To Scotmid without a stick

This is a difficult time. Everywhere I look there are people doing things that I want to do, but can't. People getting off the bus to go to the gym. Locking up their bikes outside the cinema. Running down the beach into the sea. Wandering the shops without a plan. Going hill walking. Dancing at ceilidhs. Being spontaneous. Being mobile. Its the proverbial woman who can't get pregnant - seeing pregnant women and small children everywhere. Difference is that, should the woman be desperate enough, she can always consider snatching a child (I say consider - not actually carry it out) ... Snatching someone's legs on the other hand...

And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.

And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.

I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).

Competent Crew

Holidays are very difficult with a stick. No cycling. No walking around. No hill climbing or mountaineering. No sitting around beaches or swanning around half a dozen art galleries. That doesn't leave much else - except for sailing. So - after a few hours searching on the Internet, a few emails and the gathering of some friends, we four arrive at Glenborrodale in Ardnamurchan with our water proofs, cameras (and prayers) to undertake the RYA Competent Crew course.

On a tiny jetty owned by Glenborrodale Castle we meet our skipper (also cook, cleaner, instructor and moral compass) for the week - Chris. Chris looks at least authentic. Early 60s, grey whiskers and a rather fabulous yacht (for the techies amongst you - a Jeanneau Sun Legend 41). We load our gear onto the Dory, and motor out to the boat.

First test for my leg - get off the Dory and onto the boat. This is achieved. And the rest, as they say, is history. Over five days it doesn't rain. We eat like kings and we learn our knots. We take the helm, reef the main sail and understand cleats and winches. We can heave to, and jibe without disaster. We can manage the jib and have a crack at the spinnaker. We sleep in very small cabins and treat fresh water like gold. We pay for a shower in Coll, and three days later in Tobermory. We practise 'man overboard' and pulling up the anchor. We enjoy our gin, and hot chocolate with rum. We oggle the sea eagle and squint into the sun for dolphins. We obey the signs 'do not feed the otter' and learn the rules of the sea. We pay due respect to ferries and whistle rudely at yachts that fail to give way. And on Friday, back on the jetty, we line up for our certificates. We are, according to the Royal Yacht Association, officially Competent.

And how was my gammy leg through all of this? Well, my knee ached pretty much the whole time. But my ankle was surprisingly silent. Was I cured? Alas no. Back on shore a week later I am still paying the price. My ankle joints stiffened up through their enforced rest and now I appear to be worse off than before. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Next spring we will tackle the Day Skipper Practical. And with that little certificate we can charter on our own....

Round Catalunya with a stick

Hace mucho calor. Cada dia. Cada noche. 32 degrees, dropping to 29 at night. This is no place for a person with a stick. And certainly no place for a person who can't wear sandals (the waiters did, after a while, get used to me sitting with my shoes off in the shadiest corner of the terrace). And finally, no place for a person with low blood pressure, who faints away if forced to stand still for more than a few minutes....

Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.

But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.

Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.

The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.