I hate ants

A tent is a wonderful thing. It's a portable home, one that takes all of 5minutes (*cough*hours*cough*) to erect, needs very little maintenance. There is one thing I am discovering though, that I do not like.

Ants.

"Ants are social insects of the family Formicidae /fɔrˈmɪsɨdiː/ and, along with the related wasps and bees, belong to the order Hymenopera. Ants evolved from wasp-like ancestors in the mid-Cretaceous period between 110 and 130 million years ago ... They are easily identified by their elbowed antennae and the distinctive node-like structure that forms their slender waists. Ants have colonised almost every landmass on Earth. The only places lacking indigenous ants are Antarctica and a few remote or inhospitable islands."
      Wikipedia

Lying on the floor, I look at the opaque ceiling and I see the movements of small, black shadows; the snowman shaped body of these creatures dancing along on paths I don't quite follow. But it's not too bad, there's only one up - no, there's another, and one more ... and two over there. And look at that slightly larger one, but oh my god is it faster than the others ...  

And so, I realised instead of finding a reasonable route around my portable home, what feels like a colony of ants now skitters across above my head. 

This is not were they stop. 

After starting to piece together the moves of the climb Opium 8a in Recloses, I pick up Carl's shoe, only to immediately drop it. Looking inside, there is no sole, but a writhing mass of small brown and black bodies. Throwing the shoe, a sea of these crawling creatures splatter across the rock it collides with. I repeat the process, the rock becoming so thickly covered that I have to move to a new stone to abuse. 
Several minutes later, I look inside and see no more. Slowly, oh so slowly, I insert my hand. Drawing it out, there are more wriggling bodies swinging between my fingers, and I resort to using the climbing brush to knock the final resistors out of the toe. I sit as far as I consider possible on hillside from the shoe, only to then think of my camera bag basking in the sun, the my hoodie discarded on the ground, the food bag out of sight and I pray is fully shut. 

And so on. 

So yes, right now, I am breeding a sufficient hatred of ants, one that I see staying with me for a considerable amount of time. 

The Disposed

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Seeing the old men and women come and stare out of their lawn chairs at the passers by, it made me wonder what happened when these people passed. Did their children come and wheel these second homes away, clear out old trinkets into boxes that are then lost in the general passage of time? Walking around the campsite, ended up at the end of a row of lots I hadn't noticed before. And there they were. 

You could tell no one had opened these doors for a while. Abandoned haphazardly together, pushed just a little too far into the trees, were the disposed caravans. Lace curtains tattered and vehicles listing to one side on punctured wheels, I walked among these forgotten things. There is no one camped near them, and why would they. Looking at them, there was no shaking the feeling of something wrong, and something missing. 

Disposed images to come. 

Photographing People. And Running Away.

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It's an interesting thing to try, street photography. And for me, that name in no way whatsoever implies that it must be conducted in a street, city, or town. When I look at it, it's the art of photographing people. And running away. 

Take (or don't take) a camera and head into a public place. Sit somewhere and just watch. Watch the old man try and get the idea across to his grandson, that if he wants his sandwich/lollypop/ice-cream to remain intact and edible, he must hold it properly and stop throwing leaves into the pond. Then there's the person dressed and walking as if they owned the place (and the look like they could) and another (who looks like they got dressed in the dark). I judge them, as cruel or cold as that may sound. But it's something we all do, even just subconsciously. Lets say you met someone wearing the t-shirt of a well known person you found to be completely against your moral code - you probably couldn't help forming an opinion of them without completely being introduced. It's not a set impression, but it certainly effects how your first interactions go. I have been told of a woman in Ireland who makes a living out of dressing people for job interviews. And while you watch people, you are trying to portray yourself in a certain manner to those passing so they may judge you in a way you find favourable to you. Im sure some part of it originates from a time where your survival relied on others seeing you as too strong. 

Taking a camera out changes people's reaction to you. People go from subconsciously wondering if their toothpaste smeared collar matters, to giving you hostile looks, or even asking what you are doing. Most are more just guarded and looked ruffled from the encounter, too busy heading to where ever their lives require them to actually stop. But the chance of that look, the chance of the person stopping you almost stops the photo-taking to begin with. More often than not, people just become more withdrawn from you, or just look away. Once the first one or two shots are taken, the slight kick from catching the people has set in, and all you want to do is more. With laws becoming stricter, and never being sure if the image is completely allowed or consented to, for me it turns into a game of shoot and hide. 

This evening I went walking the campsite with my film camera, something that looks a lot less imposing than carrying a big digital one, and shot kids blowing bubbles, a man standing around in a dressing gown. The tension is heightened by the fact that these people will be seen again, as the furthest away you can walk is six lots down to your own area. Maybe this is why I have waited until the end of this stay to try and photograph this temporary home. Or maybe it's only the fact that I'm running out of time, I'm brave enough to overcome the fear. 

Areas Climbed

Places explored/Climbed so far

• Franchard Isatis
  It's a popular area, with good landings, so can be a bit crowded. The crowds are there for a reason though, as it has 383 boulders within circuits (and 155 outside circuits) up to 6C+. It has some really nice and fun blue slabs, the red circuit being a bit more challenging. Also, if you're lucky, you will meet a small older french man with white combed back hair and glasses, walking around with just his flip flops and a rag (the locals are too good to actually use climbing shoes). He lives 5km away from the place, and so knows every problem and how they should be climbed. Not speaking a word of english, he will shout at you one of five words: "A Droit!", "A Gauche!", "Bon, Bon!", "Null - Null!", or "Les pieds". When you fall on a heap in the ground, he'll step onto the problem in his bare feet, do the crux in extra slow motion to show you both how useless you are, and how you will never have as much poise as this older gentleman. You'll attempt it again, and feel slightly better when you get slightly further, see him nod at you and continue on, to help the next suffering climber fall more gracefully off their rock. 
• Roche aux Sabots
  Roche aux Sabots is, in my experience, a little more quite than Isatis. It still has good landings, and is slightly more sheltered with extra tree cover. It is a bit smaller, with (under 6C+) 182 boulders within circuits and 57 boulders outside of them. While being here I wasn't climbing, but the problems looked amazingly fun, and the walk from the carpark to the climbs is almost nothing (until you have to run back to the car to escape the lashing rain). 
• Franchard Cuisinière
  Cuisinière is right within the same area as Isatis, with about a 750m walk in. A very quite area with good climbing and easy to find. The landings aren't great, and most of the problems are quite tall starting ( I will admit to pad stacking so that I could reach starting holds twice) and very difficult. Oddly though, all the circuits seem to be of the same grade, so it's pretty much a free for all. A couple of the reds are easy, so are the best of getting started. It also contains the easiest 6b I've seen so far in font (as long as you're tall). For somewhere that's not popular, it contains a lot of boulders, with 217 boulders on circuit, and 108 off. 
• Cul de Chien
  Cull de Chien is one of the coolest places I have seen here. While the rest of the places are within the forest, Cul de Chien is a huge clearing made up entirely of sand. The rocks all fall around a small hill in the middle of this anti - oasis clearing, all the landings being extra cushioned from the amount of sand (as long as you miss all the rocks, so I'm not saying the landings are that amazing). The climbing is good - and hard. The blue circuit is less fun, and more ass-kicking as you feel like you're scrambling up something that you should do in your sleep. The reds provide a really good challenge if you want to spend a little longer focusing on tricky climbing. 
• Bas Cuvier 
  459 in circuit | 217 out of circuit
  Cuvier is really accessible, and to be honest we only saw the opening ten boulders as the problems on those were attractive enough to hold us there. I've heard it's a great area, but wasn't climbing there and didn't see much. A little further back there looked to be the most amazing overhang, but that's all I know. Right beside the road, you can see the boulders from the car park. 
• Petit Bois
  226 Boulders on circuit | 13 Boulders off
  Is located just outside Nemours, and so is one of my favourite places as it is easy to cycle to from the campsite I'm staying in. The climbing there is pretty good there, with Big Jim being one of the more famous climbs. And it is most deserving of the name - the drop is huge. After half way, you either finish it or die. One of the first places I went, so want to go back and climb properly.  
• Restant du Long Rocher
  98 on circuit | 63 off circuit
  To be honest, I can't remember this one, but supposedly we have been there .... I'll update this when I find out what it was. Guess it doesn't bode for too shining a review though. 
• Recloses
  Recloses is reclusive. An out of the way area, it's the first one we found cycling as it's only 15 - 20 minutes away. Most of the area is taken up by a wildlife reserve, as there is something indangered there and don't want climbers trampling new paths and brushing off boulders to set problems. What does exist is an 8a roof problem called Opium. With what I consider one good hold in the whole climb, it's not exactly something I'm aiming for, but Carl has set it aside as a possible project. It's a powerful route, and set for someone with decent reach. The landings are mediocre, but it's a fun one to watch others fall off of. Not really worth somewhere hiking out to if you're on a tight timeline, but if you move here it'd be worth the day. 
• Rocher des Demoiselles
  163 in circuit | 134 out of circuit
  To be honest, I'm not sure if we actually found this area. One thing in fontainebleau, is that if you don't know where you're heading exactly, you can't really wing it. Accidentally parking in a car park 50 meters further down the road can result in a day going from climbing to two hours hiking trying to find the supposed climbing. Always, make sure you know which car park. 
• Éléphant
  289 on circuit | 45 off circuit
  Éléphant is one of my favourite places. Admittedly, it was on the June Bank Holiday weekend, so it was packed with every climber and non- climber imaginable, but I really liked the climbing. The boulder Éléphant itself has some deadly roof problems, and then everything else varies from slabs to dynos to foot-jamming. 
• Bois Rond
  Bois Rond, or "bwoi bwoi" as it has become known through accidental Chinese whispers, is a really fun area. The red circuit has a huge grade range, from something possibly in the high 4's, to a 7a. The landings are pretty decent the whole way around (of what I managed to get to). It's full of traverses, most of which have the most positive holds I've felt since getting here.  This is definitely my other favourite area. As well as having great climbing, it is an extremely pretty looking place, with supposedly other climbing areas off of the same path into it. So lots to do. 

Chasing Lightning in Fontainebleau

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Lightning Storm in Grez-Sur-Loing, Fontainebleau, France

Yesterday was not a day from climbing. It rained. It rained a lot. 
By evening though the place was in a balmy calm, slightly muggy and humid but with a clear sky. Walking back from the showers, I see flashes across the sky. No one else seems to react, so I wonder if it was just someone's head torch. But standing there, I see lightning, buried in far away clouds, flash and flicker. I guess everyone here is used to proper storms. The night before this, I had woken up to the most amazing thunder - the kind that makes me understand why some people claim to be afraid of storms. I felt the force of the bang hit me, both jumping up and into a ball as I was ripped from my sleep. It was amazing. Now, I stand looking at far off lightning dance across the sky and I know I don't just want to sit indoors. Taking my camera, I head off to a river just between the campsite and the town. However, in my haste, I didn't consider the fact that it was night, and that a tripod would be necessary. Sending Carl back to the campsite, I sit and watch the light show. 

Watching, it really dawned on me how it was just a giant ball of static. Just some charged clouds getting too close. And I know how obvious this is, but it's something that didn't quite click, and didn't quite instil the awe it deserved, until last night. 

Of course, even when I get the tripod, I've still forgotten to bring extra batteries, and the clouds are moving just a bit too far away. I decide that if I can make it back to the campsite, grab another battery pack and my bike, I can take a 5 minute cycle to the other side of town and see. If it's all gone, it would just have been five minutes. If not, I'll be happy to be there. 

One of my problems with the town was it's light pollution. A streetlight may be out of frame, but it's light still leaks into the corner and leaves horrible streaks. So I aimed for the open empty fields of the other side, away from everything. Standing out there, chasing my lightening, it felt like I was standing on the outskirts of a muted storm. There was no thunder or rain, just the rustle of long grass, and the flashing sky above me. 

The lightning wasn't huge forks or Harry Potter style bolts, but high high above the clouds, illuminating them from the inside.  When your standing there counting seconds for exposures though, you forget to watch where the storm is going. 
I'm not quite sure what way it was being pulled in the beginning, but at one point I noticed that it seemed to be coming back towards me a little bit. I became absorbed in watching the clouds and guessing when to release the shutter. And then, within four minutes, it seemed to move from being a far off speck, to something on top of me. The calm of the area was ripped apart by winds that caused moving straight to be difficult, and rain that pelting relentlessly. And I was very aware of how in the open I was standing. 

I think that was the most rushed back up I've ever attempted of my camera equipment. I went from chasing the lightning, to being chased by it. Reaching the streets of the town was such a relief, the fact that I was not the most metal object around a comfort. I was a dripping mess arriving back to the campsite. Climbing into bed, I felt so awake and excited I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. There is nothing more humbling and inspiring than witnessing something so much more powerful than yourself. As much as I don't need the storms for climbing, I pray that they come back just for one more night. 

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Night train from Paris to Lyon passing lightning storm 

Touchy Fingertips and Sunshine

While climbing in the gym or even on the granite rock of Ireland, the skin on your hands (and everywhere else) gets tougher and tougher and develops specific callouses so as every time you touch a hold, your skin doesn't rip. And of course, the more you climb on that day, your hands do rip, and you develop "flappers" of skin, and you hands end up consisting more of tape than skin. 

In France, in Fontainebleau, there's a difference. The rock is amazingly sculpted sandstone, all curves and pockets and soft. Soft rock leads to one very popular kind of hold though - slopers. Slopers are interesting. You put your hand on them, and you say (in your head or out loud); huh. There is a hold there, and you can see it is the only hold, but it's not the kind of hold you really want to trust. You end up squeezing the rock until you start to wonder will your fingers leave indents. You don't end up with flappers, you go raw. Looking at your finger tips, there are no cuts, but blood slightly weeps and you can't really touch anything. Returning to the tent, cans of tuna are opened with broken nails and more baguettes are consumed. You spent nine hours in the sun, nine hours of pushing yourself over and over and over again, scraping elbows and jamming knees into cracks to stabilise. The fact that there are no mirrors around becomes a blessing in disguise, and even though you are so exhilarated after spending the day falling off of pebbles so many times, you can't even muster the strength to talk about it once you all collapse into the car. Soothing music is played on the drive back, people and crashpads haphazardly stacked and leaning on each other. Waking up the next morning, when your fingers past the test of opening the zips and putting on clothes, it means they are well enough to abuse again, and more canned fish and pastries are eaten 

There is no better way to spend the summer.  

Living by Default

It's hard, to decide what to write sometimes. While living in a tent has obviously changed my lifestyle, I don't find it to be something scary or "other-worldly". My main concerns have changed from how many hours I'm going to work this week, to what day it is, and if the bakery opens at 6:30 or 7am. I realise how while I was part of "civilisation", I was doing nothing to improve or advance my standing or what I wanted to do - and why should I. Why should, when I move back to the city and back to what I am told I should count and refer to as reality, should I be content? Is advancing my standing in the world really what I want? The only reason I would move back, would be to work to have more money - and I only need to work if I want to move back. 
Of course, I am not being completely unrealistic and living in a daydream. I have college in September, I have a job from which I booked a certain amount of time off of, I have responsibilities and if I want to continue doing the things I want and living the way I am, I have to respond to those responsibilities. What I am questioning, is how when one is living in a place that offers so many opportunities for one to further doing what we love, does one end up in a rut, working a job that doesn't mean anything to them, paying too much to live in a house they don't like?

While you can say that I haven't really left the comforts of modern luxury - right now, I am typing this post on my laptop as I sit in the porch of the tent - it has taken this removal from the world for me to realise what is important.

Recently, I read an article by David Cain about how most people live their lives by default. His website, Raptitude, contains the following sentences on it's About page; 

"The fascinating thing is everyone wants to be happier, yet relatively few people make a point of learning the skills that really make a difference in their level of happiness. Instead they pursue bigger incomes and nicer furniture."

I have a job - between forty and fifty of my hours will be up for sale once I return to Dublin, and all of them will probably be bought up, depending on how many tourists decide to visit my fair city this summer. In this economic climate, I ought to be happy. I live independently, I am in college, studying something I am truly interested in. I have applied to study abroad for half of next year and I will hopefully be granted to in three months. I have a boyfriend and am an active outdoors person. I should be content. 

My life fits into the same stream of Jamie, the character referenced in David's blog post. I have become caught up in the monotony of existing as opposed to living. The only thing I have done to break out of this hamster wheel is this move to living in a tent. These five weeks away are showing me how what I was valuing before, and what I actually value, while I am proud to say are similar enough, were not the exact same. Why should it be hard to pursue what it truly is you want in life? What makes breaking from the flow of people so difficult? 

Looking at David's blog, there are four major points to all our lives: 

• Where we live
• What we do for a living
• What we do with our free time
• Who we spend most of our time with. 

Making a major change in one of these areas will result in a change in the feel and quality of your day-to-day life. It can become better, or it can become worse. No one will know until they have initiated the change. This uncertainty is enough to keep most people from bothering.

"But they should bother, as a rule. Day to day life is more likely to get better than worse, because a deliberate change gives you a chance to see if your new situation resonates with you or not, and gives you a second angle of the old one. If the new situation does resonate, then you’re closer to finding what’s right for you, what’s optimal for your sense of well-being."

My first change has been to come here to France. Right now, my arms ache, my feet have more mosquito bites than I want to acknowledge, and my back is now slightly sun burnt. But I wouldn't change it. Living in opposed to existing, as the new cliche seems to go. 

Balance

One more step ...

My left foot shakes more than I want. Toes touchdown first, solidly placing my heel, my right foot swinging out from behind, swinging too wide and I tilt forward, my arms flying high above my head. Foot slams down. Left thrown out. It's all a rush. Half my foot is off. Knees bend. Right foot out again. Down. 
And miss. 

Toes in mud, sinews of grass and flakes of barks mushing underfoot. I sit down heavily; not in anger or disappointment, but content. The mandatory condition to forget everything and simply try to walk attracts me. 

I've bought a slackline.

Fontainebleau

Lying on a crash pad half enveloped in a duvet, I sit up; partially asleep but awake enough to realise something has changed. Several stumbled zip-doors later, I step outside and grin, moving out of the shade surrounding the tent to stand in the sun. It has returned. 

This isn't even (completely) my adventure. Enter Carl. 

Carl recently quit his job to start rock climbing, until either injury, lack of money, or boredom force him otherwise. Currently there is a large tent located in Fontainebleau, France with his name on it and I've tagged along for the first five weeks. I guess it's time to see how it goes. 

* * * 

There is a song by Crowded House, which has the chorus "Everywhere you go, you always take the weather with you. Everywhere you go, you always take the weather." And I have decided the this is an apt description of what I have been experiencing the past five and a half days. 

I have brought the Irish Rain. 

Rain in Font has enlightened me to a couple of things: 

• Big tents are amazing. Being able to move from one room to another while remaining "indoors" all day is a blessing. Both cabin fever and general ones ability to tolerate the person next to them is vastly improved if not (almost) eradicated. 

• Rain here is different. 
  While rain is rain no matter what way you approach it (unless you are a geologist or meteorologist I'm assuming), the area of Font is so flat, that thunder is nearly a given occurrence whenever the skies decide to open (although if I am honest, it may once or twice have been the ride-on lawnmower that the campsite owners seem to relish using morning noon and night. Here there is no stray long grass.).

Campsite mentioned; these are unusual places. There seems to be more caravans than one might expect in something that is, in my mind, what would jungle of tents and guide wires. These caravans come in the most amazing shades of white - amazing in the sense of bewilderment as opposed to shining awe. The patterns of not quite mould, but something off green and possibly fungal, streak down from windows and "racing-stripe" metal bands, to stain the off-tone beige bodies of these portable sleeping vessels which feel like they have been in location for the past ten years. Parked in opposing lots to these established homes are so-white-they-hold-blue-tints, new caravans, possibly glowing fainting from combinations of bleach and window cleaner. Old couples sit in front of both, in their mis-matching chairs, giving intense disapproving stares to those that dare to walk past. Alternative routes are internally plotted to avoid the gaze of the more scrutinising retirees. One would think, as their leather tanned skin starts to show signs of converting to a strong lobster red, that maybe another pass-time should be created, or maybe the chairs moved to a new angle so as to more evenly singe themselves. 
While considering these new routes I must remember to smile and cheerfully murmur a butchered "bonjour" in as happy a face I can exude while under such scrutiny. 

This said, because of the campsites key climbing location, these staring games are dispersed between tents of casually sprawled climbers. Such tents are obviously distinguishable through the multiple crash pads, flip flops and climbing shoes, all of which seems to congregate towards the opening crawl spaces or odd hammock. Slack lines appear and disappear, connecting random trees together. T-shirts are forsaken and displeased shouts are audible when mosquitos find their purchase.

Welcome to Fontainebleau.