. It was steep at the bottom but such an iconic climb which still had the Tour de France scrawlings all over it and inside the tunnel. I was utterly delighted to manage a clean ascent with no stopping, in the warm evening sunshine.
It had always been my plan to visit friends who lived in the south of France and I chose the middle weekend to make a foray, some four hours south, to the Herault region. My first stop of course was to Jean Tarrit in Larzac. Jean has been a friend for many years and he offered me his annexe in his chic and rustic stone house up on top of the Larzac plateau. Of course, I was invited to visit one of his local caves with his friend Philippe who I had done some surveying with several years ago. It was another surveying trip and it was nice to back on rope again. At least, it was until we met the 3rd pitch which was slathered in thick, gloopy mud which took several episodes of pressure washing to remove.
All I could hear from the 3rd pitch was lots of squelching and protests in English that it was ‘absolutely ‘orrible!!”
I decided of course, once caving was done, to go for a bike ride. I had the whole of the Herault gorge at my disposal, including the hairpin climb with stunning views that always offered the gateway to the region. The day began in glorious sunshine as I parked up at St Maurice de Navacelles. I told Jean not to worry about me and I would be fine. So he didn’t. As I climbed the really quite steep ascent above the Herault gorge the clouds started to gather and as I entered the commune de Rogues, I could hear big rolls of thunder in the hills. I got a move on but before long, I was faced with a steep, never ending descent on wet roads covered in slippery leaves and branches.
Do. Not. Crash.
The wind picked up and the heavens opened, accompanied by the intimidating claps of thunder and terrifying lightening, with a deafening crash only a nano second later which went right through me. Despite being quite warm, hypothermia was still a possibility if I stopped, now that I was totally drenched. My gilet was as much use as a chocolate fire guard. I sheltered under a tree which only threatened to fall on me, so I made haste to the next village, hiding under a shop canopy. The place was deserted. Sheets of rain and lightening carried on relentlessly and water poured in rivers down my face, my front, my back and I the visibility was reduced to a number of metres.
I made it to Gournies. I knew there was a cafe there as the rain started to ease off and steam rose from the roads and the river Herault.
I pulled up and asked if they were serving food. Perhaps a sandwich?
Non.
Coffee?
The grumpy guy nodded and in some kind of sympathy, offered me a paper napkin to dry my face. He then delivered the smallest expresso coffee I have ever seen in my life. Cheers dude.
I made it back up the climb to Saint Maurice, which was a lot easier than I imagined and drove back to jean’s place, insisting on taking him out for pizza which turned into yet another epic.
I had to get fuel for my van first, but by the time we found a parking spot and the pizza place, Jean pointed out that we might have to fill up my car again!
I almost crashed the thing laughing!
Next stop was Nimes, a couple of hours further south, to catch up with my old boss Craig Frederick. I hadn’t been to Nimes for about 20 years since my first caving trip to the Herault. It is a fabulous city and I’d really love to dive the Fontaine de Nimes resurgence one day, which currently is only accessible by the French Pompiers for training.
My final ride was a big circuit, taking in Rocamadour and out to Souillac. I was quite out on a limb but it was a cracking day and I think I found the best cycling cafe on the planet! On my way home, thanks to Komoot, I found a cracking flat ride, mostly traffic free, along the river Loire.
The beauty of travelling alone is being able to what you want, when you want and not being beholden to someone else’s plans or commitments. I ate nice food, had great bike rides, did some cave diving, made new friends and reconnected with old ones.
Life is good and I wouldn’t swap it for anything right now.
Fearless do Kendal
Louise Minchin, Caroline Bramwell, Christine Grosart, Cath Pendleton, Imogen Sykes
“Reveille Reveille Reveille!”
Cath Pendleton’s strong Welsh accent reverberated through the Fearless house.
Christ on a bike. Was it that time already?
We were all getting up to go swimming in Lake Windermere. In November. In the rain. As you do….
The Fearless gang, some of us anyway, had headed up to the Kendal Mountain Festival for a weekend of cycling, swimming, running, kayaking, watching inspirational talks and films, catching up with friends and getting Louise Minchin tipsy, so she had to run a 10km off road race with a hangover!
The weather was its usual November offering in the Lake District – grey and drizzly. Not put off, a gang of us headed North with bikes, kayaks and our tow floats and moved into an Air BNB for a long weekend.
The Ice Queen ‘Merthyr Mermaid’ Cath Pendleton swims in Windermere
I was super keen to go for a bike ride with Caroline Bramwell, who wrote ‘Loo Rolls to Lycra’ – her ironman journey with a stoma. I was also keen to go swimming with Cath Pendleton, known as the Merthyr Mermaid. If you haven’t seen the documentary about her Antarctic swimming, it’s an absolute must. No wetsuits here. She did it in her cozzie.
I’m not into this ice swimming lark so I took my wetsuit, which I was still getting used to. This didn’t stop the snatched intake of breath when I put my face in the water. It was cold. Very cold.
I put Caroline, who had done her swim, into my sea kayak so she could shoot some video. With her hands tied up with cameras, she started to drift down Windermere as she handed me different sets of swimming goggles to try on. My open water ones leaked, so I was after another pair.
While Cath was off networking at the festival, Caroline and I set off for a cold and really rather hilly bike ride. Our plans to cross Windermere with our bikes and ride down the opposite side of the lake were thwarted when a big sign said the ferry was closed. Arse.
Ladies that do cycling
Caroline Bramwell and Christine Grosart
This meant a bit of a different route, taking in a main road with quite aggressive traffic but we managed and finished our 39-mile ride in the nick of time to get back for a shower, change, quick slap of makeup and a taxi into Kendal for Louise Minchin’s gig on stage.
Safely in the VIP lounge at the festival, we prepared to go on stage. I was feeling much less nervous as there is nothing like having done something before, to quash the fear. Something I reiterated when Louise asked her ‘panel’ how to manage fear. Fear isn’t necessarily a bad thing – it keeps you alert and aware as to what can go wrong. Fear can be healthy. But when fear turns to terror, that is the time to call it a day.
I’d spoken at Kendal in 2018 and knew the audience would be kind. I’d also spoken on Fearless in Chester at the book launch, so with these under my belt and with a great presenter, we were in safe hands.
Cath Pendleton, Christine Grosart, Caroline Bramwell, Louise Minchin
Our view from on stage
Flanked by Caroline Bramwell and Cath Pendleton, we were more like Fearsome than Fearless, and the session was fun and heart-warming. What I hadn’t banked on was a book signing afterwards. Fully expecting to leave that to Louise and sneak away to catch my caving friends over at the Petzl Underground Session, I got roped into also signing the books as the queue spilled out of the door. Cath and Caroline were well ahead of the game and had wonderful little straplines to write alongside their signature.
Armed with a sharpie, feeling a total fraud, I just signed my name. This was not at all what I was used to, and I could see Caroline was struggling with the same imposter syndrome.
Cath got around her nerves by talking to everyone at length and making the queue go even slower. It was exhausting and humbling.
Finally, book signing done, we headed to the local Pizza express for a well-earned meal and drink, catching up with the ladies from Her Spirit too.
The group thinned out a bit as we went on a bit of a mission to find a nice pub afterwards.
It was of no consequence to us that Louise had a 10km trail running race to do the next morning, as we continued to top up her wine glass.
Trying to hide Louise Minchin in a pub takes quite some doing and it wasn’t long before folk started staring and whispering and one slightly worse for wear held her captive in a one-way conversation for a while.
I can’t imagine being so famous that you are recognised wherever you go. Thank goodness for online shopping I’ll bet!
We spent the last day of the festival actually watching some films and talks we had planned to see. I particularly enjoyed finally meeting Jenny Graham and hearing about her round the world cycling endeavours. As the weekend drew to a close we all headed home in the grizzly weather exhausted, motivated and with plans afoot for more fearless adventures together.
Fearless
In the summer of 2022, I received a message out of the blue from Louise Minchin.
A quick Google to jog my memory, as I’m not a big viewer of morning telly, and I recognised her straight away.
Take a moment to watch this:
Louise had delivered the daily news from the BBC Breakfast red sofa for many years, getting up before the sparrows to provide that familiar, friendly face that everyone takes for granted while they get ready for work.
Louise was writing a book about amazing women doing amazing things. My immediate reaction was to cringe and pull a face. I don’t consider myself amazing nor what I do as amazing, especially among my peer group which comprises cavers and cave divers significantly better than me.
Louise and her team had been doing their homework and wanted me to take her caving, something she had never done before, and she was super excited about it.
Louise Minchin tries caving. Image: Christine Grosart
Trying to line up two very busy women’s schedules was a battle, but we got there. Louise did brilliantly in her first trip underground, not least because she had kept a lid on her very real fear of claustrophobia throughout.
Almost a year on, following several more adventures with some amazing women, Louise was ready to launch her book, ‘Fearless’.
I was invited to a book launch in Chester, which wasn’t really on my route home from my trip offshore on the diving vessel, Seven Kestrel. Even worse, the ship was due to crew change in Great Yarmouth. This was going to be a hire car job, going round the houses to get to Chester before heading south back home to Somerset.
My office. DSV Seven Kestrel.
Luckily our crew change was on time, and I started driving. I didn’t really have any nice clothes and no time to go shopping. I wasn’t too worried as it was only a book signing, probably in the front window of the local WH Smith or something.
As I got closer to Chester, the WhatsApp messages started to ping about.
“Is there anywhere to change?” I asked, fully expecting to change in the car park.
“Oh yes you can use my dressing room” Louise said. How posh I thought. They have a dressing room in WH Smith? Perhaps it was a Waterstones.
Who knew?
As I got within a few hours of arrival I re-routed my sat nav to the address Louise had given us all. The Playhouse, Chester.
Hm. That’s not a bookshop.
I parked the car and walked into quite a large building. It soon became apparent that Louise had booked the whole thing. It also became apparent that the throngs of people gathering at the bar had all come to see her – and us!
Louise Minchin - ready to launch her book.
We were going to be on stage to talk about our respective chapters in her book.
Oh crikey.
I ran up to her dressing room – which had lamps all around the mirror and everything – and had a quick shower and tried to look presentable. Not easy when you have been at sea for a month and up since 6am.
Note to self – don’t complain to a BBC Breakfast presenter about early mornings!!
I managed to find some of the other women in her book.
Caroline Bramwell sent her description over WhatsApp, and I found her and a few others at the restaurant table.
Caroline had taken up Ironman distance triathlons in later life, having been a self-described couch potato. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Caroline had suffered for many years with ulcerative colitis. After years of suffering, she ended up with a stoma bag.
This is something that many people would feel was life limiting, even life ending – there were people in my family and family friends who had stomas, some with devastating outcomes.
They certainly hadn’t taken up triathlon soon after.
Caroline was a true inspiration and kindly sent me a copy of her book ‘Loo Rolls to Lycra”. Between her and Louise Minchin, I was hooked on the idea of triathlon. Now that I had learned to ride a bike, there was no excuse anymore.
Also sitting at the table were women who had yet to reach my radar. Shamefully (but not my fault) ‘Fearless’ had been sent to my house – but I had not seen my house for a month!
I had not had the chance to read it. I had absolutely no clue who these women were or what part they had played in Louise’s mission to celebrate women doing incredible things.
The whole thing had come about because someone had pointed out to Louise that, whenever BBC Breakfast came on, her male co-host would always introduce the programme, followed up by the female co-presenter Louise, playing second fiddle. When Louise challenged the BBC about this, they said it was because ‘that’s the way it has always been’.
Not really good enough.
Furthermore, Louise was getting tired of hosting men who had done world record this or adventurous that.
Where were all the women?
Weren’t they doing these amazing things or were we just not hearing about them?
The calm before the storm. Signing as many books as she physically can.
Louise went on a mission to find out who these women were, doing the business and to celebrate their achievements; from swimming the channel to the most southerly ice mile; swimming Alcatraz to free diving under ice – in the dark – to cycling across Argentina and of course, caving with me!
It took a while to sink in that there were quite a lot of women out there doing hard core things, amazing things, fearlessly all over the country and the globe in fact – but Louise had whittled them all down to just 18 women. And I was one of them. In fact, until I sat here writing this, that had not really registered at all with me.
Louise Minchin, Caroline Bramwell, Lucy Gossage, Rhian Mannings
I Googled the book and read the reviews from Waterstones book shop.
It had been read by Sir Chris Hoy and Dame Kelly Holmes! They had read about my cave diving adventures. That was just bizarre. I do rather like Dame Kelly Holmes…
Wow - I loved this book. What a wonderful celebration of women's courage, resilience and endeavour. ― Dame Kelly Holmes.
I made my way up to Louise’s dressing room, where she was surrounded by her close entourage and half buried in a landslide of copies of her book, as she tried to sign as many as she could.
After a time, we all started to make our way to our seats in the rather large theatre.
It was packed.
Louise found it hilariously funny that I still thought the whole affair was going to be in a high street book shop!
Whilst the Fearless ladies got deep into conversation, an older gentleman, dressed in tweed and with pink trousers, very well spoken, approached us and asked what our roles were in the book.
“Who’s he?” we mouthed.
“I dunno. Just play along…”
We entertained him for a bit, still wondering who he was and why he was asking so many questions.
A while later Louise appeared out of nowhere and swooshed in to give him a kiss and said “Oh you’ve met my Dad!!”
Let the ground please swallow us up, whole…
It turns out Louise’s Dad is the epitome of the word gentleman and I felt a pang of slight jealousy that her father was so interested in everything she did and was so proud of her. I guess not all fathers are made the same.
Louise was introduced and soon came on stage looking amazing and relaxed as she always does, well-polished after 20 years on live TV.
I looked like something the cat had dragged in.
We were going to be called on stage in groups of four and with no briefing at all, invited into discussion about our respective chapters in the book.
There was method to this madness. Louise wanted an unbriefed, honest discussion with the women in her book and we trusted her entirely to lead us through it and she would never trick us or trip us up.
Louise Minchin, Kadeena Cox, Cath Pendleton, Vivienne Rickman
The evening was incredibly enjoyable and as it went on, all the women in the book, as well as the audience, were being incredibly inspired.
My mind started whirring about what things were possible and how I’d limited myself to being a cave diver by identity and a jockey in a previous life.
My second ride over fences, age 21.
I realised that nobody needed to be pigeonholed as only one thing, that nobody is identifiable by just one thing they’ve done. I suppose it is a bit like being typecast; everyone knows Louise Minchin for being on that BBC red sofa but to me, she was identifiable by being an GB triathlete age grouper who had pretty much started from scratch.
Like me, she had been heavily involved in sport as a youth and we had both abandoned it for different reasons.
My previous life.
It opened up my mind in the most incredible way. I knew I’d gained a lot of weight over the years, with no real goal or target to aim at and the only sport I did was really diving.
Once I’d started cycling it created so may new opportunities for me and the weight started to come off.
But I was still held back by my personal life, where I was deeply unhappy. I couldn’t really be myself unless I was by myself.
I was fed up with conforming to what other people wanted when they gave so little back. My remaining family were much the same – only bringing problems and no positivity at all. So, I created distance there as well.
With my newfound freedom, having removed the ‘mood hoovers’ as I call them, my whole world opened up in front of me and I could breathe again.
Lucy Gossage, an oncologist and ultra-runner and triathlete, winning Ironmans and all sorts, put it very well when she said that she was so lucky to have a body that functioned and allowed her to do these things. She saw being able to do things that other people find too hard, was a privilege and she almost felt it was a crime not to take advantage of that.
Don’t mess with this lot! I don’t know how many GB medals, ironmans or channel crossings are in that lot, but quite a few!!
I came away from that incredible evening slightly hungover and incredibly motivated.
It gave me permission to be me again.
And for that, I cannot thank Louise and the other 17 Fearless women enough.
In chapter order:
1. Anaya and Mitali Khanzode – Escape from Alcatraz
2. Christine Grosart – Wild Caving
3. Cath Pendleton – Freediving Under Ice in the Dark
4. Belinda Kirk – Overnight Dartmoor Crossing
5. Zainab (Zee) Alema – Rugby
6. Sophie Storm Roberts – Cycling
7. Mollie Hughes – Mountaineering
8. Caroline Bramwell – Long Course Triathlon
9. Lucy Gossage – Team Hike Bike and Paddle Board
10. Vivienne Rickman – Mountain Swimming
11. Kadeena Cox – Indoor Track Cycling
12. Rhian Mannings – Hiking
13. Mimi Anderson – 1200km Cycle Across Argentina
14. Lizzie Carr – Stand Up Paddleboarding
15. Anoushé Husain – Indoor Climbing
16. Rhiane Fatinikun – Hiking
17. Susie Chan – Ultrarunning
Mallorca Part 2 - The Pig.
With Sa Calobra under my belt, it was time to enjoy the other ‘classic’ cycling routes the island had to offer. On my bucket list was Cap Formentor. This lighthouse was a picturesque beacon at the end of a stunning ride with climbing, pine forest, fast descents, scenic cliff tops and a tunnel!
Because of all of this, it was extremely popular, and I was soon tangled up in a long stream of cyclists of all nationalities, winding our way up the first hair pinned climb above Porto Pollensa.
It was a proper day out, covering 61 kilometres and 933 metres of climbing and I spent just over 4 hours on the move.
The lighthouse route had been closed for some time, and newly opened it not only attracted cyclists but tourist vehicles. These were a concern, as hundreds and hundreds of rental cars shoved their way towards the lighthouse, weaving in and out of cyclists and as the lighthouse got ever nearer, the traffic jam grew.
I rode past the stationary cars which couldn’t get into the lighthouse car park which was rammed and decided that I didn’t want to be here. It was too busy, too many people, too many bad manners. The café looked like it was going to be a miserable affair, so I ate my flapjack, didn’t particularly enjoy the view, and left. It was even busier on the return ride, and I was grateful to get back down to Pollensa and pull in to the famous Tollos bar for a well-earned beer and lunch.
After a rest and a bit of swimming, my last ride was out to the ancient town of Petra on a very flat and fast cycle route. A 65km round trip, interrupted by lunch in the town centre in a café full of cyclists, and that was my cycling trip to Mallorca over.
I absolutely vowed to come back as I had fallen in love with the island. There was just so much more to do.
I returned in September and of course, headed straight back to Sa Calobra, this time for an evening ride in an attempt to catch the sunset. I timed it perfectly, although I paid for it a bit as the darkness fell quite quickly as I descended back to the car.
Sa Calobra at sunset. Photo: Christine Grosart
The ascent was super slow as I had made the mistake of thinking I could do it the day after riding up the highest and hardest climb in Mallorca – Puig Major.
Nicknamed ‘The Pig’ this climb went on a bit but wasn’t particularly steep. I rode all of it, no walking, only stopping a few times for a snack and a drink as I’m still a bit wobbly feeding on the bike, especially when pushing up a hill.
Puig Major is a category 1 climb, 13.9km in distance with an average gradient of 6.2%, gaining 830 metres of climbing.
Ascending Puig Major
I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have been able to do this earlier in the year and avoided it for that reason. My cycling fitness had been improving with the help of Jason at PDQ cycle coaching. Although I hadn’t lost much weight, climbs were getting easier.
I was delighted to reach the mountain lake at the top and pass through the tunnel which marks the official end of the climb.
I had a fast and fantastic descent among several other cyclists and treated myself to lunch at the popular Kingfisher restaurant overlooking the marina in Soller.
Completely addicted to triathlons now, I had been talked into an end of season open water tri in Minehead. There was a small issue – I hadn’t really swum any distance in the sea. Whilst I was a strong and fairly quick pool swimmer, I hadn’t done much more than bob about in the ocean. I mean, that’s what it’s for – and diving and snorkelling, of course.
I thought I had better get a move on, so I tentatively stepped off the sandy beach by the hotel, complete with my new swim float, and procrastinated a bit. I picked a mooring buoy not too far away and decided I’d swim to that and back. Baby steps.
As I put my face in the water, I tried to slow my breathing and kept telling myself to stop being so silly. It wasn’t the same as diving, nor snorkelling, which I do without a single thought.
This was different. I felt vulnerable, totally dependent on my own buoyancy and breathing technique and reaching the mooring buoy felt like a huge milestone. I like to know what’s beneath me, and I like to see what is anchoring that buoy to the seabed. Crazy.
As a diver I don’t give a monkeys. But swimming on the surface, I was paranoid about absolutely everything.
I got back to the beach and gave myself a silent pat on the back.
“Now go out and do it again. But further this time.”
As I increased in confidence I concentrated on my stroke, distance, and time rather than being paranoid about what was beneath me and actually began to enjoy it.
I stopped worrying about whether I could see the sea floor or not and put my efforts into ‘sighting’ the buoy ahead and keeping to a straight line.
The beach next to the hotel was Ok but the water was a bit shallow as it passed over reefs. I needed a much longer swim.
I set off on my bike to the long beach in front of Porto Pollensa and out in much deeper water, was the perfect line of mooring buoys to swim along. I began to relax and enjoy it and before I knew it, had swum 1400m, the distance of the Annecy triathlon swim which I was aiming for in 2024. And I’d done it in well inside the cut off time.
Running of course was my nemesis. Running in Mallorca is a horribly sweaty affair, and I didn’t enjoy it at all. More work needed there, unfortunately.
I had another short ride out to Cala Vincenc, but this time stopped to have a swim in the sea on the sandy beach that always looked so stunning as I rode by. I also managed to grab a table for lunch at the bar which was heaving with cyclists.
Returning to the UK was a shame, but I had a very determined goal. It was the Minehead triathlon that very weekend.
Brilliantly organised by Channel Events, the Minehead tri was a bit of a step up from the beginners’ triathlons I’d been entering. There were lots of expensive, specialist tri bikes on the racks and a lot of very fit looking people wearing aero helmets.
It was a sea swim in the Bristol Channel, which was a far cry from the warm swimming pools I’d been used to.
I’d had a quick foray to Yeovil to try on and buy a wetsuit and Channel Events had thankfully laid on a trial swim the day before the race, for people like me. Swimming in the muddy, cold waters of the Bristol Channel was far from appealing to someone like me, who had actively avoided the open water swimming scene.
I arrived early on race day, registered, racked my bike, and was overwhelmed with support and good vibes from the people I’d met at Channel events the day before and Kelli Coxhead who had organised the Cheddar Triathlon.
It was a family atmosphere which was ironic. Nobody in my family was remotely interested in supporting me or coming to cheer me on. Luckily, I was used to it and actually pleased not to have these distractions. I was afforded the headspace to concentrate on my race.
The swim was an aussie style mass start off the beach, and it was super exciting. My swim was good, and I even passed a few people, playing it safe and starting at the back. The first transition up the beach to the bike was hard running uphill on sand and my running fitness, or lack of, was already starting to show.
I had a good bike section, but being hilly and me being heavy, I couldn’t pass anyone. Then the run, which was disastrous. It was entirely my fault as I hadn’t really trained for it. Running hurts my back and sets off back spasm, so I’d just avoided it. The 25% hill in the middle of the run course wasn’t helping either!!
It didn’t matter though. I was hooked.
If I could find a way of sorting my back and improving my running, I’d be heading to Annecy in June 2024.
Interested in giving tri, a try?
Grab yourself this inspirational book ‘Dare to Tri’ by Louise Minchin.
While you’re there, pick up a copy of ‘Fearless’ - you might recognise someone!
Marvellous Mallorca Part 1
The ship roared and wallowed as the dynamic positioning system fought to keep it in one place over the seabed, as the wind started to pick up. Sweat poured onto the deck of what used to be the cinema room, now converted into a cardio gym on the Dive Support Vessel Boka Atlantis.
I gritted my teeth as the movement of the ship made my predicament even harder. I was halfway up Sa Calobra in Mallorca, an iconic climb for cyclists apparently. The new Watt Bike Atom indoor training bike on board the Atlantis was reacting to every % of incline that this hill threw at me, and my heart felt like it was going to burst as my lungs screamed for air.
Desperate to pass an HSE diving medical, with the help of a friend, I had taken reluctantly to the exercise bike to shift some weight and deal with my fitness, both of which had downward spiralled out of control in the final years of a miserable relationship.
I needed something better, something more – and I needed to feel like me again. Not someone’s ‘other half’. I’m not half of anybody, never have been. I needed Christine the gritty, determined jockey back.
I punched my way up the hill and collapsed in a heap of sweat and whining.
Roll on two years later and N+1 was really taking hold (that’s the formula for how many bikes a cyclist should own…. however many you have – N – just add one….).
I had Orro gravel bike (with slick tyres, not doing any of that off road nonsense) and now Orro Venturi road bike with Di2 (posh electronic gear shifters) and the now redundant £400 Trek ladies road bike which had been relegated to my indoor Wahoo trainer. No regrets with that one, my first ever road bike, I rode that up Mont Semnoz blissfully unaware it was a category HC climb (really hard!)
Orro Venturi on holiday
I actually love climbing. But I’m so heavy that I’m painfully slow. Luckily Orro Venturi has better gears for climbing than my gravel bike, so I started to get brave and decided to take myself to Mallorca. It is, apparently, a mecca for cyclists.
Sun, turquoise blue seas, Spanish tapas, cold beers, and scenery to die for. And Sa Calobra. The real thing.
Booking with Jet2, who seem less likely to trash my bike than other airlines, I packed up Orro in pieces and set off to the island I had not visited since a family holiday when I was just 9 years old. I had spent most of it snorkelling and doing handstands in the pool with a new Spanish friend, while my mother and grandmother loafed by the pool doing absolutely nothing.
I was bored. I was happy to come back and at least see some of the island and get some proper miles in.
Hotel Astoria, Alcudia
I settled into the hotel which was in the ‘German’ region, Alcudia, and the hotel was spotless, with fantastic food, wine, and ice-cold pool with bali beds to lounge on. I rented a car as I thought I’d need it to get me to the start of some of the mountain climbs, not quite being up for big hills in the middle of +100km rides just yet.
I built my bike in the on-site bike ‘garage’ where it would live all week and sorted out a route for the next day. I love Komoot and use it in conjunction with Strava to plan my routes.
Hotel Astoria Alcudia
Not wanting to stray too far on the first day, I lined up a nice little loop to Porto Pollensa, then down to Cala Sanc Vicenc and back round Pollensa to Alcudia where I had the most amazing lunch by the marina.
Cala Sanc Vicenc
Truffles, goats cheese and olives - all my favourite things!
48km shakedown done, I was ready to have a go at Sa Calobra.
There had been a lot of rumblings about closed roads and access as one of the hairpin bends had collapsed in the winter storms. The road to Sa Calobra was indeed closed, but only between 8am and 4pm….
It was accessible via Puig Major, the hardest climb on the island…Not overly keen on that just yet, I went to bed ruminating and annoyed at having a potentially wasteful day ahead doing nothing until 4pm when the road finally opened. I’m not really an evening rider – I prefer to be in the restaurant and bar by 6pm!
For no reason at all, I woke at 4am. Irritated, and knowing there was no way I would get back to sleep, I got up.
Clouds starting to clear at the start of the Sa Calobra route.
Maybe it comes from riding racehorses, where you are not allowed to be scared or overthink, or maybe cave diving which is much the same – or maybe I just have this ability that allows me to do crazy things and remain totally focussed. I didn’t even think about anything – I just put my cycling gear on, check listed my bike and bag, filled my water, and walked out of the hotel to my car, much to the dismay of the night shift hotel staff on the desk.
It was dark and drizzling.
I put Orro in the back of the car and drove through the dark and rain for a solid hour, half of which was hair pin bends, to the viaduct where many cyclists meet and greet either at the start, end, or part way through their day.
I stopped at a garage that thankfully let me in at this ungodly hour and bought two packs of ham and cheese sandwiches, some juice, and a strong coffee to go. I ate one pack for breakfast – obviously the hotel had no intention of serving me breakfast in the middle of the night – and I kept one pack for after the ride.
I pulled into the parking spot. Not surprisingly, it was completely empty. The road works had not started.
I tried to sleep in the car until it started to get light but to no real avail. It kept raining but gradually started to ease off as daylight tried to break. Dark, heavy clouds ever so slowly began to break and lift but I wasn’t going to be treated to a glorious, sunny ride. The descent was going to be lethal on wet tarmac, but I didn’t care. I had my determined head on, and I was going to do this, no matter what.
Just as well really, as I had no idea about what manner of hell I was about to endure.
The beeps of large road maintenance vehicles and orange flashing lights approaching the viaduct was my cue to leave.
I hopped onto Orro and felt a little bit emotional as I rolled out of the car park, thinking about my friend who had helped me lose so much weight, get fit again and be myself again. I hoped he’d be proud of me, which was promptly followed by being glad he couldn’t see me as I struggled to clip into my pedals. I hadn’t been riding clipped in for very long and it was all still a bit hit and miss.
The unique Sa Calobra archway
Sa Calobra is unique as you start by descending it first to a dead end by the sea, before climbing back up it.
As I swung away from the car park, I suddenly remembered my cycling mates telling me that it was the climb ‘up’ to the start of the descent that got most people. I wasn’t sure if they were talking about approaching it via Puig Major (not my problem today) or the sharp little switch back climb that I was soon confronted with on the way up to Coll dels Reis, where the descent starts proper.
I plodded on the wet road, storm clouds slightly lifted but not really giving in and was grateful at least that the Mallorcan sun wasn’t beating down on me.
Delighted to have reached Coll dels Reis, I knew this pinch point in the rocks would be the finish official point for the Sa Calobra climb.
I set off gently, taking in the stunning vistas and immediately had to stop to photograph the bizarre road which curves around in a complete loop and passes under itself beneath a beautiful archway.
Once past the famous landmarks, I began the descent.
Oh my word. Ok, I was going slowly as I knew the road was wet and with the road closed behind me, there was no traffic. No cyclists. Which meant no help if I was to crash.
I possibly have the record for the slowest descent of Sa Calobra and, even though I was slow, it didn’t half go in a bit.
I descended through the cliffs on the constantly winding and hair pinned road, first through mountain scrub, then becoming greener and finally through other worldly pine forest with huge boulders strewn among the trees. The distance played on my mind. If it was taking me this long to get down, how long would it take me to get back up?
I don’t remember taking much more than an hour on the watt bike on my ship at work. In fact, my personal best up Sa Calobra was 80 minutes. I started to doubt if I’d manage that today.
As I reached the small port at the sea front, I passed through the slightly ugly coach car park with barriers and speed bumps before rolling up to the sea front. It was quiet and the sun hadn’t quite made it.
Port of Sa Calobra
Looking desperately for coffee and a loo, I spotted a hotelier half-heartedly dragging plastic chairs out onto the terrace. I asked if I could get a coffee and he pointed inside.
One strong coffee and loo visit later, I was ready to go. My sandwiches had worn off and I was left with a couple of Giant bars to get me up the hill.
The official segment starts just beyond the coach park, which is just as well as the first ramp out of the port was very steep.
The first part of the climb gains height quite quickly but fortunately mostly in the shade. It’s not long before you reach a clearing at the side of the road and can look down on the port and see how high you’ve climbed already. But there was still an awful long way to go.
Once through the famous pinch point in the rocks, fortunately no coaches here today, the route passes through pine forest strewn with huge boulders. The light started to stream through in rays split by the trees and it looked like something from a fantasy film.
I kept the pedals turning but began enjoying the scenery and relaxed into the ride. Bend after bend, ramp after ramp the climb continued winding up the valley in no real direction. I stared at the highest point I could see, wondering if that was the top, or not. It looked an awfully long way up and so, so far away. I kept moving.
Eventually, I caught sight of the collapsed part of the road and the brightly coloured cones and workmen starting their day. The end was in sight.
At just this moment, the sky went dark, and a cold wind howled up the valley. A deep, loud rumble of thunder echoed across the valley. “What on Earth….?”
I didn’t even have time to finish the sentence in my head when the heavens opened. It was as if someone had just turned on a fire hydrant and was pointing it right at me.
Water ran down my face, down my neck, into my eyes and saturated everything I was wearing in seconds. Luckily, I’d packed my gilet – which was as much use as a chocolate teapot, but at least it was another layer as I knew getting cold was going to be an issue now. I stopped to put it on, ate another soggy piece of flapjack and knew I had to keep moving to stay warm. In Mallorca.
As I turned the pedals, I started giggling.
What would Mark Julier say if he could see me now? He was the guy I was cycling with in Lanzarote when it snowed, and we had to bail out back to the hotel by taxi – bikes and all.
Then I saw another cyclist. A small French guy had begun his descent and got caught in the monsoon. He was off his bike and sheltering under the sagging leaf of a fern.
I asked if he was Ok in French, and he replied that his mate was coming to get him. Sure enough, as I crawled up the ever-steepening hair pins, a Berlingo van pulled up beside him and bundled the sodden rider and his bike inside.
No way on Earth was I going to try to blag a lift now – but they didn’t offer anyway! I was so close to the top.
I met another lady starting her descent, looking bewildered and she had stopped on a bend clearly wondering whether to continue. I hoped she wasn’t using me as a barometer of whether continuing was a good idea or not. I started giggling as I passed her and she started giggling as well at the ridiculousness of it all. I didn’t look back to see what decision she had made.
On the last little straight, I could see the archway where the road bizarrely passes under itself. I was absolutely drenched. Thinking I was almost at the top, I was slapped in the face yet again by a really quite steep ramp which is the final section of road before the narrowing in the rocks, which marks the top of the Coll des Reis.
I didn’t stop for another photo. The last bit of downhill was going to be greasy and cold. I descended carefully, shivering, back down to the car.
The clouds had broken and cyclists had started to arrive from having ascending Puig Major, taking in the two mountains in the same day. Good luck to them.
I stripped off all my wet gear and huddled into a towel, trying to eat a sandwich at the same time. Once my dry gear was on, I chucked the bike in the back of the car and grabbed a coffee from the little café just under the viaduct.
This was not how I wanted my first ascent of Sa Calobra to be. But in typical Christine style, I did it the hard way.
In love with Mallorca
Evenings with great food, wine and GCN+
Tri Cheddar
One thing I love about cycling – and being so terrible at it – is that there are things you look at and say you can never do.
And then you go and do them.
You train, get better, learn more and engage your friends to help – and then things happen.
Never in a million years did I think I would be able to cycle up Cheddar gorge, the iconic geological landmark that I’m fortunate to live only 40 minutes away from.
It is steep, full of tourist traffic and I regularly see seasoned, skinny cyclists suffering as they grind away round the inclined bends formed by the historical and now underground, river.
Then I saw an advert for a triathlon being held in Cheddar. And I was on shore leave, so really I had no excuse.
There was a super sprint distance and a sprint distance, the latter including an ascent of Cheddar Gorge.
Me being me, I absolutely refused to wimp out and bypass the gorge. I figured the super sprint was barely worth me getting out of bed for. The fact that I can’t even run 5km at the moment was pushed firmly to the back of my mind…..
I became obsessed with the gorge.
I had only attempted it once, during the Mendip lakes and Lumps sportive and, on my gravel bike on a boiling hot day, didn’t get very far up the gorge before I resorted to walking like many others.
I knew I would have to train for this. I set about the watt bike at work on the Seven Atlantic, that fortunately has just had two watt bike atomx bikes installed. I set up Rouvy and downloaded the gorge route and almost immediately stalled on the first steep bend and could barely turn the pedals on the second.
Surely it couldn’t be THAT hard?! I mean, it said 20% in places but only for a few metres.
Somewhere in the back of my head, somebody told me that it wasn’t so bad in real life. Righto.
So I put a shout out on social media to see if anyone wanted to come and help me get up the gorge.
Almost immediately Andy Sparrow, a good friend and fellow caving instructor and keen cyclist, piped up and said he’d be delighted to come with me.
Christine and Andy
Now, Andy is no spring chicken but he also extremely deceptive and very capable. I was a bit worried he’d leave me for dust. Luckily Andy hadn’t been cycling in a while and he also lives at the bottom of the gorge. Admittedly this didn’t give us much of a warmup or lead in to the climb, but we met up and set off anyway, Andy continually picking up my bike with one hand in awe of its lightness.
On a damp, grey day we swung out into the bottom of the gorge, luckily with not so many tourists to navigate and the climb starts in earnest as you pass the entrance to Goughs cave.
On any other day or any other year in fact, I would only be here to go diving in Goughs. Access to the cave for cavers and divers has now sadly been rescinded but hope is on the horizon that we may be able to go back one day. Goughs is a beautiful dive, but the carry is a pest, so it’s always worth bringing along caving friends to help which is always a fun, social affair.
We passed Goughs and you get a small amount of relief on a gentle incline before it really starts to ramp up.
I was delighted to pass the rock gabions, as this was where I had dismounted and shamefully walked the rest of the way the previous year.
I locked onto Andy’s back wheel and ignored everything around me as I concentrated on keeping that rear wheel in the same place the whole way up. So long as I did that, I would make it. So long as Andy didn’t stop of course!!
We made it through the first ‘steep bit’ which is a very narrow and steep pinch point in the road. Always worried about meeting a car head on here, I kept out in the middle of the road so I could see further and also flatten out the ramp which was upwards of 15% incline.
A little reprieve after this, and the next one came soon. On the approach it looks steep but not too bad – then, once on the bend it just keeps going as you fight to keep the wheels turning. Desperate and with no cars coming, I stayed as far out to the right and the middle as I could to shave the steepness off the bend. Andy was growling and clearly having his own battle just in front.
Then, the ramp dropped away quickly. Phew. Just one small sting in the tail left as we passed Reservoir hole (you’ll note that my Mendip cycling routes are identifiable by cave entrances…) and we had made it up the steep part. I was ecstatic although I could barely speak.
The rest of the way was a gentle incline all the way up to the top of the Mendip Hills where we cut across Charterhouse and followed the triathlon route back to Cheddar on a 20 or so kilometre loop.
My French G.O.A.T mascot wearing his Cheddar Tri jersey, from Stolen Goat.
He wasn’t stolen, I bought him fair and square in Annecy.
The Cheddar triathlon loomed. It’s a long time since I got up early on a Sunday to do any kind of race or exercise or anything. Diving doesn’t count. It’s stressful on the body for sure but it’s not exercise as such.
I decided to camp in my van overnight down in Cheddar to save an early start. This was a bit of a mistake as, after a fairly uncomfortable night, I woke with my age-old back pain. There was nothing much I could do to fix it at this stage and whilst I can get away with swimming and cycling with back pain, running is unforgiving.
I checked my bike tyres, gave it a final wipe down and set up my kit in transition. I always like clean, tidy equipment when I go to the races; must be a hangover from my horse racing days – always be well turned out!
Transition is where you change from one sport to the next and there are lots of rules around it such as making sure you put your helmet on before touching your bike.
Transition area
I laid all my stuff out in the small space provided and racked my bike with its sticky numbers and made sure it was in the correct gear for setting off.
Waiting around for the swim is always annoying. We watched the first waves set off. I am always surprised at how many people attempt triathlons who can barely swim. Some are doing a very slow breastroke and some doggy paddle. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have a lack of confidence and ability in the water. But I needn’t have worried too much, as almost all of these people can run and they all finished way ahead of me.
My transition area
I filled my time with lying on the floor in the cubicle, trying to stretch my back out as it was threatening to spasm.
I have to try not to set off too fast in the pool as I learned a stark lesson in my first triathlon when I struggled to regain my composure on the bike and overshot a tight bend in the road. You can’t save much time in the pool in a sprint anyway so I kept it smooth and well under 10 minutes.
It was a cold day, so I grabbed a long sleeved jersey when I got to my bike and was glad I did. I set off trying to keep my heart rate down for the gorge ascent. Even though I had done it twice before now, I still doubted myself and plodded up through the steep hairpins. I felt slightly better as I saw one guy walking the narrows but also sorry for him – that could so easily have been me. Once you stop on a steep climb it’s extremely difficult to get started again.
Gorge accomplished, I set off across the chilly Mendips and made the most of the fast descents, taking a little care as they were still very wet from the weeks of rainfall we’d had.
Back at transition and trainers on, I knew it would be catastrophic. My back was stiff as a board and the right QL muscle was in full on spasm. Apart from being painful, it severely restricts my movement and gets worse when running. The spasm is so strong it pulls my pelvis out of alignment and the chiropractic sector has made a small fortune out of me since 2009, when my spine threw a herniated disc in the middle of kayak marathon training.
Grateful for support from my closest friends, Jo and Jayme who came along to offer encouragement.
Nothing I could do about it now. I half jogged, half waddled to the halfway point of the run, desperately looking for the right shaped rock to lie on. I found one and to the bemusement of the marshalls, rolled around on a pointy fist-sized stone, hoping to get the spasm to release and let me at least run a bit. It sort of worked, but by the time I got back to the finish line I was crippled. There is nothing more annoying than knowing you can run, but an injury is stopping you and the crowd are all cheering you on thinking you are just fat and slow. They have no idea how much pain I’m in or that my back is twisting me up so badly that I can’t actually stride out even though I wanted to.
I wasn’t even breathless, I could just hardly move.
So, I finished but yet again insanely disappointed in myself that my old back injury was plaguing me yet again. Would I ever be able to run pain free?
Instead of celebrating my achievements in that I had cycled up cheddar gorge in a triathlon – something I wouldn’t have believed if you’d told me a year ago – I just beat myself up for being so terrible at running. Maybe my body just isn’t designed for it. Short stocky people just don’t win triathlons, do they.
Not happy with just finishing, I wanted to be competitive. It wasn’t enough to be just happy not to finish last. But I drank some champagne anyway.
Something had to change.
Lovely Lanzarote
Farmara, Lanzarote
Now I really do have imposter syndrome.
Lanzarote is where it's at when it comes to triathletes. Anyone who is anyone in cycling or triathlon goes to Lanzarote. So what's all the fuss?
I wasn't particularly interested in diving there...nor caving there (nice lava tubes apparently but you're not allowed to dive them - so I immediately lost interest in taking caving diving kit).
Cueva de Los Verdes, Lanzarote
But I'd just taken delivery of a new road bike. It was barely out of the box when I stuffed it into a rental bike bag and put it on the plane (the fully integrated cockpit meant I could forget dismantling it to shoehorn it into a hard box - just wasn't happening).
Never in my life have I taken a bike on a plane...but luckily Jet2 were quite accustomed to it and I was met with very good customer service from them at the airport and my bike arrived intact.
The hotel check in queue left a lot to be desired, but once settled I was able to build my bike and get some sleep.
The next day I decided to out for a shakedown spin from the hotel. One thing that Lanzarote is famous for is wind. And it’s proper wind!
The volcanoes offer very little shelter and it’s not uncommon to battle 30mph winds on the bike. Descending fast might be fun, but it is super dangerous in Lanza. The road surfaces however are super smooth and the traffic is very patient and tolerant of cyclists.
Moonscapes, architecture, volcanoes, cactus, lava fields and coffee. All in a day’s cycling on Lanzarote.
Over the next fortnight I rode 220 miles, climbing 16,149 feet and sea kayaked 23 miles. On the advice of a colleague Andy ‘Wish’ McColl I joined him on some day trips with Sea Kayaking Lanzarote and also some coaching sessions which really showed up my capability – or lack of – in a sea kayak.
The first trip we took the ferry over to La Graciosa, a small island off the northern tip of Lanzarote. The ferry seemed quite used to sea kayaks and happily loaded them on board whilst we grabbed coffee and a snack.
I ended up making friends with two British guys; one was an ironman athlete and coach; the other had done triathlons, iron mans etc and they were great company and happy to have me along on bike rides. Mark Julier insisted in giving up a day of his programme (ok, it was his rest day) to come out for a ride with me to th every highest point of the island. A bit nervous as my climbing speed is sloooooow, I grudgingly agreed. He kept feeding me bananas until we finally got to his favourite cafe at the observatory and he ordered us both his favourite sandwich.
The views were stunning but I couldn’t help pointing out that the sky looked a bit ‘dark’. At that very moment, the heavens opened and were accompanied by a clap of thunder and flash of lightening. We decided to have another coffee and sandwich and wait for it to blow through.
Almost an hour later the sky had got darker, more lightening happened and we realised we were in for a cold, wet, miserable downhill ride for 2 hours. Nervously we started to get our bikes ready. My Di2 (electric gear shifters) started playing up and we couldn’t get the bike into a lower gear at all. After some fiddling we got it moving but the heavens opened even harder and we ran for cover. It became clearer over time, as a dozens of different nationalities of cyclists turned into the cafe utterly frozen and drenched, that we weren’t going to be riding home.
Keen to get ahead of the game, we made the decision early to get a taxi. Unbeknown to us, this was the smartest thing we could have done.
A large taxi turned up, happy to take both us and the bikes. As the driver stepped out of the vehicle he insisted on showing us his phone, pointing at it frantically saying ‘Look! Look! I never see this before!"
On the way up to us he had taken photos and video of what looked like snow. Confused and not convinced, we put our bikes in the car quickly. Still feeling like complete wimps, we set off back towards Costa Teguise.
Snow in Lanzarote! Mark with his favourite sandwich up at the highest point on the island.
We couldn’t quite believe what we were seeing. Rivers of brown mud ran down the roads and mountain run-off surged across the road. The fields to either side were smattered in snow as the sleet continued to hammer down. The temperature was sub zero. We started to realise just how dangerous attempting a descent would have been. Apart form hypothermia, a crash would have been inevitable as the roads just weren’t rideable. Now feeling rather more smug than stupid, we arrived back at the hotel for a well earned drink.
Barcelo hotel complete with 50m swimming pool - and a cat.
While I was out there I received a random message from my old school friend Debra Bond. She was staying at La Santa – famous for triathlon training camps – so I met up with her for a classic ride around the Taminfaya national park. It was so amazing to catch up with an old school friend I’d not seen for decades and it was as if we’d never been away.
We had a nice lunch and then set off with a howling head wind that seemed to follow us all round the park. It was brutal heading back to La Santa but a good leg stretch.
Sea Kayaking Lanzarote gave us a lovely tour of the north western coastline of Lanzarote, to a place called Famara. It got a bit choppy and the soaring cliffs treated us to a dramatic landscape. We were surprised to see what looked like little fishermans huts embedded in the cliffs and realised they were actually houses!
I spent another day with them learning some self rescue skills -which are much harder than they look - and watching other paddlers trying to drown Wish as he did some capsize recovery drills.
Lanzarote is a serious playground. It has all the things I like, even though I didn’t bother with any diving or caving - but it’s there if you want it.
For me, it was a wonderful way to be spoilt for sports and to be able to cycle, swim and kayak until my heart’s content was a total joy.
I made some great friends and it really inspired me to continue my triathlon journey.
Chris kayaking Famara
Returning to La Santa
Amazing geology at La Graciosa
Early morning rides in Lanzarote
Taminfaya
El Moggo
Paradise
After the showcave, we will go cave diving...
The campsite is beginning to wind down after the holiday season, but that didn't stop them having their traditional party games in the pool, which are always a great spectator sport!
The idea was to balance on a giant inflatable ring and get pulled towards your opponent, who will try to bash you off your perch with a long pink sausage!
Rich was quite keen to revisit this short, but beautiful cave and we fancied doing our own film this time, with the objective to have shots of the diver swimming towards the camera and a good shot of the entrance rift.
So, I sent an email to Mehdi, the local diver who has access to the source and he duly arranged a dive for us.
Mehdi is a really nice guy and amused us with tales of his adventures the night before his wedding, which involved diving the Esperelle and then rock climbing in the Dourbie gorge, finishing up at about 2am!
We weren’t meeting him until 4pm though, so we looked for something else to do during the day and came across Dargilan show caves. Mum had been rattling on about this for years, so I figured it would be worth a visit, especially as it was only half an hour from the Esperelle.
Dargilan didn’t disappoint and we had ample opportunity to take photos.
After a spot of lunch overlooking the very impressive valley, we set off to the Esperelle to meet Mehdi.
The Esperelle is stunning and although only just over 300m long, drops off to the terminus at -60m. We took trimix and set off, leap frogging to get some lovely video shots and then floated down the beautiful, sculptured shaft at the end of the cave.
We returned with a little decompression and Mehdi kept his customary bottle of white wine in the sump, cooling for us.
Just a little afternoon trip...
River Herault
What utter Bo****ks!!
There was a lot of lounging about on the campsite going on...people under the illusion that they were on holiday and so forth...so I suggested a 'little afternoon trip' - only 2 hours underground, only half an hours drive away.
So we packed our wetsuits and headed off to a lovely little cave called the 'Foux de Lauret'.
Three hours later we managed to find the correct parking spot as my memory from my last and only trip in the cave in 2007 had faded completely!
Once found, we walked up the path, only to take the wrong left turning which started to feel 'wrong' somehow and after a lot of sweating and bush bashing - in wetsuits - we returned to go a bit further and find the correct path and the chain which led to the small cave entrance, perched precariously on the edge of a cliff with a fairly terminal drop below. The only protection was a small tree which had seen better days....
Elaine in the lakes - by Chris Grosart
The entrance crawl goes on far too long and is almost unbearable in wetsuits - but we soon met with the first of the lakes and cooled off and I took the opportunity to take a photo I had wanted for some time.
A while later and we finally found the correct turning to the large main passage and river with large gours - but failed to find the beautiful crystal gours I had seen last time. Obviously turning 30 has some effect on my otherwise good memory :-(
It was a fun trip and we took just an hour to the exit where we were met with a humid, thundery evening.
Desperate for food, we hunted down beer and pizza and turned in for the night.
"...a nice easy flop in a resurgence..." by Richard Walker
Yesterday we went on a nice easy resurgence flop. The cave entrance is no more than 100m from the road. How hard could it be?
Trouble is, that 100m is about 20m horizontal, and 97m vertical. The cave was Gourneyras, in the Viz gorge. 20 minutes down a dirt track next to some breathtaking drop-offs where your front wheels are spitting stones off the side into oblivion, you come to a tree. Actually hundreds of trees. One of them marks the path down to the cave.
You just have to know which tree. And we sort of did, and sort of didn't. The giveaway was the steel cable-run that had been set up to transport gear down to the pool. But we were too clever to look for that. An hour later we gave up the hunting and went down the right path for a quick look. The cave was right there where we left it in 2012.
Christine decompresses in the Gourneyras
There was only 2 of us, so we had travelled light. One twinset, one rebreather, 4 stages, drysuits, undersuits and some other bags of stuff. Christine went down the track and started setting up the hand-lines that we use to stop ourselves plummeting into the oblivion. This track has just about every type of terrain you can imagine.
It starts with a steep gravel path, with some 2ft high rock steps to negotiate. Then it changes direction and traverses across the hill on a scree slope, which slips and slides under your feet. Then it goes into a gentle forest path, and you think that it isn't so bad. It's of course lulling you into a false sense of security. Next is a combination of steep mud path, brambles, eye level branches, ankle level knotweed, and some unstable pebbles. Then you break out into the sunshine again at the level of the river, and feel happy that your 100m decent is over and it must now get easier.
Now the fear starts. There is a field of unstable, slippery, weed covered boulders, just right to break an ankle. You slither and slide over these and finally arrive at the pool. Which is truly delightful. It's sparkly blue, the sunshine lights it up and the entrance to the cave beckons they eye from a depth of 6m.
Chris at 50 metres
We chained the gear down the hill, 10m steps at a time, which was significantly easier we thought, than running up and down the hill 8 times. We got all the gear down to the pool in about 90 minutes, and were pleased with ourselves.
Gear assembled, camera checked and we were off. The 32C air temperature was oppressive, and it was great to get into the 13C water. We hung about on the surface for a few minutes just to relax and get that hot-and-bothered feeling gone, and then began our dive. The entrance is obvious at a depth of about 6m, and we dropped our decompression cylinders at 6m, and swam into the cave. It starts with a 45 degree, stepped drop into the cave. Lots of boulders and rocks are all around, and you soon come to the 21m dropoff, convenient for leaving the second decompression cylinders.
Now the cave gets interesting. There's a large circular room as you descend, almost impossible to see from one side to the other. The walls are white, but the place sucks up light. If you look back now, from a depth of about 40m, you see the blue entrance above you. More about that later. Now, you arrive on a pebble floor, and the passage turns sharply to the left, under a huge overhang.
You're now at about 50m depth, and in a passage like a railway tunnel. Bigger actually. It's probably 30m wide and 20m high. There are beautiful scalloped formations of the floor, sharp knives of rock 10m across on the floor, and air-clear visibility. Again, it's hard to see across the tunnel, and I had travel all over the cave tunnel to see it, and still didn't see it all! After about 10-15 minutes, it was time to turn, and I turned on the camera, lit the lights and started to shoot some stills. Light was getting sucked up and to get any sort of perspective was difficult. The thought of some new 4000 Lumen lights has started to hit my radar. Hope the bank manager isn't reading this...
I shot some half decent pictures of Christine, and by 30 minutes we were back at the corner to start heading back up the slope. Here is where you get your first real view of the entrance. 50m deep, looking uphill to a turquoise blue window into the fresh air. You can see the green trees around the pool, it's an amazing sight.
We worked our way up the slope, taking pictures, swapping cameras, managing the decompression for the next hour - way more time than we need, but it's a beautiful place, we had the gas, a camera and no pressing engagements that evening. After a 90 minute dive, we surfaced to some French ramblers, who informed us that they also dived there, and had we seen the view from 30m of the surface pool. They didn't offer to help us carry our gear back though, for some reason.
We got out of our gear, relaxed for half an hour and started the long haul back to the road. Only 100m away, most of it vertical, back through the ankle breakers, up the forest mud path, across the scree slope and up the stone steps. PFO test formally passed.
As the light faded, we realised we needed to make tracks if we wanted to eat that night. We headed to Laroque as they have a row of tourist trap restaurants. Takeaway pizza. But it was past 9pm when we got there. "Fini" came the reply from the chef.
No discussion. We had spied a caravan that had "pizza" written on the side, a mile back down the road, so we headed back there, and to our delight, he cooked us 3, Yes 3, pizzas in about 20 minutes flat. Joy of Joy, he also sold us 2 Pelforth Blondes.
Life is good on a day like that!