The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl

Half deer

"You've got lovely long eyelashes," I said to Dr G last night, in an attempt at being nice instead of our usual juvenile banter.

"That's because I'm half-deer," he replied.

Last Saturday we went for a walk up East Lomond. It's only half an hour to the top so there was no need for me to whinge! We flopped on the grass and listened to the skylarks chatter and the tourists huff and puff. The hill has a great view of Falkland, one of my favourite Fife villages. The only thing I like about hills, aside from eating sandwiches at the top of them, is how they make you feel like an insignificant speck of dust. Instant perspective!

Two years ago we stashed some boxes in our friend's loft as we were fixing up our flat to sell. We finally picked them up on Sunday then I spent all arvo unpacking boxes and rediscovering old books and notepads and my boarding pass collection that I thought was lost forever. It made me remember for the 757th time lately that I'm passionate about a lot of different things. For a very long time, I've been so lost in writing about the size of my arse and desperately pimping a book about the size of my arse and answering questions about the size of my arse and other people's arses that I'd almost convinced myself I didn't know anything else. Or wanted to do anything else.

Those boarding passes made me remember that wild hunger for adventure that got me on the plane from Australia. The urgent craving for new experiences. That glow in my stomach I felt when I first tottered along Edinburgh's cobbled streets. For all sorts of reasons I'd let my hunger grow dull. I'd stopped thinking about why I came here and what I wanted and got bogged down with what I thought was right and/or would make others happy.

You know how some people stick a photo on the fridge of when they were skinny and aspire to that? Instead of a previous body I'm going after an old feeling. I know a time when I felt like my whole body was quietly buzzing with joy just to be alive and I am working to get back there. Heal the mind and the arse will follow!

What else has been happening? I've been destroying my fingernails in the garden, watching the resident Eating Disorder Pigeons with Dr G, sprouting mung beans and snow peas in a groovy sprouter thingy, reading like a mofo, writing on paper, seeking professional help and stuffing the diary with as many fun things as possible for the summer to come. I also bought a tacky lounge chair for the garden so you can bet it will now pish down with rain for the next twenty weekends :)

Elie Chain Walk

"What are you doing on the weekend?" asked my lovely boss.

"We're going to do the Elie Chain Walk."

"Is that the one with the chains and cliffs along the coast?"

"Yep!"

"Did you know a man died doing that last year?"

Hmm, thanks boss.

Elie is a charming village on the Fife coast. We've passed through it many times on our way to Anstruther's famous fish and chips but had no idea the Chain Walk existed until someone posted about it on Gareth's favourite hillwalking forum.

Named one of the Best Walks In Britain by the Daily Telegraph, we were hooked by this description:

"The Chain Walk forms a side-loop to the tranquil, 90-mile Fife Coastal Path... The fun chained section – a kind of British via ferrata – hugs the sea from Elie village, careering round the cliffs of Kincraig Point to Shell Bay...

Together with footholds, a series of eight fixed chains 10 to 50 feet long provide something to cling to as you slither up, down, along and over alarming rocks while waves crash in from the Firth of Forth. Children aged nine and over can tackle this breathtaking route, which defies being termed a mere "walk". This is adventure. Stay away near high tide."

It turns out the poor man was walking along the tops of the cliff when he fell, not doing the Chain Walk itself. Still, it was unnerving on Saturday to be greeted by a sign featuring stick figures in peril:

It was very windy but the tide was low and it was miraculously bright and sunny. There's no way in hell I'd have done it if there'd been the slightest hint of moisture on those rocks!

Nobody seems to know exactly when or why the chain walk created but most seem to think it was during the 1920s. I'd like to think they made it just for fun. It was exhilarating and nerve-wracking and the whole time I wanted to yell HURRAH in a jolly Famous Five manner. I haven't climbed anything since the monkey bars in primary school. I loved hauling myself up the rocks, grasping the chains with shaky hands, heart pounding as the waves smacked the cliffs.

Here's Dr G in action...

And here's me inching along not realising Dr G was snapping away on his phone. The resolution is shoddy but you can just see how the seat of my trousers almost wore away from sliding down rocks on my arse. Not good with descents as you know, so an arse makes a handy fifth limb!

Just have to note that for once I was not the clutz of the day! Gareth slipped on a slimy rock in a flat, non-perilous part of the journey. He even did the comedy flapping hands as he tumbled onto his butt. He was not injured which left me free to cackle, which is totally acceptable since he has mocked my misadventures many times before.

My photos don't really do the Walk justice as I was too busy trying not to fall into the sea to take proper ones. I tried to make a video of Gareth darting across the rocks but forgot to switch off the time-lapse mode. So hope the words convey that this was a ripsnorter of a way to spend a Saturday morning! If you ever find yourself in Scotland in decent weather I'd highly recommend it!

Here's some good photos elsewhere:

• These pics capture the journey with cliffs and crashing waves
• A moody shot of the beach
• Stunning landscapes and folk danging from chains on a blog called Tinned Tomatoes

Greetings from the Lake District

Dr G and I have escaped to the Lake District this week. Hooray for holidays!

I was planning on a week of tea and scones and reading books but of course with Gareth around it's always slightly more strenuous than that. So we stomped up a wee hill and I must confess I did a bit of bitching and grumbling because it was raining and it was windy and it was slippery and there were loose rocks and I forgot to bring my sticks.

My main issue was that it was steep, because who would have thought a hill could be anything but flat and gentle? Honestly it was such a pathetic display that I cracked up laughing at my own ridiculousness. I really do try to like hillwalking for the sake of our marriage, but some days you just can't even fake it! :)

On Monday we played Pitch n Putt golf. I'd not played golf before but both my grandmothers were ace golfers so surely it would be in the genes? Not quite. I came this close to manslaughter charges. On my very first shot, somehow I whacked the ball into the safety barrier net thing, which I still do not understand as I was clearly aiming for the green. It freakishly whizzed through a tiny gap between the net and its metal frame, ricocheting off the frame then smacking hard into the wall of the golf shop... missing the head of a little old lady by an inch!

She had been quietly sitting on the veranda of the wee shop well behind what she rightly thought was the safety of a GIANT SAFETY NET. I rushed over to make sure she was okay and apologised profusely and she really was far too gracious about it. She was laughing! Maybe a brush with death makes you laugh? I would have demanded I buy her a KitKat at the very least.

Meanwhile Gareth had dropped to his knees - I thought he was shaking from laughter but he said it was sheer relief because he saw it all in slow motion and thought I was off to jail, for sure. Holy crap what a terrible moment. Very Nice Lady, if you ever find this website somehow (perhaps by googling "pitch and putt ginger menace") once again, I am so sorry!

Incidentally Gareth kicked my arse, 2 holes to 7.

So I'm keeping things low key for the rest of the week. Thank you everyone who listened to the podcast! We have no idea what we're doing but we're having a lot of fun doing it. Once I'm done with hols and a work trip next week, we'll get cracking on a podcast website and a new episode. Thanks again for giving us a go!

The Weary Squirrel

I'm back from me holidays! We attempted to balance all the whisky, cooked Scottish breakfasts and Cadbury Top Deck with lots of walking - to big rocks, steep steps and a pair of Munros.

Mysterious Jenny on Ben Lawers.

I'm pleased to report that Ben Lawers and Beinn Ghlas were my least whiny hills ever. Partially because they were touristy fellas, side by side with non-scary paths. But also because my mate Jenny was there and I didn't want to look like a wuss. So there was only one obscene gesture and a wee bit of stick waving!

We need to start a lobby group to bring this to the UK.

. . .

It's been awhile between entries - sorry you had to look at my boofy cheeks for so long. No matter where I've been on the scales, I've always had chubby cheeks that grandmothers love to squeeze. Gareth once said they were like "little cushions". That a weary squirrel might rest upon!

. . .

A year ago this week I was dancing in the streets after handing in my manuscript. "La la la!" I said, "I AM DONE WITH THIS WEIGHT LOSS SHIT and I am never going to think of it again!"

Then I ate a packet of Marks & Spencer choc-coated strawberries.

Of course I remembered the next day that you are never done, sucker. Ever since then it has been a challenge - no, let's not downplay it - it's been a constant, shitty struggle to get the balance right. I so badly want to stay healthy without needing to be a slave to scales and calories, but I have to bear in mind the brutal reality that when it comes to food, I got issues. I can't pretend that I don't need to think about it.

It's like my peanut butter fork. I keep a jar of PB in my desk at work and I like to spread a wee bit on spelt crackers. For the past couple of months I've being doing this with a plastic fork. Part of my brain screams, "This isn't working! This ain't the tool for the job!" and the other part of my brain says, "Oh shuddup. Sure it's messy and the cracker is cracking up all over the keyboard but it sort of does the trick, right?"

Likewise I've been letting everything get chaotic. I cram more and more into the day, not sleeping properly, eating too much, feeling like crap but telling myself I'm still good! I'm still good, just because my guts have not yet exploded out of my jeans. I keep diggin' and diggin' with my plastic fork. 

Last Wednesday on the Isle of Skye, we hauled our arses up to the Old Man of Storr. There was a polite sign near the big rock that said, You are advised not to go beyond this point. There's no better sign than an actual SIGN!

Dr G laughs in the face of danger.

Hmm hmm hmm. I really need to stop and get my priorities in order, before I burn out and bloat up. And/or become an annoying wanker who claims to be too busy to peel an orange.

. . .

Ooh I gotta write about the Moonwalk! Next time Gadget. Next time. Hope you're all doing well!

Heading up to the Old Man of Storr.

Coming Down The Mountain

I bagged my second Munro yesterday! I was due to do another 16 miler for the Moonwalk but could not face plodding around the suburbia for hours. You know Moonwalk Fatigue has set in when you'd rather plod up a hill for hours instead.

3,231 feet of pure pleasure.

Our target was Ben Vorlich. There are two Ben Vorlichs in Scotland - we did the one near Loch Earn, known as The Easy Ben Vorlich. Lots of people scurry up the nearby Stuc a' Chroin afterwards to make a proper day of it, but one munro was day enough for me.

After all my Moonwalking, I'd forgotten what a hard and painful slog the hills are. Instead of chirpy podcasts the only soundtrack was the constant clobber of my heart and the slobber of my breath. I didn't need a heart rate monitor to know this was maximum exertion, baby!

But I felt pretty decent, and much faster than the first one nine months ago. It was actually enjoyable! Much of that was down to cooler weather and not being riddled with hay fever but some of it can be attributed to increased fitness. Yet still I was overtaken by:

• an old man with a limp
• an arthritic Labrador
• two small children
• petite lady with golfball perm and lurid tartan trousers who was at least seventy years old.

And a nutty dalmatian.

Ben Vorlich the Easy was also recommended by reader South American Slimmer last year, who said it was a good beginners munro with a clear path all the way to the top. If you're out there SAS, thank you from me and my Calves o' Fire!

The path was nice because you could always see how far you had to go. But it also sucked because you could always see how far you had to go.

Amazingly, I had a grand total of ZERO Whine Breaks on this walk. I blame the BBC - on Friday I watched a show called Beyond Boundaries: Across The Andes, in which teenagers with all sorts of disabilities trekked across Ecuador in treacherous conditions. They totally ruined my appetite for incessant complaining, what with all their inspiring toughness. 

Here's Doctor G giving a bewildered thumbs up, as it is the first time he's got so close to the top of a hill without being whacked by one of my walking poles.

"Wow!" he said when I finally reached the top, "You didn't threaten me with violence once!"

This is the pose I pulled when he said, "Look triumphant!" Part Edmund Hillary, part cheesy menswear catalogue.

Windswept with severe case of Beanie Hair.

Two munros down, 282 to go? I don't think so. I love the smugness and serenity of roaming the hills but have no desire to go beyond the novice ones. Going up is okay but I'm still not a fan of the descent. I had a minor freakout as we headed back down Ben Vorlich - it wasn't that steep but the loose rocks made me want to vomit and demand a helicopter rescue. It's completely irrational and I know I should trust gravity but... wah!

MULTIMEDIA BONUS: Gareth has reconstructed my tentative Coming Down The Mountain technique for your viewing pleasure.

There's No Place Like Home(s)

On Friday it was five years since I moved to Scotland. Half a decade?! I cannae believe it, hen.

I'm elligible for proper British citizenship now. That costs £655, so I ordered a heart rate monitor instead. You people were very persuasive! Thank you for your comments. As an celebratory experiment I will wear my HRM while eating a deep-fried pizza and see if it has any immediate effect on my ticker.

Yesterday I went walking with Gareth and our mate Steve in the Lomond Hills. We did a 14km loop, featuring steep bits, flat bits, sheep poo, snow, mud, heather and gravel. My dodgy knee hurt a little, no doubt since it had been so long since I'd been in the hills. There was one steep bit where I did my freak-out-and-freeze-with-fear thing, but I took a deep breath and maintained a neutral expression as I slid down the rocks on my arse. Couldn't have Steve thinking I was a wuss!

Yesterday I learned that it sucks being the slowest person in a walking party. Steve is freakishly fit, compared to me anyway. After four hours we'd reached the final little hill. My face was red, my legs were lead; I was drooling. I slumped over my walking stick as Steve strolled casually, shoulders relaxed and hands in pockets. At least Gareth had the decency to look a bit sweaty!

Also, if you're slowest - you never get a chance to catch your breath. The lads would stand at the top of each hill, politely admiring the scenery while they waited for me to haul myself up. Then once I'd caught them, they'd set off again! So I'd go too, thus never really getting a rest.

Overall it was a good walk with good company. I used to hate exercising with people - even a crowded Body Pump class felt solo, coz I'd zone out beneath my barbell. But these days, aside from weights at home, all my exercise is social. At kickboxing, you gotta look people in the eye before you whack 'em. Then there's the lunchtime walks with my work pals. I seem to push myself harder than if I was alone, as I don't want to look like a slacker or get left behind.

Ahh, humans. They're like heart rate monitors on legs, really. I didn't need to buy that contraption at all.

Anyway, Scotland. It's a great place to be! I've moaned about the weather over the years but it's really a pretty mild climate, if you can get past the rain and dark bits. I remember people warned me I'd "stack it on in Scotland" with all the lager and greasy stuff but in many ways it's easier to be healthy over here. I've become more outdoorsy that I ever thought possible, and I put that down to knowing I won't roast alive if I go outside. My epidermis favours the Northern Hemisphere. That said, I still miss alfalfa sprouts and cheap mangoes. Both countries have their pros and cons and both countries feel like home. Och aye, mate.

Finally, here's some shaky footage of Gareth and Steve staggering around at the top of West Lomond yesterday. I'd never seen/heard wind like this before. Howling!

Spring Forward.

Fall Back.

Will Climb For Food

This Week In Hillwalking News: I've bagged my first Munro!

From the Wikipedia: "A Munro is a Scottish mountain with a height over 3,000 feet (914.4 metres). They are named after Sir Hugh Munro (1856–1919), who produced the first attempt at an exhaustive catalogue of such hills, known as Munro's Tables, in 1891."

There are 284 Munros in Scotland and freakishly fit people like to scuttle up as many as possible, obsessively ticking them off the list in a practice known as "Munro bagging". I can't imagine ever being that dedicated to the cause. I think I reached my peak of obsessiveness in Greece when I was madly compelled to try as many varieties of Fage Greek yogurt as possible ("yogurt bagging").

Anyway, after my tentative forays into hillwalking Gareth reckoned it was high time I graduated to a Munro. So off we went to Ben Lomond (3195ft/974m), which funnily enough looms over the bonny banks of Loch Lomond. It's like the Disneyland of munros, wildly popular and crowded especially in the summertime. But since there's a path all the way to the top and not considered particularly difficult, it seemed like a good Virgin Munro.

Some statistics from the day:

 Walking time - 5 hours 55 minutes (including Whinge Breaks)
Whinge Breaks - 27 (approx.)

You know how Jillian Michaels said you should do the sort of exercise that you like to do? I don't think I like hillwalking very much. This is what I told Gareth about five minutes into the walk. Specifically, "This SUCKS. And so do YOU for making me do this."

Normally my bad attitude doesn't kick in for about 500 metres but it suddenly hit me that this was going to be a long day. Weeks ago when Gareth suggested the walk I wasn't really paying attention, "Sure, big hill, yeah, no worries". When the day came I just ate my porridge and laced my boots in a la-di-da fashion as if I was off for a casual stroll to the shops. It wasn't until I got on the hill and noticed the endless path stretching ahead of me, up up up, that my heart sank and the surliness began.

Tissues Used - 56

My nose didn't help my mood. What the hell is going on with the pollen this year? My hay fever will not let up. After a few minutes amongst the heather it felt like there was a brick inside my brain. My sinuses throbbed and I was continually blowing my snoz which really slowed down my walking pace and delivery of bitchy comments.

Pathetic Declarations of Defeat - lost count

• I can't do this.
• I don't want to do this.
• I'm going back to the car.
• You just go ahead, you athletic bastard. I'll wait on this rock.
• I never even wanted to do hillwalking in the first place. I only did it so we'd have something in common!

Gareth captured this moment of tantrum about 3/4 of the way up (you can see my tongue poking out in the larger version). I was full of murderous rage by this stage and wanted to stab him with my walking sticks as he was barely breaking a sweat.

Masochist Level - Extreme

By the time the top of the hill was in sight I was suffering. My legs were trembling, my head was fuzzy and I almost cried when a wiry bloke RAN past us. I yearned to trip him up with my stick, but I could barely muster the energy for a snailish stagger by that point. This was despite that giant bowl of breakfast porridge and a calorific yet nutritious Nakd bar scoffed halfway up. I swear I felt the precise moment the last drop of energy drained out my toes. But on some grimly determined level I enjoyed the sensation.

"Do you want to stop for a sandwich?" asked Gareth.
"No!" I hissed.
"Why not?"
"BECAUSE I HAVEN'T EARNED IT YET!"

Munros Weakly Ascended - 1
PB&J Sandwiches Devoured - 2

Finally after 2 hours and 50 excruciating minutes I'd shuffled to the top.

"How does it feel Marsho?" said Gareth, "Your first Munro!"
"Bah! Sandwich!"

I slumped on the grass, closed my eyes and wished really hard for a funicular railway to appear. No such luck, but the view was wonderful, despite the crowds and some wanker yapping on his mobile phone.

Thanks to the restorative powers of my sandwiches and two cups of flask-tea-that-sort-of-tastes-like-coffee I stopped being such a grumpy git and posed for a windswept half-triumphant, half-sarcastic photo.

Falls on Arse - 1

A fascinating aspect of hillwalking is how it brings out the very best and the very worst of your character.

There are two ways to descend Ben Lomond. The quickest and easiest is back down the tourist path, the way other is steeper and involves a wee bit of scurrying over rocks. Gareth asked me which way did I want to go?

"The quick and easy way, of course."
"Borrrrrrrrring!"
"ALRIGHT HAVE IT YOUR WAY THEN!"

And Ms Cranky was back.

What I hate most about hillwalking - just when you get over the thigh-screaming hell of the ascent you and enjoy the view, you have to come back down... which just means your body hurts from different angles.

In hindsight it wasn't that difficult; three hours of descent featured all of ten minutes of rocky bits. But with the mist rolling in as I shuffled down on my hands and knees and arse, I was seething with venom and fear and resentment and once again decided it was Gareth's fault.

"You're a PRICK. I TOLD you I didn't want to come down this way!"
"I thought you said you liked challenges?"
"Only when the challenges are over!"

About an hour later I tripped on an innocent rock and landed comically on my arse. Gareth watched my face for signs of tantrum but by then I'd started to enjoy myself and found it rather hilarious. Here's a picture of mud on my butt.

Crushed Toes - 10

The last hour was hell. My body started to betray me - aching calves, knees, back. My pollen-brain was pulsing with pain. And either my boots are too small or I'm a total wimp, because my toes were smashing against the front. It was so excruciating I wanted to bite them off. But there's just no respite because the ground is continually so bloody steep. I tried walking backwards for awhile out of desperation.

But it was tolerable, because the end was in sight and the views were grand and glorious. Here's Gareth amongst the ferns, looking infuriatingly energetic.

Post-Walk Sexiness Rating - ZERO!

Finally we hit level ground again. We were done. Gareth was cheering kindly, "Woohoo! You did it Marsho! One Munro down, 283 to go!" But I was too knackered to feel any triumph whatsoever. I had never been so utterly shattered in my life. There was not a single ounce of energy left in my body.

Below is the worst, most hilariously unflattering photo of me I've seen in a long time. I was reluctant to post it but in some ways it's the best photo of all time. I barely recognise myself with the red nose and tired eyes and greasy limp hair and the smile so strained and pathetic because lifting my face any higher was just tooooo much effort :)

But that crazy moment of exhaustion is preserved forever. Two days later, with legs so sore and stiff I'm walking like a zombie, I like that I don't recognise myself in the photo; the face or the person I've become. It makes me wonder what other surprises I could find up my sleeve. I've never been so proud of a bad hair day.

Witness the Fitness

Well I fought The Law again on Sunday and this time I won. We had blue skies and a gentle breeze so there was no excuse not keep huffing to the top. And then on to the higher but gentle Ben Cleuch, then down a couple more hills to complete the wee circuit.

As I said before, The Law isn't high but it's rather steep. I tried to make a video as we came back down but of course it doesn't look particularly daunting on film. ARRGH!

You just can faintly make out the path in the bracken, on top of the green, slug shaped hill. Then admire my cinematography skillz as I oh-so-steadily and expertly pan to the top. Please forgive the demented singing!

Comeback Kid

Dudes! I'm afraid of being hit over the head with a bag of frozen peas if I admit this to you, but there's been some positive developments in the dreaded Hurty Knee Saga.

It's been two years since the initial injury and a year since I reluctantly gave up all forms of cardio except very low impact, in-a-straight-line stuff in the hope of calming the knee down and strengthening the surrounding muscles. So finally on Monday I felt ready to try an RPM class again (the Les Mills answer to Spinning).

It was bloody brilliant. The music was rockin', the pace was relentless and the sweat was drippin'. And finally I could do the Standing Up In The Saddle bits without my knee screaming. I'd forgot how uncomfortable that seat is though, even with padded shorts on. It felt like I'd been hit in the groin with a mallet.

Anyway, that was Monday morning. Monday night we went for a two hour walk along the sea and today was a two hour walk up a hill, and (so far... fingers crossed... chucking salt over my shoulder...) my knee still feels good!

:) :) :)

Woohooooooooo! Let us all rejoice, for now you shall be spared from my incessant bitching!

Now I must find a way to persuade Gareth that it would be a real tops idea for us to invest in a spin bike, just like the lovely Mistress Kek has just done. Out of bed and straight onto the bike in her PJs, how's that for an exercise commute?

. . .

In other news, I bought some new undies today. Nothing saucy, mind; just practical everyday boring ones in a multi-pack. They're a size 12. Holy crap!

. . .

Now let's talk about the weather. The sultry Scottish summer drags on! Today we were dog-sitting these two wee stumpy barrels, Tibby and Toby and took them for the aforementioned long walk in the hills. We'd only been out for ten minutes when it completely chucked it down. It was that special kind of rain, so heavy that your trousers are instantly glued to your thighs and you can't see a thing because your eyeballs are being gouged by the horizontal raindrops.

But by the time we got to the top we had dried out. You can see the dogs were still so cranky about it they refused to look at the camera.

Five minutes into the descent it kicked up again, even heavier than before. Everything turned slippery and sludgy and just bloody marvelous. The dogs waded around with mud covering their stubby little knees, turning around every now and then to give me the stink eye.

In the spirit of that recent entry about capturing the moment, here's photographic evidence of us poor creatures (click to see bigger version). It's the precise moment I stopped feeling cheery about the new undies and instead kind of disgusted because they were glued to my skin. Is there anything more revolting than the feeling of cold, heavy, sopping clothes clinging to your body?

But at least the rain stopped and the rainbows came out. AHH SCOTLAND. You gotta love it.

I Fought The Law

I've got that old Queen song stuck in my head, I want to break free. I've got a dozen diet books in a bag all ready to be chucked into the charity shop bin. I want to breaaakkkk freeee!

Our bookshelves are oe'rflowing, you see; so I was seeing if anything could go. The diet books were an easy target. I just don't need 'em around anymore. Some were just those free extracts that came with Slimming magazine, but some I bought in moments of gloom and despair. Whenever I had some sort of crisis I'd go and buy a diet book, because crises made me lose all faith in myself and my ability to know what's best for the ol body. Depression relapses, job worries, moving overseas, pre-wedding freakout - there's a diet book to commemorate every lard busting hurdle.

None of them were really sensational titles, and they've taught me stuff - recipes, exercises, etc etc. But every time I'd read them I get annoyed with myself for wasting money, because they weren't really telling me anything new. Or I'd get annoyed because I knew there was no way I could fit my life around that particular diet... which meant the real answer was to stick with what I was already doing, and just be patient. Which is even more frustrating, because sometimes you're just busting for someone to come along with a miraculous solution.

But now I'm finally happy and confident doing my own thing. I trust that I know what works and what will bend and stretch to accommodate life's ups and downs. There's no diet or rules, no wagon to fall off. It's a messy amalgam of different ideas and advice and years of trial and error that basically boils down to -- do the healthy thing more often than I don't.

Sometimes I still go off the rails completely, but I'm more in tune with my body now. There's this mental threshold and I know when it's time to stop and take an honest look at myself. I know how to get back on track without panicking and without racing to the bookshelf. It's taken a long time to get to this point but the wait has been worth it. Woohoo!

. . .

I'm trying to decide if I love or hate this hillwalking caper. It's so different from every other kind of exercise I've ever done.

The first thing that annoys me - there is no escape.

The other day we set out for Ben Cleuch. It's in the Ochils, which aren't considered very sexy to hardcore walking types, but they're close by and good for total beginners like me. Ben Cleuch isn't particularly high (721m) but en route is a nasty hill called The Law. It is one steep bastard. Most people do Ben Cleuch the other way so you finishing coming down The Law, but Gareth likes to be different and go up.

It usually takes him about 45 minutes on his own, but we'd been walking for an hour and had only made it 3/4 of the way up. I had to keep stopping to gasp for breath, freak out or just plain whinge. There were rocky bits and slippery bits and other bits where I thought my calves would explode from the steepness. And I kept stabbing my walking poles into fresh, giant sheep turds by mistake.

I told myself sternly, shut up and enjoy the views and think about the tea and sandwiches and thank bloody goodness we didn't do this in reverse. The only thing worse than going up The Law would be going down. Well, if you're a total wimpypants like me.

But I spoke to soon, because all of a sudden we were surrounded by surly black clouds. And then the rain came in. Good old horizontal, icy Scottish rain that instantly soaks you to the bone. We had no choice but forget about Ben Cleuch and turn back.

"Well that's f*cking LOVELY!" I screamed to Gareth. "I can't believe we have to go back down there! You know I hate descents!"

(Because, of course, it was totally his fault that the weather had turned. Hey, at least I didn't punch him!)

So that is what I hate about the hillwalking. You can't just give up. You can't walk out of the class or get off the treadmill or turn off the DVD player and put the dumbells away. You can go up or you can go down, but you have to keep going. Arrgh!

I picked my way back down The Law like an arthritic goat, testing every loose stone with my boot, slowly slowly slowly. My legs shook the entire time, just waiting to slip and plunge to a grisly death. But anger and annoyance spurred me on. By the time we got to the rocky bits at the bottom, I was almost enjoying it and laughing at myself for being so pathetic. It was quite fun scooting across the rock on my hands and knees. When we got to the car park my legs and butt were covered in mud and that was rather satisfying.

OH! But there's something else about hillwalking that I hate even more than descents and the inability to abort your mission.

You're walking up big a hill, right? And you're tired and sweaty, but you can finally see the top. You're thinking about your tea and sandwich and it's going to be okay, as illustrated below...

But then you get to the top and find out THERE ARE MORE HILLS! Bigger, nastier hills that were stealthily hiding behind the first one!

Every time that happens I just want to STAB somebody. You don't see a treadmill suddenly leaping to an incline for no good reason. Mother Nature is so annoying with all her devious variations and unpredictability. She is so, so cruel. But she is growing on me.

Ain't No Mountain

Oooh! The other day I had the best breakfast in ages. Total 2% Greek Yogurt, strawberries and a splodge of honey. It's a wonder the strawberries made it to brekkie, when I bought them the night before I opened the punnet and POW! The scent of summer smacked me in the nose. Is there anything more scrumptious than berries this time of year?

And that Total 2% is the business. I've waxed lyrical about the 0% version before, but I only really use it for cooking - like a dollop in some pumpkin soup or on a bean burrito in place of sour cream. And the full fat version is ace, but it's sooo thick and sturdy you could probably smear it on the ground and build a house on top that would last 100 years. Then recently someone blogged about a 2% version but can't remember who it was! If you were the 2% yogurt blogger, please let me know so I can bow down to you! (ETA: Taylore blogged about it!)

It's the perfect yogurt compromise! Especially with good old Australian Capilano honey mixed in. There's a lot of poncy honey on the market today, derived from all sorts of exotic trees or bushes, but I like Capilano coz it makes me think of home. Every time I squeeze that bottle I sing the old jingle... Capilano honeeeeey makes the difference every tiiiiime!

(Do they still have that jingle? Sniff sniff. Holy homesick, Batman.)

Anyway. Berries! Summer! Sunshine! But there's no need to be jealous, all you Southern Hemispherians in the throes of winter - it was only 2 degrees cooler in Melbourne yesterday than it was here. Sultry! Gareth and I decided to get out there and walk up a hill. In fine Scottish tradition it was rainy and misty and you could barely make out the view. But it was refreshing nonetheless!

I finally tested out my brand new walking pole thingies. Normally these are reserved for creaky old people but the lovely Babs mentioned them on this old entry and they seemed great for someone with a dodgy knee and a Fear of Descents. I made Gareth walk in front of me, so he could suss out any impending obstacles. He said the climb was like being chased by a pack of blind people because all he could hear behind him was TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!

But today my knees are thanking me and it was much less scary when I could stab the ground with a pole. I still HATE descending - I whinge and whimper and it took me longer to get down than climb up! But I'm sure it's character building, right?

You can see the blinding Scottish summer sunshine below. And some very sexy high-waisted walking trousers! (That weird bulge around my middle is the bulky waistband, not a sprawling belly roll, hehe) And you can see those golden poles. I am thinking of carrying them at all times, just to poke people who don't shuffle up quick enough in the Post Office queue.

And finally, thank you kindly for the comments on the last entry. It wasn't so much about what the Bra Lady said - I totally agree it was simply off-the-cuff Retail Banter - but my utterly wounded reaction to it. I thought I'd developed this tough skin lately, feeling confident and foxy, but I was really disappointed at how instantly deflated I felt, how one little comment made me question everything. But I guess it just takes time to build up your self-belief, to trust that you genuinely feel good just to be you. The more I stop obsessing about diet stuff and just start doing things like climbing up hills... the more I really believe it :)

To Fetch A Pail of Water

I did two scary things this weekend!

1. Held A Tiny Baby
When I wasn't scoffing hot cross buns on Good Friday I got to cuddle my friends brand new bairn. I am rubbish with babies; I'm terrified of breaking them. But this little fella was gorgeous, and it warmed my crusty heart to see the parents so completely besotted by their new creation. I also felt an attack of the warm fuzzies to see Gareth holding him somewhat nervously but overall my overwhelming feeling was, "Lovely, but not for me." Not for now, anyway.

All of a sudden I have reached an age where people ask about my breeding intentions. Wasn't it only yesterday they were asking what I want to do when I finish high school? I haven't even figured that one out yet!

Just the other night I was out with friends and one of them said, "So when's the baby due?". I got all huffy, "Are you saying I look lardy? I have been BUSTING MY ARSE at the gym!". But he said no, it was because I looked happy and I'd only been drinking pints of water all night. Ahh, nice logic.

Anyway. Babies. It would be great if we could have a wee family in a few years, but right now I'm not interested. I have only just started to look after myself properly, let alone a screaming child. I spent so many years all surly and depressed, merely enduring life and just dragging my lardy arse through the days. But now that I'm finally fully present and participating, I'd like to enjoy my delayed youth for a bit longer.

2. Climbed Up A Big Hill
Gareth is mad into hillwalking at the moment. His fitness level makes me spew with jealousy - not only does he cycle a casual 80+ miles per week, he also wanders in the hills for hours on end.

Anyway, the other day he was heading out to Dumyat, a small hill of 418 metres (1,373 ft), and asked did I want to tag along. He assured me it was a quick and easy walk, popular with old grannies and small children.

"And you could add hillwalking to your New Activities list!" he said.

I was not sold. It wouldn't really count as I used to walk up Mount Ainslie back in Canberra. Not as high but felt bloody grueling back in 2002. People run up that hill in 10 minutes, but it used take me nearly an hour!

But then he told me he'd packed sandwiches and a thermos of tea, so my stomach led the way.

There is a very straightforward, gradual path to the top but of course Gareth likes to be different and took us on a much steeper cross-country route.

I have to admit I got shitscared. And really puffed. And cranky, because Gareth was barely breaking a sweat.

Why do hills have to be so... hilly? I don't trust my balance. I seem to believe that my body will somehow defy gravity and I'll fall off the hill and break all my bones.

My first worry is the ol' knee. Not the pain, but the fear of pain. Almost two years since I first hurt it, I am terrified of hurting it again. So I am really awkward and tentative on my feet.

The second problem is my former belly. For many years I couldn't see my feet because of my huge stomach, and I was always worried I'd lose my balance and fall down stairs/escalators/ravines etc. And even though the stomach isn't there anymore, I'm still nervous in descent mode. It's irrational and highly annoying. So I couldn't let myself enjoy the climb because I was too busy worrying about how I'd get back down again.

My tactic was to haul myself up the hill like a demented gorilla. Back hunched over, arms outstretched, fingertips grazing the ground, ready to catch myself if I started to fall. Not the most efficient technique, I tells ya.

But the view form the top was amazing. Bloody windy though. Our tracky-dacks billowed in the breeze in a satisfying MC Hammer style.

The world was beautifully silent and peaceful, far away from our neighbours and their squeaky tumble dryer, far away from work worries. I could finally understand why Gareth enjoys it so much. It puts the world into perspective. Plus if you've been puffing uphill for an hour you can totally justify a big sandwich.

Our descent was painfully slow and took even longer than the climb, no thanks to my Baby Learning How To Walk technique. Tiny, lurching steps with arms waving in the air and lots of screaming. But it was satisfying in the end, looking back at how far we'd shuffled.

My muscles were deliciously hurty the next day, but my knee felt fine and I was feeling rather smug about the whole thing. I realised again that my fitness level is quite good these days, it's just my silly fears that keep slowing me down. So I will keep working on that.

Of course Gareth had to go out-smug me yesterday by climbing another hill with his mate while I was still whimpering about my tired legs. It was four times higher and involved rocks and extreme steepness and scrambling on hands and knees. But I guess one man's Everest is another man's stroll in the park, so I will stop comparing our feats all the time. The sporty git.