1. Wear a spanking brand new pair of trainers
2. Eat a bit of past-its-sell-by date fish for lunch the day before
3. Go for a 2 ½ panic run the day before
4. Cut right back on sleep all preceding week
5. Move house same week – and move the furniture yourself
6. Go out for dinner and drink some wine the night before
7. Turn up at the starting line as the starters gun goes
8. Take a wrong turning in the final mile

With studied attention to all the above I took off on the Neolithic Marathon, a cross-country Marathon from the Avebury circle, over the downs to Stonehenge, with a modicum of apprehension, painkillers in the bumbag and quite a lot of loo paper shoved down my front.

A house move in the week leading up to the run, (3rd in 6 months) had left me ready tenderized with an impressionistic collection of bruises, blood blisters and twinges all over the place. (Mind you, shouldn’t complain given one ‘moves address’ every 24 hours on a polar expedition). Plus I had only realized at the end of the week that my trusteeeeee marathon shoes were nowhere to be found. I suspect …myself for having in a brash, puritanical moment of purging material goods, chucked ‘em out. Now I was having to chance it with a not just a brand new pair of trainers, but a rather cult untried make called Hoka. Conceived by a breakaway designer from Salomon, the latter makes those brilliant rough terrain runners (of which I have a pair) but with no cushioning whatsoever, where the former, the Hoka, are like wearing mattresses strapped to your feet. They seemed huge great galumphing things, like a pair of ugly ducklings amongst a sea of streamlined Nike’s. Starters gun and off I galumphed for my virgin voyage in these things for 26. whatever miles ahead of ‘us’. Cue the man Fats Waller;
‘There were four of us, you, me and your big fat feet’,

The other fashion element that rocked me a bit as we all surged forward, was that everyone seemed to be wearing bumbags which looked more like Rambo ammunition belts with rows of energy gels, drinks, tubes, powders, beans what-have-you. I felt just a little nutritionally underdressed with my one lone sachet of lucozade gel. Which of course I’d never tried before. How times have changed since the Olympics, and everyone suddenly seemed to even look more wiry, toned and earnest.

Any concern in the fashion stakes was soon forgotten about in the first section of the run, which suffice to say happily included a variety of hedgerows which came in handy after eating some remains of car-baked smoked salmon for lunch the day before. I wasn’t sure if I felt spongy from lack of sleep over a week of house move, the new shoes or more-than-one-glass of wine dinner with great friends, the wimbles, with whom it has become a long-standing tradition to stay for this marathon in aid of the Wiltshire Wildlife Fund. (It is quite the loveliest run over the downs with superb views, all very Von Trappe, (if you’re up to giving a damn) and a remarkably friendly atmosphere, no Ben Hur elbow poking here.)
But the going can be quite testing with a long stretch over the ridgeway with lumpy stony track and deep tractor ruts through others, lots of ups and downs and several tumbles from competitors.

I was aware that I better give my hosts a run for their money and by half way mark picked up the pace, by 20-mile marker realized I felt just fine and floored it. My previous years had invariably come in at a frustrating 4 hrs. 2 mins thereabouts. 7th woman in 2012. Gotta beat it. Pounded the hills, love uphill, loathe down – makes my knee caps spin, and a planned sprint to the finishing line came to an inglorious end when I took a wrong side of fence on the unmarked section and went awf track. Zeut. Sheer fury propelled me at roadrunner speed eating dust for the last stretch and hoorah in at 3 hrs. 53, 5th woman. (Don’t’ ask how many women!)

Then back to the Wimbles in time for ‘tea’ and a game of tennis with Jock.
Wash off the chalk and dust and lo there’s a sun tan with crisscrossing over my back from my top, so now I look like a well-done entrecote steak with a light dusting of chalk.

I’ll have to race back from the North Pole next year if my mattresses and I are to make the start of the Neolithic 2014 – and dinner with the Wimbles with plenty of wine.

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This last week, when it was still winter if you recall, I took respite from moving house and arrived in a cloud of dust and eau de mothballs at a lunch in Claridge’s hosted by Annoushka Ayton to celebrate ‘Women of Inspiration’.

All the guests seemed to be inspirational and aspirational alpha women but the jewel in the crown and guest of honour, was British gold-medal winning bobsleigh champion Amy Williams. Normally, I rather shrivel at the idea of sitting down publicly at a large table of women; somehow it makes me feel uncomfortable. However that day, it being a table of dynamic and vivacious women, the conversations were too lively and sparkling for me to be anything but enthralled. Not least of all, by our hostess Annoushka, married to John Ayton, the co founder with her of Links of London and her own fine jewellery company Annoushka, a company with such highly covetable jewellery – just take a look at some of the collections that beguile one, with the names of ‘dream catcher’, ‘celestial’ earrings or ‘constellation’ rings. Divine, creative and intelligent, hers is a covetable collection of the thinking woman’s jewellery.

Guest of honour, Amy Chambers, had a profile like a Greek goddess and seemed quite demure until getting into her subject, when a certain diamond-like steeliness came to the surface with a sparkle dancing in her eye, which is I think, a recognizable trait amongst winners.

Other than the common element of ice, one might not think that Amy who has spent so much time whistling down tunnels of ice like a human pin ball at 93 mph, has much in common with me. (I go, at a average speed of 1½ to 2 mph on a fast day, across the ice) But whilst nibbling the proffered delicacies of Claridge’s lunch, I gorged on Amy’s company exchanging views on training, dedication, sports psychology, nutrition, speed (a one–way conversation here, all hers, imagine going at 90 mph plus, with your nose a snowflake away from the ice!) Success in any pursuit, always seems to distill down to the same equation of sheer mental grit and courage, including that of not letting fear of failure lock your brakes, dedication, discipline and – passion. Behind it all, the main propulsion comes from the totally unscientific but immeasurably potent ingredient – a dream.

Other topics we could have gone on discussing, especially now that she has ‘retired’, (at least from bobsleighing) were how this sudden closure of a dream impacts the mind and body. How to fill that void and appetite for focus, sweat and fear that remains unsatiated……. shows its important to have a plan beyond the plan, a dream even more far off than the next dream.

When I grow up and have realized at least a couple more of my own plans and dreams, I shall buy myself a piece or two of important jewellery at Annoushka’s (first off, that lavender blue stone and diamond multi-string bracelet my gaze fell upon that her guest designer, Wendy Yue was wearing) But if that particular dream is not to be, (and its pretty far off with school fees!) then the memory of hauling over a kingdom of ice that shimmered beneath, around and ahead of me like God’s own carpet of diamonds, is enough to keep the sparkle in my eye for a lifetime.

And on a final note of applause to Amy, dipping into and taking from Annoushka’s clever collection of Pearls of Wisdom

“will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands?
And the rest of you, if you’ll just rattle your jewellery”
…..John Lennon

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Happily I was given ample IT and general admin back-up from the Berwin team (mention in dispatches to Rachel, Karen and Rodney  (hey Rodney, good luck to your boy in football man! And please more delish cakes Cecilia!) .  All this smoothed the path and soothed the brow.

The IT rehearsal, is something I always insist on, no matter how awkward for the client, as more often or not there’s a techie gremlin in there.

Sure enough on this occasion there was glitch trying to get the video working of my pre-expedition training routine, which was replayed several times over by the ever-competent SJ Berwin IT team until it ran smoothly. Now I might add here, that there’s a lot of rather primal gasping, grunting and panting on the presentation video, which is a helpless part of some of my more demanding training routine. The volume on this video was being tested at top level, which, I learnt later, could be heard in the open-plan corridor and offices outside of the presentation room. I gather this grunting and panting rather disturbed the otherwise hushed environment of the open plan offices outside the presentation room during and some further interest in my presentation spread about the offices.

It was good to have a room of equal numbers of men and women. Although perhaps the generous male turn out was connected to the above incident.

But it helps to have such a lively and interested audience. I was expecting a rather vigorous ensuing cross-examination of questions given they were mostly lawyers but all questions were thoughtful and invigorating. Hopefully I presented the case for the preservation of Polar Regions and the championing of the spirit of adventure well enough not to be guilty of letting the side – and husband – down. And for those who couldn’t make the talk and only heard the ‘trailer’ from outside, yes, even solo expeditions can clearly be fun occasionally or so I’m told.

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Article in the Henley Standard published 15th April 2013

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Both so very different, but both lives worthy of celebration.

Ben St Joseph, 2^nd Lt., RAMC, son of neighbouring friends in Essex, aged but 23, packed in more in his short life than most who live to a ripe old age, challenging himself in all the elements: mountaineering, trekking, diving, etc.  A kind and caring member of the tight little community of Tollesbury in Essex. Tall and fit, he had a quiet strength.  Ben was fun; he could ‘light up’ a room. Then he died falling from Ben Nevis.

It is beyond my imagination as to how his mother Vivienne feels; I don’t want to go there, and I wouldn’t know what words to use to help bring her back even a little from the grief of a mother who has lost her child. One can only really offer arms to fall into, the presence of friendship, companionship and caring.  So too his sister, Emma – to be hit with such a tragedy so young.  I wonder if this makes one grow up several decades in a moment. Andrew, Ben’s father, said such a noble thing – that he wouldn’t wish Ben’s death to quell the spirit of adventure in other young people. 

 “There are some who bring a light so great to the world that even after they have gone, the light remains.”

And then Sir Geoffrey Shakerley.  As colourful in character as the cashmere jerseys he wore, Geoffrey lived Life Maximus – and uproarishly.  The grandest of society photographers, and much favoured by royals – although goodness knows when he had time to take all those shots as he seemed so busy perpetually and noisily partying himself.  My own abiding memory of him was at Fi ‘s (Geoffrey’s daughter through his marriage to my cousin Liza Anson) wedding to Brocas Burrows.  The reception was held at her uncle’s house Shugborough, and all the guests were jostling around the lake when Geoffrey called  for their attention with as much authority as he could muster for a crowd not used to taking directives, and once he had it, began taking shots from various angles, walking backwards as he did so.  Straight into the lake.  I give it to him, that as he sank he held his beloved camera up in Guinevere style and so saved camera and far more crucially, the wedding pictures.  Professional pride a bit dampened perhaps, but not the party spirit.

The service was held in St. Lukes, and crammed to the gunnels.  I sat on a pew with Cousin Liza (Anson) and her nieces Eloise and Rose Anson, and cousin Katie Robertson – only the likes of Geoffrey could have winkled that cousin down from Scotland, and very grateful I am, as it was part of his magic that there were many a happy reunion taking place at what felt more like a party than a solemn memorial.  The service was concluded with a restoratively witty limerick composed by Kit Harvey Hesketh about Sir G and we all left swathed in our faux furs and chortles too.  But then his life was like the best party – full of colour and very rarely black and white.

What a swell party it was.

Whether you are a rugged adventure-loving farmer’s son or a party-loving, colourful-as-talented photographer and baronet,

what a reminder of the importance of loving and living your every moment in life.

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Last week found me clippety-cloppeting in my heels across the stone floor of the vast Westminster Hall to the House of Lords for the Special Olympics Annual Reception. For those who have never passed through the portals of Westminster Hall, I urge you to do so, for it’s like taking a time Tardis through British History.  Admittedly, on first entering the building a 21^st-Century necessary evil awaits: a security scanning system that is more Luton than lords. But, once through, the 21^st-Century quickly recedes…

My head swivels as I scurry like a tiny mouse under the lofty hammerbeam roof of Westminster Hall, which seems to rest on nothing but the outer walls. This is the largest clear span roof in England.  It also spans ten centuries, having survived the fire that consumed most of ‘the old palace of Westminster’ in 1834.  I would like to pause and soak up the history, but must scamper on past the fifteen life-sized statues of Kings snugly tucked into their carved niches like regal owls, and on through St Stephens Hall, after which I circle confused and a bit lost in the central lobby – which seems like a bewildering if very imposing architectural Hyde Park Corner – before disappearing down miles of red carpet into a labyrinth of oak corridors, all the while watched by solemn eyes of political grandees peering down from dark oil portraits. Walpole, Pitt, and Fox stare disapprovingly at this high-heeled party mousie. Eek.

I forgot to wear a pedometer, so I make discreet inquiries of a security fellow who tells me there are three miles of passages in the building. After covering what feels like all of these miles in my heels, I find my way into the Special Olympics Reception – just in time to cadge a few words with Paul Anderson OBE (vice president and ex-Olympian); a couple of Special Olympians clanking around with a neck-straining array of bling by way of medals; and the be-everywhere, do-everything, for-everyone-all-of-the-time CEO Karen Wallin. Then there are some speeches, or songs in actor Colin Salmon’s case; he gives a rousing jazzily-rapped-out recital with no backing. This is surely the first time those hallowed walls have reverberated to such rhythmic rhetoric, no doubt sending some of those solemn eyeballs in gilt frames outside rolling heavenward. Various and very varied figures come to the mike – from Baroness Ann Taylor, whose political gravitas made the event there possible, to the weighty figure of President of the SOGB Lawrie McMenemy MBE, whose Northern tones and irresistible humour fill the room with laughter whilst getting over the message as loud as the House bell:

Not enough people know what Special Olympics is all about.  It is up to us to spread the word in whatever way we can. 

 So right. Most people in my experience nod knowingly and adopt that look of charitable concern when they hear “Special Olympian” – but they’re thinking “Paraolympian.”, (Paralympian).  In big typeface and YES I’m shouting…….to explain…

About Special Olympics GB

• Special Olympics GB is the country’s largest provider of a year-round sports training and competition programme for all people with an intellectual (learning) disability.

• Special Olympics and Paralympics are two separate organisations. Special Olympics is recognised as the third member of the Olympic family, but it is not just a sporting event. It is a year-round sport programme for people with intellectual (learning) disabilities.

• Special Olympics GB offers sports opportunities to all people with intellectual (learning) disabilities between the ages of 6 to 80 and with an IQ of 75 or less, regardless of their ability level.

• Special Olympics GB was established in 1978.

• Special Olympics GB has 8,000 athletes, and a dedicated army of over 3,000 volunteers. 
 Special Olympics GB operates more than 150 clubs in England, Scotland and Wales.

There. And in case you think it doesn’t touch you – think again.  Two hundred babies will be born this week with a learning disability. One of those two hundred babies could be related or known to you – or your own.

I am a huge believer in sport giving to anyone, in any walk of life, integrity, confidence, and a sense of worth and inclusion. Families sharing involvement in sport create great teamanship and camaraderie.  To see the faces of pride and joy at any SOGB event, makes even the smallest gesture of support – involvement or giving – money or time – manifestly worthwhile. And it’s good sport – for these Olympians are to be celebrated for their own particular brand of courage in daring to push beyond their normal boundaries to excel and succeed in their sport.

I don’t do nearly enough for them, but if more people gave just a little time or support, if we all came together on this – what a better and more fulfilled community we would be.

‘Let me win. But if I cannot, let me be brave in the attempt’.  Special Olympics motto.

Both courageous and humble: a rare combination.

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‘Cinders’ here was staying in a hotel where the room was not big enough to swing un chat around. Certainly there wasn’t space for a mirror – so I had no idea that, after all the months of extreme training, I now look not so much the svelte femme in my long orange silk dress, as I liked to imagine, but rather more like a well-buffed transvestite with admirable biceps.. 

I arrived swaying precariously in three-inch heels amongst the other mostly Parisian guests who were so effortlessly glamorous it made me feel a real ‘choux.’ Happily I was in time to catch the tail end of the most ethereal concert in the rococococcococ chapel – a soprano with a voice that soared and filled every ornate cornice of the high ceiling.

Then a couple miles walk at l’escargot pace to dinner, which took one through the eye-popping splendour of the hall of mirrors, followed by unashamedly lavish rooms and corridors. 

Time seemed to draw still, and it was delicious to emotionally submerge into the spirit of the Palace, with her hidden passages behind panels and sequestered nooks that whispered a thousand secret histories: some grave or frightening, others flirtatious and trifling.

Eventually into a candlelit and glittering chambre de batailles, where we all did admirable battle with several dishes which were extraordinarily good given the number of miles to the kitchens.    Thankfully I was too spellbound by the dazzling surroundings and company to entertain any notion of nose powdering after dinner – one would have been gone a very long while.

The sheer opulence and size of King Louis XIV’s ‘new home build’  – entirely thanks to the ingenuity of Colbert – makes Buckingham Palace look demure.  Hard to believe that Versailles was once was but a swamp. Apparently on being implored by his architect not to build on the mosquito-ridden quagmire, the Sun King retorted ‘Because I can.’  Viva la France.

Next morning found Cinders back in pertex and doing battle royal again – this time with sharp-elbowed Parisians on the metro.  Unlike Waterloo, I rather think the French won this one.

 Versailles was a fairy tale. But London’s not so bad either.

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Article in the Times 23rd Feb 2013

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I’ve been suffering from literary constipation, which has bunged up my blogging over several months.  It’s not for want of regular gutsy material, or a hungry readership. It’s just that my own appetite has been dulled to a dribble.  I’m writing a book, you see. In fact the big job has been done. I’m just editing it – or rather my new manner-from-heaven editor and friend, Marianne Self, is.  Languidly long-limbed and looking unnervingly like Demi Moore, she has a Zen-like temperament that is both calming and energising when we’re working together. Enough! I’ll stop there before we all get depressed, or men excited and pushing out books all over the place to be edited by herself.

 And then and then, when not trying to push out the right words for the book, I’m more than flushed with the exertions of the morning training sessions with the girls (my tyre collection – envy me – go on) and or sessions of a rather more extreme nature with trainer Richard Hawkeye Hawkins. Violent I’d say, but effective. 

 So life is a satisfactorily extreme concoction of pertex, mud, and near-death-like experiences in the morning, followed by totally sedentary bum-on-seat writing in afternoon (bar the obligatory writers commuting to the toaster or kettle, or wine refrigerator in the ‘cocktail hour’), and rounded off by more screaming admin or organisational work into the wee hours. Unless, that is, Cinders luck is in, and it’s away with the pertex, and on with the nawt-a-porter and liberal dabbing of eau de toilette and off to a parteeee. ….

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