26. Book Deal Boost, Sir Chris Bonington’s approval and Mel’s Last Munro (hill climbed: Beinn Sgulaird)

This is the 26th post of a series introduced here.

Saturday 29 September

Thinking that my cancer might be back my friend Mel and I planned to do her final Munro. In spite of both of us being anxious to get it done quickly opportunity did not present itself – work, cruddy weather and appointments got in the way so it was relief in more ways than one when I received news from hospital that biopsy test results were clear. It felt like I’d been given my life back – again, and with the rest of summer sprawling ahead of us the need to get the last Munro done seemed slightly less pressing.

I don’t just have my life to be thankful for. Jenny Brown – Edinburgh based literary agent who had taken an interest in the memoir I’d written – had been in touch to say a publishing deal had been offered for my book. I’m monstrously chuffed that these literary experts think my story is interesting enough and written well enough to be put into print. I recall a memory of my grandad, ‘Sarah, you’ll never win the Nobel Prize for Literature but your letters home come like a breath of fresh air.’ I wish he was here now so that he could be proud of me and know I’ve done something good – at last.

Me and Jenny
Me and Jenny at her Edinburgh Book Festival party August 25th.

August comes and goes.

‘How long did it take when you climbed Beinn Sgulaird?’ Mel asks in a WhatsApp message. I go upstairs and am sitting cross-legged on the drafty wooden floor in the bedroom. I slide my walking diary out of its space in the bookcase and leaf through its pages. I find the entry. There is no note of timings other than ‘set out at 10am from Druimavuic’.¬† It’s a short write up so I read on and refresh my memory of the hill. There is no mention of precipitous drops, narrow ridges or battles with the elements – it had been an outing that was straightforward and uneventful, but nonetheless the date and day are poignant. I pause for reflection.

I eventually reply to Mel’s WhatsApp telling her I have no clue how long the walk had taken. A LOT of messages are exchanged but we come to an agreement to get the hill done before September’s end, ‘whatever the weather’. At this juncture we’re still hopeful we’ll make our summit camp on Beinn Sgulaird (translated from Gaelic it means hat-shaped hill, but it’s better known to the local shepherds as ‘the bastard’ – and man was it going to live up to its nickname).

The Munro lies solitary and steeply above upper Loch Creran in Glen Etive; the mountain is indifferent to the increasing impatience Mel and I feel over our desire to traverse its rocky ridge and three summits.

September draws to a close.

Although our diaries have been cleared of all other engagements it’s sod’s law the West Highlands forecast continues to be pish on days we have off work, and the sense of urgency to get the bastard hill done resurfaces. We have no choice but to put our money where our mouth is. The summit camp is abandoned but, by choice, we meet up to do the walk in the worst weather that has been forecast for the last three days of the month.

Mel’s bright orange jacket is in cheerful contrast to the moisture laden sky over Druimvuich. She is standing poised with phone in hand. My boyfriend Paul opens the car’s window. ‘You can put the phone away Mel. We’re here. No need to text. It’s only two minutes after half eight!’


It’s straight into uphill walking along an ATV track which we soon leave. A small cairn marks the start of a good path that ascends the mountain’s grassy ridge. I’m slower than the others and soon lag behind. Mel stops to wait. Ahead of us the men are enthusiastically engaged in conversation about electric bikes…Mel and I are pleased because it means we can talk by ourselves about whatever shit we like. I tell her about the texts I get from my eldest son when Paul and I were on our road trip.

Marcus: What do I do with this ‘vaginal applicator’ thing in the bathroom sink? Lol x

Me: Lol. Um. Give it a good wash and rinse in warm water ūüėÄ x

Marcus: Uh-huh, and put it where?

Me: Lol lol lol. Get a tub from downstairs and pop it in there. Not the good tupperware tho. An unusual treat for you today. Lol. Eat carrot cake if you are traumatised x

Marcus: Hmm yes. A real treat! x

Mel chuckles and I laugh so hard I clutch my belly (I’m still in horror-awe – that my boy should have seen the bit of plastic kit used to help the old sexy time along, and that he was mature enough to deal with it without fuss). ‘He’ll make someone a great husband one day,’ Mel says.

We’re over the first small top and are ascending straightforward slopes toward the first of the three summits when I finally find my sea legs and pick up the pace. Inwardly I’m relieved and have to remind myself again that my body is still in recovery from the cancer treatments that only finished at this time last year. It’s easy to dwell on the bad things so instead I think about the progress I’ve made; I’ve lost weight through better diet and exercise, I’m not bald and can in fact tie my hair into a tinsy-winsy ponytail and, though it doesn’t happen often, even sex isn’t painful anymore. I’m in my own little world as I plod on out in front but then I notice I’ve lost the thread of the path. Oops.

Progress on the hill halts. We realise we should be on the ridge, heading for the first of the three summits, not traversing the slope underneath, but it’s no biggie. We take a bearing and contour round to the col between it and Meall Garbh. The wind now blows fiercely and visibility is limited, but I catch a glimpse of two walkers ahead who quickly disappear from view. ‘Yay! Other humans!’ Mel shouts at me over the wind. When we catch up with the boys and round some crags they point out our people – two dopey looking sheep that scarper off again into the enveloping mists.

The wind finds its way through the fabric of my outerwear; I’m wet and cold but now we’re back on the path we move faster. Up and down the undulating ridge we go. Paul isn’t happy and shouts at me not to go too far ahead. I wait. ‘My legs are totally heavy like I’ve no power to push up on them,’ he says. I think welcome to my world, but say that I understand. Descent to the next col is steep and rocky.

‘This is a very confusing hill,’ Andy states. Mel and I laugh.

‘How far is it to the top?’ Paul asks.

‘Another 1.04km,’ I answer.¬† We lean into the wind to push forward, hoods up heads down. Horizontal precipitation drives into exposed skin like needles.

‘Christ. This is like extreme exfoliation!’ Mel exclaims.

‘About two thirds of a mile,’ I hear Paul call. ‘One thousand and seven yards,’ he adds. (He was nearly right.)

‘Paul’s back,’ I yell at Mel, laughing and totally bemused.

We go higher and conditions become more severe. It’s a skill to stay upright and I’m buffeted and blown on the scramble up and up. A mega gust knocks me sideways off my feet and I land hard onto a rock.

‘This is fucking nuts. It’s not fun,’ Paul shouts to me above the wind.

It is wild, but personally I’m enjoying myself. I think Mel catches my thoughts because she stops to say, ‘See, it’s because of times like this that most people think we’re fucking maniacs.’ I grin agreement and wonder if there could be anything more life-affirming than pitching yourself against nature and coming out on top.


Summit reached at 12.05pm…The boys are left out in the cold – literally and metaphorically – while Mel and I enjoy shelter, champagne and cake in the bothy bag…I, Queen in the North, on this most auspicious occasion of Mel finishing a full round of all 282 of Scotland’s highest mountains, bestow upon her my official Munro Compleater’s Badge and welcome her to the club…The frozen boys still manage a smile for a group selfie at the top (Mel and I are a bit pissed).¬†

Retracing our steps we leave the summit. Andy is in front and drops down out of sight. Mel and I play in the wind. Its strength is extraordinary and supports our weight as we lean into it. I almost forget I need to keep walking.

Unexpectedly we cross paths with other walkers – two grim-faced blokes who exchange absolutely no pleasantries and a young woman who flashes a smile. We keep moving. I’m in the middle of thinking how glad I am that we’re battling our way down and not up when all three of us – me, Paul and Mel – are simultaneously knocked down like skittles by a ferocious gust. The wind momentarily pins me to the rock I’ve fallen onto and threatens to bowl me along like tumbleweed. ‘Thank fuck we aren’t on a narrow ridge being blown to our doom,‘ I think…and then my mind conjures images of proper mountaineers who have contended with way more serious conditions. I think about the hundred mile an hour winds that blast Everest. I think about my mum’s fiance (once a lion amongst Himalayan climbers) and I think about Chris Bonington who vaguely knew him. I think about the book I’ve written and the email Chris sent me only days ago to say he is reading it ‘with pleasure,’ that I ‘write well’ and that he will be ‘delighted to write a foreword’ for me. I feel good.

Dropping east down the leeward side of the mountain I feel even better – we are out of the wind and soon on the ATV track. My friend is feeling the good vibes too.

‘I’m so happy to have the bastard thing done at last,’ she chirps.

‘You know it’s almost exactly four years to the day since I did this walk,’ I say. ‘It’s funny how this was my penultimate Munro and it’s ended up being your last.’

‘I didn’t realise that,’ Mel replies, ‘I wonder why I didn’t do it with you?’

‘Dunno, but I do know that was the first day I didn’t feel ‘right’ and when I started using the expression ‘super tired.’¬†We walk back through the tree plantation and reach the cars by 4pm.


After a few post-hill drams and dinner in the gloom of the Clachaig’s dark but cosy interior, we retire to the mother ship where we melt against the walls in the instant heat that belches from the wood burning stove. Mel pops the cork on another bottle of champagne and we raise a plastic cup once more to celebrate her achievement, to friendship, to good health, to staying alive to see how Season 8 Game of Thrones ends and to all round epicness.

It can take an entire lifetime for some people to climb all 282 of Scotland’s highest mountains, but most people who set out to ‘bag’ the Munros, on average, take between 8 – 10 years to do a full round – although another article I read claims the average to be 23 years (12 Munros per year). Apparently climbing all the Munros is the equivalent of ascending Mount Everest from sea-level 19 times – that’s 550,869 feet and a total distance of approximately 1,690 miles. Mel and I have climbed more than half these mountains together. I wasn’t able to join her for the bigger hill days last year because of my bastard cancer, so to have been able to join her for her last is nothing short of fantastico (only actual death would have stopped me from doing it). She did say, ‘Now, what next?’ But that’s easy – the Corbetts!

FANX for reading! Any relevant questions then please get in touch. I’m right here. If you’ve enjoyed please do give the old Facebook page a like by clicking the link below. Your support is appreciated ūüôā






25. Seven Hells and The Real Full Monty Highland (hill climbed: Meall Fuar-mhonaidh)

This is the 25th post of a series which is introduced here.

Sunday 15 July

It feels like there is a balloon inside my head. I need to get out of my house. Rain is threatening, but I don’t care. I need to be on a heathery hillside working my way to a mountain top.

I drive and I wonder if the throbbing is due to concussion when I hit my head last week or if it’s related to the shock I had two days ago. A wave of nausea rolls in my gut. The landscape passes by to the vibrations of my car.¬†Focus!¬†

I’m on autopilot and barely notice the forty-five minute journey. Pulling up I switch off the engine. Rain is now pelting onto the car windows, blurring an empty carpark. I sit for a moment then dig out waterproofs from my battered old backpack. I almost put them on then decide I’ll take off my leggings and put on my shorts instead (my indecision a symptom of stress). ‘It’s a bloody good job this place is deserted today,’ I mumble as I all the same attempt to rapidly conceal the naked bush.

Loudness of the car door slamming shut and the electronic locks clunk-clicking reverberate in my head. I set off on foot. Cloud conceals the top of my hill. Doesn’t matter. I walk and enjoy the feeling as droplets of water dampen my skin. I stop to stare, and listen to the rain; it thuds onto my jacket’s hood, it patters on the leaves of the trees and it gently plips and plops into the quiet stream.¬† It’s humid. I breathe in the heavy scent of earth and plants and am flooded by the wonder of life.




I’ve been up and down this path countless times. Not so long ago I was here with Quentin – the guy who was shooting some film to be shown on the night of the charity event I was organising for Maggie’s. I think back to that outing and how happy I was to be doing something positive, doing what I could to ‘give a bit back.’ I stop in my tracks again, this time to take paracetamol. Pain in my left breast pulses and my head is spaced out.¬† Conflicting thoughts do battle. My mind flashes to¬† Angeline – my breast care nurse – who I saw on Friday at clinic. I think about her part in my Real Full Monty Highland (RFMH).

Click play to watch as guests arrive, fizz flows and Tich McCooey hosts. Breast Care nurses Karen Daltrey and Angeline Macleod take to the stage with fake boobs; they demonstrate how to self-examine and be cancer aware.

Self-examination didn’t help me this time I think ruefully, and once again I go over the events of two days ago. It was my first annual check-up at the breast clinic. ‘Everything feels fine,’ my consultant had said cheerfully before sending me for a mammogram. Afterwards I see Angeline. We talk and laugh about the Real Full Monty Highland.

‘Shall I go and see if your mammogram results are ready?’ she says, ‘it’ll save you having to wait for a letter.’

‘Yeah, if you can, cool,’ I reply breezily. I’m not worried at all. I go to the window and gaze out. I’m still laughing inside at our Full Monty chat as the A-Team theme tune choruses through my head.

Click play to watch The Real Full Monty Highland first rehearsal.

‘Where’s the pink-haired girl gone?’ I hear a voice call.

‘I’m here!’ I shout as I walk to the open door.

‘I need to take another set of images. The doctor needs a closer look, something is showing up on your left breast.’ I’m fucking dumbstruck and follow the nurse back to the x-ray room like a scared kid. I lower my top and remove my bra again. ‘If you can just lean in to the machine for me,’ the nurse instructs. Fear seizes me. I’m sent back to the room where I wait to be called for an ultrasound. I phone my boyfriend Paul, but barely manage to squeak more than his name. He tells me he’s coming to the hospital and will be there as quickly as he can just as I hear my name being called.

It’s the same doctor who I saw last year and who, back then, did not waste time in telling me that what she’d seen on the ultrasound was suspicious. I like her, I like her straight up honesty, and I know she’ll be able to tell me if I’m about to enter seven hells territory again.

She looks at the image on screen as she rolls the probe over my skin. ‘I’d like to do a biopsy now if you are okay with that?’ she asks. I tell her to go ahead. She disappears from the room momentarily and on return produces a consent form. ‘It’s procedure now that I have to tell you all the things that could happen, sorry,’ she says. I tell her it’s fine although did feel alarm when she showed me the size of the needle and said there was a small possibility my lungs could get punctured if she slipped.




Still smiling.

Forty-five minutes, three local anaesthetics and a bent needle later the doctor was on the verge of defeat. ‘This has never happened to me before. I always get my samples,’ she said. Her tone made me feel sorry for her, and in her I saw a kindred spirit – a determined fucker just like me. ‘I think you’ve been through enough. I don’t want to do any more to you,’ she says (I know there’s a ‘but’ coming) ‘but I could go and get the bard,’ she suggests (and there it is!).

‘Yeah, get the bard,’ I tell her, ‘I love a good poem. That’ll get us through this.’ We laugh. She leaves the room and returns with the bigger needle which I see through slit eyes – like I’m trying not to see it.

‘You were trembling when I came in, now it’s me who’s shaking,’ the doctor said.

‘For God’s sake, don’t tell me that when you’re about to stick your giant needle into me!’ I laugh. The bard leaves holes in my breast but the doctor gets her samples. The nurse presses hard on my boob to try minimise bruising and the doctor tells me I have been extraordinary. I return the compliment. She tells me pathology should return the results next week, but that it’s likely I’ll need to have a different type of biopsy. I don’t like the uncertainty of my situation.

Paul is waiting for me and we leave. As we walk round the side of the hospital building my legs collapse and I hit the ground like a stone. I can’t breathe – everything is swimming and I’m close to passing out. Paul holds me up between his arms and tells me it’s okay. I cry convulsively into his shoulder but then pull myself together. ‘Let’s go to Maggie’s.’ I say.

I think about all of that as I walk up out of the trees and on through open moorland. I approach the deer fence and climb up over the big stile like I’ve done so many times before. Thoughts about Maggie’s and Quentin filming me here merge.

Click the image to watch a clip of how The Real Full Monty Highland came about and my wee bio.

I’m on the ridge and gaining height. Pressure is building in my head and I hope the sensation passes. It does. A cool wind blows harder that seems to help clear stresses from my mind. I power up to the summit plateau. There is no view but it is so still and the rain has stopped. I’m all alone up here. I sing the words to Fight Song and as I do I perform the full monty dance routine one more time. The song’s words seem more relevant than ever before and I do believe – I have to believe – that everything will be alright, and that I do have a lot more fight left in me.

meall fuar-mhonaid

Click on the video link above to watch The Real Full Monty Highland with (from left) Gina, Shelly, Moi, Shaw and Linda.


If you would like to watch the whole Real Full Monty Highland video click the link below:


Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed my writing and would like to follow my story please do either following my blog or give my Facebook page a ‘like’ (click link below). Your support is important and appreciated. ūüôā


Winner of The Scottish Wedding Awards 2018 Quentin was an absolute legend to get involved with the RFMH event. I feel privileged that he lent his skills and creativity to this project.  To find out more about what Quentin does check out his page  QS Digital Video.






24. A Special Summit Camp (hill climbed: A’Mhaighdean)

24th post of series what is introduced here.

Tuesday 5 June 2018

My son Marcus and I wake early, it’s freezing in the campervan.

We are at Durnamuck in the northwest of Scotland and are organising ourselves before our road trip continues a few miles further to Poolewe where we will then set off on foot for our summit camp on A’Mhaighdean. This mountain was a favourite of Marcus’s Papa whose dying wish was that his ashes be taken to its summit and scattered.

I’d put Marcus’s Papa’s ashes into my bag the night before. They were secured in a glass jar, the sort I use to make overnight oats. I open my bag to start re-packing, I slack off the cord¬† and notice – to my horror – that Papa is all over the inside of my rucksack. I stare dumbly into the bag. ‘Umm, Marcus…I need to tell you something,’ I say.¬† ‘The lid of the jar that Pap’s ashes were in wasn’t secure. He’s gone everywhere.’ Marcus takes a look.

‘Oh man,’ he simply states.

I empty my entire bag and scoop Papa out with a measuring spoon Marcus finds on a shelf in the van. We are mortified yet giggle uncontrollably.



Our long walk takes us at first through gorse, then along coastal edges and rock. We cross farmland and walk through a forestry plantation. It is stinking hot. We pass through a tall wooden gate and begin to move through a vast expanse of green and heathery moorland. Big hill country lies ahead.

Bridge at hairpin bend.

It takes us three hours to get to our next kind of landmark, a hairpin bend. We sit on a rock and relieve our backs from the weight of our packs for a few minutes – and also, having noticed a trail several hundred meters back, grumble that we’ve come further than needed.

the causeway
Passing many lochans and lochs we reach a causeway.

The climb upwards now begins.



We refill water bottles at a fast flowing stream and take five.

the gully
Wondering how the actual fuck to cross the gully.

After a bit of deliberation we cross a steep sided gully. We leave the path we’ve followed since Poolewe. Now it’s all about reading the map, the landscape and following a bearing.

South of Fuar Loch Beag we scramble up over grass and rocky outcrops. 

I’m out of my comfort zone and suddenly feel scared. We are actually in the middle of fucking nowhere. I become aware of how fatigued my legs feel and internally scold myself for undertaking this – the biggest walk since all the stupid cancer business. How could I have forgotten I’ve been ill and that my body still needs time to recover? Why do I push myself so hard? I realise we will be in a whole world of trouble if anything happens. Silent dialogue is interrupted by a more immediate problem –¬† I hope I’m leading us up these crags the right way. I’m also aware my son is tiring rapidly, but I press on scared to look back too often in case I see that he is not there because he has toppled over the mountain’s edge.

‘I’m spent,’ Marcus says. He fuels up on a Lucozade Sport and an energy bar. Of course I know he’s burst. But we are committed to the route. We either continue – or pitch the tent where we are.

‘Do you want to give me some of the kit from your pack?’ I offer.

‘No. It’s all good,’ Marcus answers, ‘I’m just not as fit as you are. This is the first walk I’ve done in ages.’ I ponder his words. Poor kid has no idea of the fears rampaging in my mind or that I’m struggling physically too.

Into the gully.

Still hoping I’m making the right choices we continue the scramble up over good, grippy rock and reach a cliff. The way ahead seems impossible and all efforts to get this far are for nothing. But back a touch and to the left we discover it is possible to drop a few meters into a steep, exposed gully. We squeeze round to our right through a gap. From here we go to the right around the base of two rock towers. We’re tired so are careful on the loose red scree. Another scramble, this time over a small boulder field, brings us to a wide grassy ridge before a last pull up to the narrow summit. Relief that all trickiness is behind us floods in.


We are fucking glad we make it to the top. We pitch our tents (unbeknown to me Marcus not only carried up the heavy half of my two-man, but also brought his own tent) and collapse into them temporarily.

a'mhaighdean ridge with rock towers
A short stretch along from the summit we take in the view of our route Рthe ridge with rock towers. 
Lochans like silver ribbons.
hot chocolate on a'mhaighdean
Brew on.

I feel cold and am sorry I haven’t brought leggings, but good old Alex Supertramp has also brought his stove up the mountain too. He boils water and fills my Sigg bottle up which I cover with a sock and throw into my sleeping bag. The light is still bright, but as the sun lowers the most wonderful colours wrap around the horizon. Lochans far below shimmer and twinkle like silver ribbons. All is still and peaceful. We walk up to the summit cairn. It’s time to say goodbye. I hand the ashes of his grandfather to my son.

‘Well Papa, you old bastard. You had the last laugh getting us to come all the way up here didn’t you,’ Marcus says with fondness and humour. I watch him as he scatters the ashes and feel a huge sense of pride.¬†We are quiet until he turns to me and says, ‘You know mum, it was bloody hard to get here but I can see why the old guy loved this place. It really is beautiful.’ We hug. We drink hot chocolate and eat some homemade blueberry brownie. The sun sinks. We are listening to James, ‘Born of Frustration’¬† which ends just as the sun disappears. It’s a perfect moment.



As the sun rises over Fisherfield, silhouetting An Teallach’s castellated ridge, Marcus scatters the remainder of his Papa’s ashes. It is a new beginning.


In memory of James B Kinnes.

23. The Secret to Losing Weight and Transformation Photos (hills climbed: Meall Bhuidhe and Luinne Bheinn)

This is the 21st post of a series which is introduced here.

May 2018

Mel and I arrive at Inverie at half nine having been ferried across the water from Mallaig in a small boat, because this hamlet on the peninsula of Knoydart in the Scottish Highlands is inaccessible by road. There’s no police, no street lighting or street names. It’s all very ‘Wicker Man’ but I love it here.

We trot out along a stony track. It’s overcast and lightly breezy, but warm. Our first landmark comes into view; a prominent memorial perched on top of a dome shaped hillock.

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The memorial was commissioned by Lord Brocket in memory of his father. Brocket was Laird here at the time of the land raids, he was also a Nazi-sympathiser. 

Mel and I haven’t seen each other for some time and now that we’re walking I remark on how lean she has become.

‘Yeah, that’s protein for ya man. It’s great and I obviously had fat to lose, but the downside is all my work clothes are falling off me.’ Mel says.

‘I know what you mean! Even my size twelves are baggy on me now,’ I reply. ‘Do you remember how miserable I was when the breast care nurse told me weight gain was an inevitability of being on Tamoxifen and that shifting fat would be difficult?’

‘She didn’t know how bloody minded you are,’ Mel said.

‘I know right! I’ve always been determined. When I was twelve I wanted a ping pong table, but when I asked Mum if she’d get me one she was like ‘no, it costs too much/where would it go?/ it’s probably just another of your fads.’ But I REALLY wanted a ping pong table so you know what I did? I saved up my pocket money, bought some wood, some ply, banged it together and made my own. The point I’m making by telling that story is if you truly want something then you make it happen…I didn’t want to be fat. Despite the odds stacked against me I had something to prove. It’s amazing what you can achieve when you set your mind to something.’

Mel is faster than me as we ascend steep, rough ground toward the ridge of Meall Buidhe. She disappears into the landscape. I think back to when I was here in 2014, the height of summer, blisteringly hot, battling my way up this unforgiving steep slope through scratchy bracken. Now my struggle is quite different. Another sharp pain shoots up my spine, and each step with my right foot a mini trauma. But I am here and still able to do the thing I love.

I top out. The wind is ferocious. We get higher and higher. ‘How heavy are you?’ I shout to Mel. The question arouses no suspicion as so far we’ve only been talking about food, exercise and weight loss. But I’m actually asking about her weight because my legs aren’t strong like they once were and I’m totally paranoid a sudden gust will blow me clean off the face of the mountain. Mel tells me she’s 52kg so I feel reassured that if anyone’s being blown off it’ll be her first.

DSC_0286 (2).jpg
Mel LEANing into the wind.
toward luinne bheinn
The long walk over egg boxed terrain from Meall Buidhe to Luinne Bheinn (mountain in partial shadow centre left)
Mam Barrisdale
Even loooonger walk out to the Mam Barrisdale and back to Inverie.

We march out. My feet are in so much agony they’re looking for my shoe laces to hang themselves with. My body hurts all over, especially the arm the chemotherapy was put in. My back aches too. ‘Last time I was here I was fantasising about an ice cold pint of lemonade and lime, this time all I want is to get my boots off and lie down. I’m fucked,’ I say.

‘It’s a fair old trek,’ Mel nods. ‘It’s the biggest hill day I’ve done this year.’

No automatic alt text available.
Back in Inverie the Frenchie is outside The Old Forge. Britain’s most remote pub.

It takes us 9 hours to walk the 27km route. We shower, change and then head to the pub. I enjoy my first double Jack ‘n’ coke of the night while we wait for big, juicy venison burgers to be brought to our table. ‘This is what I love best about a big fuck off hill day – you can drink and eat more and not worry about all the calories,’ Mel says. And I agree, it is good.

I think about the convenient excuses I’d made to convince myself that weight gain wasn’t my fault – I was ill/I felt low/It’s hormonal/It’s the chemotherapy and Tamoxifen/ I’m eating healthily¬† so it can’t be down to me (err no, you fucking liar, what about stealing chips from your son’s plate before eating your own dinner or dipping into the biscuit tin, not to mention all the extra picking in between!).

I think about how unhappy I felt with myself until I came to realise that the secret to losing weight is incredibly simple – stop eating like a fucking dickhead.

Weight loss is 80% diet and 20% exercise so I did two things; I downloaded the My Fitness Pal app to keep a daily diary of what I chuck down my cake-hole; I signed up for the James Smith Academy Bali Challenge. Weighing and logging everything I ate was a pain at first, but I soon got into the way of it. And for the three month long Bali Challenge I have to post weekly updates Рprogression photos and my weight Рthis is highly motivational.

Of course I wanted to be a skinny bitch overnight, but weight loss doesn’t work like that. I had to put from my mind what I was seeing in the mirror and focus on the end goal. I’ve never dieted and I’m not on a diet now, but what I have done is make a lifestyle change. My understanding of nutrition is improving and my eating habits are better now than they were pre-cancer – and did you know that if you lose¬†even just 5% of your weight it reduces your risk of cancer by between 25% to 40% and that applies to EVERYONE (unless you are underweight).

I go to the bar to order more Jack Daniels. The 6’7″ 21 stone Frenchie asks if I’ve visited before and I tell him that I was here a few years ago, but that I looked different then, I had long dark hair. He asks why I cut it all off and dyed it pink so I tell him – I can do that now that I’ve regained my confidence.

I show Frenchie photographs of how I’ve changed. My lovely long dark hair to the midway chop before taking the plunge and shaving the rest off before it fell out in clumps.

From Left: This time last year getting my final chemotherapy. Feeling ropy as fuck. Scribbling crazy colours on my face because I felt depressed (I’m smiling but inside I was a wreck). Last pic is me, the fat bazza, as I kiss off chemo by doing the Great Glen Way.

From Left: Start of year weighing 77kg (though first two images taken after I’d already lost 4kg). Latest images I weigh 61.5kg. The sports bra and pants are way bigger on me now.

Feeling a whole world happier one year on from my cancer ordeal. Photos taken at the Daily Record, Glasgow.

I’m no stick insect and have no desire to be, but losing the fat I stacked on last year has given me my confidence back and I feel so much better within myself.¬† I’m proud to have won one of the hardest battles of my life and to be a good example of what can be achieved with a positive attitude. If I can do this anybody can!


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(Hills climbed during weight loss period: Beinn a’Chrulaiste, Beinn Enaiglair, Glas Bheinn, Little Wyvis, Canisp, Clava (24 times), Meall Fuar-mhonaidh (3 times), Meall Bhuidhe and Luinne Bheinn. Followed programs created by James Smith. Went to weights class every Wednesday.)

Knoydart hill tune (Mel and I sounding like a cat’s fucking chorus as we sing loudly to the hills)








22. Fun in the City: Part 2 (no hills climbed, only stairs up to the Daily Record Building for photo shoot)

This is the 22nd post of a series which is introduced here.

Saturday 21 April 2018

It’s a sunny Saturday morning and I’m walking by the Clyde, the river that cuts through Glasgow. My friend Mel is over this side of Scotland to climb Beinn Bhuidhe. Although I’ve done that Munro, with the pal I’m meeting later for dinner, part of me longs to be with Mel on the mountainside. But there again what I’m going to do today is a different kind of awesome. It’s just after 10 o’clock and nervous excitement starts to tingle through me as I climb the concrete steps up to the Daily Record building – in fact I’m so nervous my guts are going wild and I’m going to have to go bless their toilet (that’ll be the third time already today).

Why was I nervous?

Well, you see, I was lucky enough, along with twenty-three other women, to be selected to model at Breast Cancer Care Scotland’s biggest fundraiser of the year ‘The Show.’¬†The event – one of a kind in that all the models have had a breast cancer diagnosis – doesn’t take place till the last week of October (to mark the end of breast cancer awareness month) but today everyone involved in it has come together for the official meet and greet.

After going through several locked doors I am shown into a large meeting room where twenty-four chairs are set in a circle; they soon fill up. We are welcomed by the Breast Cancer Care team who introduce themselves, our stylist and the reporter who will be interviewing each of us throughout the course of the day. We’ve each brought a photograph which we are then invited to talk about.

Some people choke up as they talk and I feel the emotion rise inside me. What I hear is powerful stuff, compelling to listen to and utterly inspiring. It’s my turn to speak, but I don’t get beyond, ‘This is a picture of me and my mum,’ before hot tears roll down my cheeks. I keep talking but my heart is breaking all over again.

me and my mum.jpg
Taken a few weeks before secondary breast cancer caused my mother’s death. I was 24 years old, but my mum aged 44 was only a young woman herself.

We are split into two groups. It’s welcome relief to leave the room and go get measurements taken by stylist Ian Todd. I’m smiling again. Then I get my make-up done. I keep my eyes closed while it’s being applied, but have a sneaky peek. My blood runs cold and I feel a prickle in my pits; I look like I’ve been face planked into a bag of flour. The make-up artist sees the visible horror on my face but reassures me that I will not look like I’ve been resurrected from the dead by the time she’s finished. I keep the faith. When I open my eyes again I’m pleased with how I look. She punks up my hair and then I get changed into the outfit I’ve brought. For the first time ever I look glamorous and that makes me feel happy in a way I’ve never experienced before.

There I am in the pink Breast Cancer Care t-shirt…click to watch this time lapse video that records the day of our photo shoot. If you keep your eyeballs super peeled you will see me whizz past in my sparkly trousers, and a blue tartan corset designed by Mary at¬† Loch Dress

me at BCCC Glasgow Glam
Six months ago I was bald, very ill, rather overweight and uncertain. Seeing myself like this makes me feel more confident. Thank you Breast Cancer Care for this fabulous opportunity!

After the photo shoot in our ‘outfits we’d wear on a nice night out’ (as opposed to those outfits one would wear on a regular slutty night out) we found out a bit more about what the charity does – and what we could do to help as the charity’s ambassadors¬†(raise breast cancer awareness, raise awareness of what the charity does, help with fundraising by getting sponsors and raffle prizes).

I want to do my bit, but I’m no good at asking for sponsorship – partly because I’m scared of rejection.

As we are called back into the studio for the last shoot of the day Emma, the charity’s Press and PR Officer, asks me to go with her for my interview with Sunday Mail Freelance Journalist, Jenny Morrison. On the way Emma mentions she thinks my art is amazing. I’m puzzled as to how she knows I’m an artist, but she explains she’d seen links to my work on my Facebook page. I feel flattered, but also inspired…

creation of adam (2)
I decide to donate this painting I did of The Creation of Adam for auction at The Show, hopefully it’ll raise a bob or two for the charity.

I’m also inspired by the women taking part in this event, they all have remarkable stories. Some were diagnosed many years ago, some – like me – have not long finished treatments, others are currently receiving treatment, including some who have secondary breast cancer which can be treated but not cured.

Click the link below to read more about the other models involved. Some of these stories will be expanded on and featured in the Sunday Mail between now and ‘The Show’ in October – and there may even be the opportunity for other media work, like on radio and TV. Cool or what.


The day wraps up with one last group photo. I am a person not a number…oh…wait…yes, yes I am a number…I’m number 8.

Jenny the journalist shakes my hand and invites me to sit. She is kind and has a sympathetic disposition which makes me feel at ease. It’s been a long day and I’m tired so manage to tell her my story without spilling more tears. I tell her how hillwalking rescued me from the loneliness and grief after cancer caused my mum’s death, and about how it was my salvation during my own cancer journey. I tell her about the book I’ve written and she asks if she can read it, I’m very happy to let her. I explain that I wrote it for my sons and also as a drawing of the line under all the sad years. I add that it’s just as I finished its writing and am ready to embrace a happier life that I discover the lump in my own breast. There was no time to stamp my feet and yell at the world how unfair it all was; I just had to get on with it. I tell Jenny that planning hill days and blogging about my cancer journey gave me something positive to focus on and ultimately what I want to do is to help and inspire others by sharing my story.

It’s a wrap.

The day at the Daily Record building is finished. But I am not. The sun is still high and so am I.¬† I go to the Counting House in George Square for a drink. I’m pressing my lower back into the fruit machine when a kind woman offers me a seat at her table. She asks what I’m doing in Glasgow. When I tell her about my day she pulls out her mobile phone and asks if she can have a selfie with me; now I don’t know how much alcohol she’d put away but I wasn’t gonna refuse her request when she’d just made me feel like a total star! LOL….and yeah, dinner with my mate Lorna was a top way to round off a tremendous day.


To find out more about the many services Breast Cancer Care provides click here: https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk/

To find out more about The Show Scotland 2018 click here: https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk/fundraising/show-scotland

Check out other awesome images by the photographer who took these shots Рfrom sporting heroes, superstars like Sting, the Scottish landscape and coastline to the sky at night. Click here: http://www.amacmedia.co.uk/

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21. Fun but no Sex in the City: Part 1 (hill climbed: Arthur’s Seat)

This is the 21st post of a series that is introduced here.

21st – 24th March 2018

I am off on a jolly to the big city of Edinburgh for a two day event ‘Younger Women with Breast Cancer’¬†(YWBC) organised by the charity Breast Cancer Care.

The ticket collector is getting closer and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, but the squirming stops and I feel the flood of full-on glee when he scribbles across my ticket without noticing I am travelling on the wrong date. Happiness is enhanced as I am sitting next to a power point AND I have free WiFi. The train journey passes quickly.

Before I check in to my hotel I go to see Jenny Brown, the literary agent who’s helping to find a publisher for the book I have written – she tells me it once took her six years to find someone a publisher…I wonder if that is her subtle way of trying to tell me to be patient… It took a year to write the first draft of my story and, after a commissioned editorial report, another year to restructure the entire manuscript. In the third year a second editorial report was carried out to get the material up to submission standard – I carried out the minor changes, but this was challenging as I was undergoing chemotherapy. I got there though, and in June last year Jenny made the first submissions to publishers. This is now the fourth year of the journey toward publication. It’s a slow process, but Jenny is confident – and I just have to hope that I can stay alive long enough to see my book in print!

Arthur's Seat
After the meeting with Jenny I wander off up Arthur’s Seat and the surrounding craggy tops.¬†

The pack on my back is heavy – too heavy after deadlifting at weights class yesterday. When I arrive at the hotel I’m booked into my back is in spasm.

The next day is full on at the Breast Cancer Care charity event. I walk into a room full of strangers. Chattering voices grow louder and there is lots of laughter. With a breast cancer diagnosis in common we are all insta-friends.

I enjoy the breakout groups – there are many on offer, but I’m here specifically to attend sessions on the menopause and intimacy in relationships. I want to know if sex is always going to feel like being shagged by a cactus…I want to know if other women feel the same…and I’m hoping the professionals who are facilitating these sessions will offer answers.

Chemotherapy and tamoxifen put me through a medical menopause and that has dried me out which causes sex to be so painful – but that’s if I even have sex, which mostly I do not because my libido has disappeared into the sunset. I used to enjoy sexy time and feel cheated and angry because that part of my life has been fairly destroyed – but equally I am grateful to still have my life.

Sadly the professionals provide no miraculous answers, I’m going to have to find my own way forward. So what do I take away from these sessions? Well, I’ve learned that I’m not the only person whose sex life has ground to a virtual halt – and some of these chicks are way younger than me; their stories have blown me away and so not only do I feel less alone in what I’m experiencing, but I also appreciate that I am a very lucky girl to have such an incredibly supportive boyfriend who puts no pressure on me and still makes me feel loved.

After a long day me and Lizzie are first to head straight for the hotel bar.

¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ‘Where’s your mask, Dick Turpin?’¬†¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬† ¬†My back may well be bad, but I’m in need of defibrillation when the barkeep charges ¬£11.60 for a Jack Daniels and coke! Daylight robbery.
Quick trip to Sainsbury soon sorted out the extortion racket run by the hotel bar. Stash in a baggie under the table. Titter titter.
me n fi
My old school pal Fiona (long hair – a dead giveaway) pitches up and gatecrashes the night. Things are getting messy.

It’s midnight and the bar closes. Folk drift off upstairs to their rooms to get a good night’s kip before another day of breakout groups – but not me. No no. Me and my old school pal jump in a taxi and head off into the city. We get out at the Bridges.¬† Fiona withdraws money from a cash machine while I sit next to a homeless guy and talk shit. My friend pulls me away by the arm. Live music belts out from some place. We go in. I like it. It’s crowded and the vibe is good. I head straight for the dance floor. Somehow I end up on stage with the band and then suddenly I decide I’ve had enough and leave. I’ve hit the proverbial wall.

The homeless guy is still out on the street. I sit next to him again. People pass by and I enjoy asking them for money. One man withdraws a tenner and hands it over, I give it to my homeless friend. Some dodgy looking character approaches us; my new friend stands up to greet him and after a brief exchange they trade places! I walk down onto Princes Street. The homeless dude is off to a shelter and offers me the tenner for a taxi. I decline. I’m happy to walk and I know the way back to the Holiday Inn…

Murrayfield in the dead of night.

It’s quite some time later. I’m fed up walking and I’m freezing. I wonder how I’ve ended up outside Murrayfield Stadium and realise I’m a bit lost. I’m stumped as to how to get back to the hotel. There’s no fucker around who I can ask for directions and I’ve no data on my phone to check Google maps. It’s amazing to me when a bus appears. It’s not going my way but the driver gives me the number for a cab. I pull out the change that’s in my pocket, ¬£3.80 – just enough to get me back to the hotel.

I’d had a good day and a bloody brilliant night. The Younger Women with Breast Cancer weekend had been well worth the trip and I’d recommend it to anyone who has the misfortune to be diagnosed with cancer. Check out the¬†website¬†Breast Cancer Care¬†for more info.

Next: Fun in the City: Part Two (Steps climbed up to Daily Record building for photoshoot!)

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20. The Path to Recovery is Paved with Platinum, Protein and Pons (hill climbed: Beinn a’Chrulaiste, Glencoe)

This is the 20th post of a series which is introduced here.

Friday 2 February 2018

Light reaches from the low winter sun and lifts us out of inky darkness into a bright, blue sky day – and the blue matches the colour of the air in Mel’s car.¬† The A82¬† (the main artery between Inverness and Fort William) is more crevassed than a Himalayan mountain, and her Renault Clio takes a hammering as it’s pitched into yet another cavernous void in the road.

‘Fuck sake man. This road is fucking ridiculous! There’s no way there isn’t any damage done to my car,’ Mel¬† shrieks.

I think she’s right; the tracking is bound to be knocked. Mel asks if I can hear her car making a funny noise. I listen, but don’t detect any change.

‘It just takes one thing to go wrong and then loads of other things go wrong too,’ she says.

Again I reckon she’s right. As I look out the windscreen trying to spot potholes before we’re in them I think about my cancer and how many other awful things have gone wrong with my body because of it.

I’ve found the last three months adjusting to life post hospital treatments more of a challenge than getting through the chemotherapy/surgery/radiotherapy. To prevent a return of breast cancer I have to take the oestrogen blocking drug Tamoxifen, it brought on early menopause and symptoms are far more severe than if I’d gone through the change naturally. I describe the hideous (and toe-curling) side-effects in the¬†last blog, but what I didn’t mention is how much agony both feet caused me on the hillwalk up Meall Chuaich – because at that point I thought discomfort was temporary and not too big a deal (yeah, like it’s normal to crawl about on your hands and knees or use the furniture to support your weight because you’re a fucking cripple). It was mid-November before I saw a GP who told me, ‘Your heel pain is caused by Plantar Fasciitis. The condition can last up to a couple of years.’ A COUPLE OF FUCKING YEARS?! ‘So¬†no running on hard surfaces and no excessive walking.’ (At this juncture I envisage my hand reaching for my largest kitchen knife to slit my wrists.)

I’ve cracked, but come on! There was no way I was ever going to last two years without setting foot on a hill.

So. Today is the first outing I’ve had on a mountain since Meall Chuaich, and it’s very much a tester to see how I go. Mel has been reticent about coming out with me – she didn’t want me to set myself back – but she has given in to my nagging and we are heading to Glencoe.

Beinn a’ Chrulaiste, a few km east of Glencoe village, is a straightforward Corbett (a mountain over 2500ft). A perfect choice for a winter walk and sore feet – only 7 miles with 652m of ascent. We park at Altnafeidh in an already crammed layby. It’s a short walk along the north side of the road till we reach a gate with open ground on our left.

There is no walk in; immediately you are on the mountain and heading up the hillside of Beinn a’Chrulaiste. The road winding through Glencoe is a grey thread.

Squelchy bog underfoot quickly becomes snow covered, extra slippery, squelchy bog as Mel and I climb uphill beside a fence line. We make our way without difficulty and gain the broad west ridge.

Prints in the snow are tell-tale signs of animal mountain dwellers. Mel reckons the tiny depressions belong to a mountain hare. We keep stopping to appreciate the impressive landscape as it opens up around us; looking north the mighty bulk of Ben Nevis, and the Mamores which resemble stiffened peaks of Christmas cake icing. Silver ribbons of light punctuate the lonely, dark expanse of Rannoch Moor, but it is the jaw dropping view of Buachaille Etive Mor that draws my gaze back to it.

Admiring le big Buachaille.

Traipsing over a rounded top we continue into a snow-filled depression where we are stopped in our tracks again – not by footprints, but by the actual mountain hare itself. He hops right across our path and comes to a halt as though oblivious to our presence. Happiness surges through my being: nature is good for my soul. I note how the sensation of intense joy I experience is the antithesis of how I’d been feeling up till a few weeks ago.

I had become increasingly depressed as weeks turned into months after the discouraging diagnosis on my foot pain. I’d done what I was told; I rested, I got orthotics for my shoes, I started wearing trainers in the house, I did the physio exercises. But no improvement and the unending period of inactivity was having a profound and detrimental effect on my mental mojo. In addition to dodgy feet and contending with menopause symptoms¬† regular life seeped in and troubles with my teenager would take turns dominating my thoughts. It was a bad combination. The sadder I felt the more Wild Turkey and bottles of wine I’d drink, and the more Monster Munch and Wotsits I’d eat. Then of course came the seasonal over-indulgence. Being a greedy bastard does me no favours. By January I weighed 12 stone and all my clothes felt tight and super uncomfortable. (I actually got completely stuck inside a sequinned dress and had to yell on my youngest son to help get it off. I’d managed to pull it up above my head but it got jammed at my chest. My arms were inextricably wedged upwards in the sparkly straight-jacket. I was on my knees on the floor fighting my blind battle and feeling grateful I’d put knickers on when Leon appeared in my room – I heard his sniggering. It was a total nightmare.) Once freed I realised I needed to regain some control – not just over my weight, but my whole outlook on this slow path to recovery…and in fact my life.

Being on mountains gives me the perspective, but to get to them I need to be able to use my feet. It was a real problem.

Sharing a moment on the mountain with the hare.

Mel and I experience foot troubles of a different kind on our hill. We only have 120 meters to go before we reach the summit of Beinn a’Chrulaiste and although the slope isn’t terribly steep, freezing temperatures have made the snow’s surface hard and icy. We put our crampons on. I settle into a seat I’ve hacked out of the ice with my axe. In moments my backside reacts to the intense sub-lethal cold and feels like it’s burning. I take off my gloves to hasten the process of attaching the pons to my boots, but my exposed fingers redden and numb making the job more fiddly. My brain freezes too. ‘Mel. How do I tie these fucking things on, does the strap go round the back of the heel or over the bridge of the foot?’ (Cannot believe I am asking.)

‘I wondered if I’d remember how to put them on too!’ Mel said cheerfully. ‘Put the strap over the front.’

Crunch! The crampon points bite into the ice. I am totally secure and am not going to go skittering off down the hill. Having been so engaged with my task I finally look up around me. Cloud has sneakily rolled in over the summit and is concealing all views.

I thought about the thick grey fog that had seemed to cloud my future only weeks before. I felt glad it was now just a memory, and I supposed that it took sinking into a fat pit of depression to galvanise me into action. Not long after the debacle of being stuck inside my dress I had a hairdresser appointment. Yup. Finally my hair was long enough to get a trim and, let me tell you, the significance of that first haircut cannot be underestimated.  I even had it dyed platinum blonde. It perked me up no end.

Equally anticipated was my appointment at the Menopause Clinic. I was desperate for facts and answers about Tamoxifen and the menopause. After spilling my guts to the doctor about painful sexy-time, stiff knee joints, fatigue, depression, hot flushes, weight gain and even my sore feet she gave me reassurance and reminded me that I was still in an acute phase of recovery. Tamoxifen and Menopause Facts:

  • Tamoxifen strips oestrogen from the body. This causes sexy-time dryness and pain – a gel with small amounts of oestrogen can be prescribed for internal use without risk.
  • Tamoxifen also strips the body of collagen making fluid build up common around joints, this complaint may or may not improve, but it is important to continue to exercise and resistance training will help build muscle to support joints.
  • Levels of fatigue (and depression) are also improved by maintaining a good exercise routine.
  • Hot flushes should settle.
  • Propensity of weight gain [for me] is increased because of the type of chemotherapy I had (FEC-T). Lack of oestrogen causes weight gain – the trend of the menopause is weight piled on around your middle. Lack of oestrogen makes fat more stubborn to shift – but not impossible.

The doctor also advised that I start to eat more protein because the body uses it to build and repair tissue, and because it’s an important building block for muscle and bones. It’s important to look after the bones because menopause also fucks them up too and you can end up with osteoporosis. ‘Sweet!’ – said absolutely no-one, ever.

I implement changes tout de suite, starting with nutrition. I download the My Fitness Pal ap and Mel helps me do all the macros shit. I am on the very first proper diet of my life. I¬† am given TWO free three month memberships – to the gym where I begin a weight lifting class, and to the James Smith Academy. And, determined to get back on the mountains, I start testing my foot by walking 4km along the beach to the Fort and back. Upping the ante I try running the distance. It doesn’t make the pain in my heels any worse. ‘Haw haw haw haw…en..chan…tay.’

Table for two at the top.

Mel and I reach the top of the mountain and take shelter from the wind behind the summit cairn. We dig ourselves a wee platform and waste no time smashing into our food. Hungrily we shovel my poached salmon, Mel’s pasta and some of her chicken into our mouths. We’re quite chuffed with ourselves; gone are the days of all manner of shite being in our lunch boxes, it’s all about the protein now. As I eat I feel glad that my friend is with me – we share the same interests and are moving forward in life together. I look up. Cloud thins briefly to reveal Blackwater reservoir far below. I glance over my shoulder; the sun is a watery disc veiled by grey and the concrete trig point is all else I see.

We finish eating. The cloud has rearranged and broken up. We get onto our feet to admire panoramic views. ‘OCH AYE THE NOO!’ I spontaneously yell at the top of my best Scottish voice. Mel bursts into laughter and so do I. Hill hysteria kicks in along with a raucous round of more och aye the noos with accompanying bicep curls.

Feeling the joy of life.

After two o’clock we tear ourselves away from the peak and tramp down, retracing our steps. Light soon dwindles. Mountains cloaked in steely hues are starkly outlined and in contrast to the soft edges of pinky-grey clouds and pockets of bright cornflower blue in the sky. I am alive and am in the moment. I feel wonderment.

Appreciating a minute’s silence, the changing light and a sense of history…‘With ‘er ‘ed toocked underneath ‘er arm she waaaaaalked the bloody tower. With ‘er ‘ed toocked underneath ‘er arm at the miiiiiiiiidniiiiiiight hour‚Ķ’

We continue our descent. It’s way easier getting up snow than it is to come down. Every now and then one of us yelps like we’re doing Ceilidh dancing, but somehow, to our mutual disappointment, we manage to stay upright. ‘You can really feel the ole thighs burn,’ Mel says. I agree. We talk about weight training again.

‘How’ve your feet been?’ Mel asks as we reach the car. I don’t lie. I tell her they hurt a bit, but nothing in comparison to how they felt after our last walk. ‘Well that’s good. That’s progress,’ she says, smiling.

For the last time today I think to myself that Mel is right again. I also think, dare I say it, that perhaps it’s been not a bad thing to have had cancer. Changes it’s forced me into haven’t all been bad. I’m having fun with radical changes to my hair. I’m more mindful about nutrition and I’m really enjoying my JSA training program and weight lifting class at the gym. Plus I’m getting to see more of beautiful Scotland by climbing the Corbetts – and I wouldn’t be doing them if I hadn’t got ill.

By calorie counting, training and hills I’m determined to lose the pounds and win my life back. It’s a slow path to recovery, but I’m making progress.

In the words of my new fitness guru, James Smith, I know what you lot are like, there’s loads of you out there reading my stuff, don’t be stingy, if you haven’t hit like hit like already and share ze blog! A.a.a.a.a.nd follow me here or on my facebook page. ūüôā

Today’s hill anthem: James, ‘Tomorrow’