Surf Nation

This blog is off to Mont Blanc

Prolonged radio silence is about to set in because in a moment or two Elliot and I set off for my folks' place in Devon, where we'll stay before catching a flight to Geneva tomorrow morning. Then we travel to one of my favourite places, Chamonix, and on Thursday set off to complete the Tour du Mont Blanc.

We're doing this with a guide by the name of Mark Tennent and his Simply Savoie operation. The route looks fantastic and I know the area reasonably well, having climbed Mont Blanc once with the army having previously tried and failed to climb it with a bunch of mates, none of us having done an iota of training (there's a moral there somewhere). The Wade clan has also holidayed in Chamonix a couple of times and it is one of Europe's most idyllic spots. 

I only hope that the neck, and the knackered left calf, and the delicate bloke's problem that I'm having sorted when I return, will hold up. Damn it - of course they will. This'll be a great trip with an unusual benefit for what is ostensibly a surf blog: I won't be near any waves. That means more decent recovery time for the neck. Why, I'll paddle out and rip when I'm back, having also lost a few pounds. Well, rather more realistcially I might paddle out and cruise - and that'll do me just fine.

There'll be more in 10 days or so but meantime, enjoy the surf (or the mountains).

Image of a ridge near the Col du Midi that Elliot and I won't be tackling is from my climb with the army of a few years back.

This Boneless World

With the commitment of the condemned I avoided waves all weekend. Saturday was spent largely in a car, largely in the sense of time rather than 'Going Large' or any of the other things that one can do at the nation's fast food emporia, though I confess that I did have a KFC boneless banquet near Stonehenge and my word what a banquet it was, not, you understand, as per the original Italian form of the word - the repast on a bench, usually a small wooden one as opposed to the large metal things at M&S these days - but rather in banchetto's latter day incarnation as the outdoor feast par excellence, which is not unduly to mix one's languages but rather to pay modest homage to the tongue of all tongues, French.

And so, without pausing to speculate on whether the term 'boneless banquet' is another kind of homage - to the skateboarding trick (the 'boneless') which was very popular from the mid-seventies to early eighties before being eclipsed by the ollie - no, without bothering to think this through, for it would be absurd if the Colonel's lexicographers were actively seeking to colonise the world with the language of skateboarding, no, without giving this a second thought, because who on earth, when they order and proceed to eat a boneless banquet would anyone at KFC ever think, subliminally or otherwise, "Eureka! Skating lives!", no, without any such conjecture I arrived home to a waveless world but only because I chose to make it so. In fact, there was surf, and it was offshore, and sunny, and both yesterday and today I can think of few finer pleasures, boneless and other banquets included, than paddling out and snagging a few waves at the places that dare not speak their name, not to me, not anymore, but lo I said "No! No I say! I will eschew you, waves, lest you inflict serious damage on me so let others ride you, yes, verily, I care not!" and having said that I settled down to lay some slabs on my patio, an activity whose capacity for harm is only as big as the slabs one is wielding and in my case they were pleasingly modest, leading to a very nice, surf-free afternoon.

I speak of today, lest anyone is confused, which would be as ridiculous, given the flowing and inexorable logic of this prose, as the idea that Colonel KFC has a secret plan to revive the boneless in the car parks of his restaurants - yes, talking of today, I was heartened by the visit of two friends - Peter Fluck, artist and co-creator of Spitting Image, and his artist wife, Anne-Cecile de Bruyne. Karen and I met Peter and Anne some four years or so ago and have enjoyed their company ever since. They are - and I hope they will forgive this observation - pleasingly subversive in many of their views. Anne continues to paint while Peter has a penchant for kinetic sculpture. He has also ventured into the blogosphere - check out his visual record of the everyday and the ordinary by clicking here.

At one point in our chat today, having told Peter of my imminent trip to Chamonix where Elliot and I will be undertaking the Tour du Mont Blanc, I lamented the existence of sea urchin spikes in my feet. I said I was pleased to have got rid of a few of them last night but was nevertheless slightly worried that having spikes in one's soles (not souls - a mistake I am prone to make when it comes to talking of my feet, but that's not because I have a peculiar fetish but rather because I believe that the foot is the father of the mind) might make for an uncomfortable walk/105-mile-trek-over-eight-days. 

Peter looked at me with due circumspection. Then he said: "You don't half put yourself to some trouble, don't you?"

He then advised me to lay patio slabs rather than go surfing. This was, I feel, sound advice. So, safe from injury as I am, and with some lovely patio slabs to show for not going surfing, it is goodnight from me. And it's boneless at KFC.

Boneless courtesy of Riverbank 180. And the good Colonel.

Saramago, Surfing and Lanzarote

Here I am up country doing some work for one of the nationals. I have evaded the coast and the temptation of waves, but my neck and back remain ungrateful. Both are hurting and I'm growing increasingly apprehensive about whether hiking 105 miles around Mt Blanc, a trek that I start next week, is doable.

But anyway, by way of good cheer I cast my mind back to Lanzarote. Our week there really was one of the best the Wade clan have ever had. Our friend Heidi is now alert to Jose Saramago - so much so that she snapped the picture here on one of her recent travels. For those unacquainted with Saramago, I can't recommend him highly enough. He has to be among the world's top five living writers. Try any of his books but some are more challenging than others, so if you're uninitiated maybe start with The Stone Raft - deceptively simple, wry and whimsical in places and with prose as seductive as any. My favourite of his works are All the Names, with its decidedly Kafkaesque and Beckettian echoes, and The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis, one of the most haunting, melancholy and beautiful works of the 20th century.

Meanwhile, Heidi tells me that Stay Eco Chic's surf page is now up and running. Check this out if you're heading to Lanzarote.

Surfing Interruptus (again)

Well, I knew (deep down) that I'd got away with surfing in Lanzarote rather than been ready for it. Back home it took a small onshore day at Sennen to put me back a peg or two. I paddled out (the cold! the cold!) and had a nice chat with Darren and Jacs, but that was as good as it got. My pop up has become a stagger up and it happened on only one wave. Yes, One Wave Wade, that's what they call me these days. I wish I could say it was a rock 'n' roll wave but it wasn't. It was small and didn't last very long. Soon enough everyone else paddled in, which gives a clue as to how good the conditions were, but I stayed in the water, paddling about, vainly trying to catch a wave and each time I did so aggravating my sore neck even more. Finally I gave up and now rue this lacklustre session considerably, for the electric shocks in the left hand are back and I feel, quite frankly, rubbish.

Merficully I am crossing the county line for work tomorrow and will be away for a few days. Yes, I will be miles from the sea. Excellent. No temptation. Then, next week, I travel to Chamonix with my younger son Elliot. We are undertaking the Tour du Mt Blanc, a 105 mile hike around a mountain that I climbed (and beneath whose summit I camped for a night) back in the days when I was strong and full of vitality. I figure I've done one or two surf trips with Harry and it's only fair to put some time into young El, a lad who loves mountains but who isn't so enamoured of riding waves. Prior to yesterday's surf I'd have said I was fit enough for this trek, which will take about eight days; in fact I'd have said "Sod the sea urchin spikes in my feet, I'm hard enough for that there 105 mile hike so bring it on and I'll do it barefoot with a fridge on my head if you insist", but now, replete with electric shocks and lying supine (almost) with a knackered neck, I'm not so sure.

The worst thing is that as a consequence of the waves in Lanzarote and yesterday's surf at Sennen Cove I have an insight into the rest of my surfing life. Chances are that it'll be full of fear. Then again, my mate Andy was telling me about a professional rugby player who returned to the game after spinal surgery, and I've always thought rugby players are a bit soft, so, loyal readers, I will see you in the water on the next double-overhead day. (I might be the one who's sinking, but never mind - I'll still be there!)

Pictured: Harry and Josh about to paddle out at small La Santa. Oh, to be back in Lanzarote! With a healthy neck, a strong body and full of vitality... [Those days are over. Ed.]

Damn those Sea Urchins! (but what a great trip)

Here are a few snaps of the action over the last couple of days.

As I mentioned, we took a boat to La Graciosa and surfed a deserted reef at around 2ft. Just right for yours truly and not too shallow.

The clan thoroughly enjoyed this trip. La Graciosa is exquisite. Here we are, as photographed by Tila:

Next up (yesterday) was an interesting morning for Karen and I. We checked out the excellent Cesar Manrique Foundation with Heidi. Manrique was an artist and an architect who had a massive influence on life in Lanzarote. His house is amazing and I'd commend a visit to anyone who comes here. 

After we left Heidi got on the phone to Jose Saramago's assistant, in Tias. Saramago is the Portuguese Nobel prize winning novelist - and my literary hero. I've read all of his work (in translation, I hasten to add) and I'd made contact through Heidi because it would be an absolute honour and privilege to meet him. But in chatting, and just before we set out to go to Saramago's house, I made an error.

I left my wallet on the roof of the car and drove off. I discovered this outside Saramago's house but decided that que sera, que sera. Inside I did not meet the great man - he is immersed in his next novel - but did get to check out his library and talk about his work with a very helpful assistant called Javier. Indeed, I've just heard from Javier that I am to be invited back to interview Saramago. This is wonderful news.

Back at the Manrique Foundation, my wallet was on the side of the road. Curiously, a friend texted me as I was looking for it. My brief reply said: "Disaster - lost wallet." Literally, at the moment I sent this this text, I saw my wallet. It had been denuded of cash but my credit cards and driving licence were still there. Fate works in curious ways, and signs could be discerned from such strange coincidences, but leaving such conjecture aside I could only think: result! As I said to Heidi and Karen, to lose a few quid in return for fate giving me the chance to meet Jose Saramago is a fair deal. It did, however, take Karen a little while to agree that I wasn't a complete **** (here she is giving me her 'why are you such an idiot?' look).

After such excitement, it was obvious that the only thing we could do was go for a surf. The clan headed over to La Santa with Josh Braddock in tow. Mindful of Neil Watson's cautionary words about encountering remorse if I paddled out to the La Santa rights, I did precisely that. It was, however, very small - say about chest to head high on the sets. Nevertheless, once there I couldn't help but look at the rocks looming in the take-off area and contemplate the consequences if I hit one. I paddled for a few waves on the shoulder but, as with many reef breaks, you won't catch a thing unless you commit to being on the peak. 

I didn't, dear readers, catch a thing. It felt just too risky, so I paddled back inside to the middle reef. There a reasonable left was working and I upped my previous wave count (two waves at La Santa, three at Famara, three at La Graciosa secret spot) to four. However, the neck did feel pretty dodgy and I think I need to leave surfing for another couple of weeks. It would just be so stupid to hurt myself by pushing things so, suitably stoked, I shall thank Dennis for the loan of his board but give it back to him later today, then work on my general fitness some more before getting back into UK surf. Pictured below - me, delighted to be back in the water (albeit out on the shoulder).

The one thing which is not great about La Santa is the sea urchins. I reckon this is the trickiest spot Harry and I have ever surfed, in terms of access. You just can't avoid being smashed on the rocks, dinging your board, scraping your fins - and standing on sea urchins. Sans reef boots, I picked up about ten spikes in each foot, and today can barely walk. I'm told there is a urinary remedy for this but am opting for vinegar for now. 

Today is our last day - ash cloud permitting. It's been a fantastic trip and I'd say to anyone who reads this blog that I you want a great place to stay, with some top people and quality waves, you won't go wrong with www.stayecochic.com. Better yet, on a personal note, as well as riding some waves again I'm stoked to see the friendship which has been forged between Harry and Josh. They're the same age, give or take a week, and I have a feeling they'll stay in touch and push each other in UK surf comps (Josh plans to come over and enter a few - like Harry, he's a stylish natural footer and it'll be interesting to see them compete against each other). I saw Harry make his first, really clean 1ft air at Famara, so his surfing has come on leaps and bounds after not really getting in the water much ever since I fell ill. All in all, great stuff - and I rather like Elliot's chair, crafted at Orzola beach, too.

The Fear and Love of Waves

Thanks to all for the comments about my highly unexpected return to surfing. I'd have liked to blog daily while here, but there's just been no time - a sign, of course, of a good trip. We've been here and there so much that sitting down and typing has all but proved impossible. But now that I'm here, here's a quick summary of life post La Santa:

Following those two nice and mellow waves at La Santa, I celebrated in suitable style: I went to bed early, amazed and thanking my lucky stars at this miraculous event. The next day, I rolled up at Famara beach with Harry and Josh Braddock (pictured above with two of the La Santa surf mums, and below, about to paddle out with their mate Scott).The surf was onshore and, I could easily discern, not that small. Nevertheless, I pulled on my rash vest and got to it. When I say 'got to it', I mean that I made it out back, in quite punchy, heavy chest to head high onshore mush, about an hour after Josh and Harry. Once there, I praised the Lord that the neck was still in place and then wondered what on earth I was doing in such a heaving sea.

As the minutes rolled by, this feeling - of pure anxiety - increased tenfold. This kind of surf would never have been a problem pre-op - in fact, I'd have loved it, not for the rides it promised but for the sheer enjoyment of being in a turbulent sea - but all I could think of was what if one of those waves jolted the neck so severely that THINGS WENT WRONG?

 

As it turned out, nothing went wrong. I bailed on a couple of late take-offs but got one OK left. As I say, praise the Lord. Which brings me to...

Today's trip to La Graciosa. This gem of an island, tucked away behind Lanzarote, is both beautiful and a paradise for waves. We took a boat over there with Tila (as previously mentioned here) and found a right-hand reef of which dreams are made. This is a very accurate term, given today's facts, given that said reef was just touching 3ft and my surfing was not exactly dreamlike. Then again, maybe it was...

Yes, it was a dream to catch a couple of nice rights at a reef on a Canary island with no one around except Harry and Josh. To think, seven months ago, I wondered if anything like this would ever come my way again. And there I was, today, on a boat/surf trip, wandering miles along on an empty shoreline, paddling out and getting a couple of waves - in my own very humble way.

All that said, the constant feeling I have of fear - pure, outright fear - is something I'll have to work on. Or learn to live with. I don't know if anyone whose neck is held together by metal will ever feel too comfortable in surf, and in such circumstances even the smallest waves can generate the biggest fear, but I do know that I'll forever be grateful to the crew at Stayecochic for, in the most unexpected of circumstances, getting me back on a board.

A funny thing happened at La Santa - I rode a couple of waves...

What a day! I rode a couple of waves again, for the first time in seven months. The neck is fine and I lived to tell the tale. Here's the lowdown:

At 9.20 this morning Karen and I left our villa to pick up Harry and Elliot, who'd crashed the night at Stayecochic. Tila and Michele, who run Stayecochic (which has a nice blog, too, by their partner Heidi), have a couple of lads (Josh and Jerome) who are the same age as our boys, and they've all been getting on like a house on fire. They hung out last night and were up and ready for some surf today, and soon enough a convoy had set off for La Santa. This fabled right-hander will need no introduction to seasoned surfers, and it was a sight for sore eyes when we arrived. Reeling walls of turquoise were rushing along the reef, with a medium-sized crowd of locals already on it. It was comfortably head high and, on the main peak, probably double overhead. However, Harry, Josh and Scott eschewed La Santa, instead paddling across to the fairly heavy-looking wave opposite - The Slab. This left me to...

Stare at wave after wave after wave.

It was the first time I'd been near quality surf for seven months, and it was painful. Initially, I was stoked, for the boys and to be watching some fine surfing at a world class break, but slowly but surely the angst mounted. As one does in such situations - nearly five months after anterior cervical discectomy and fusion - I decided that if I couldn't risk surfing, swimming out to the line-up would surely be OK. So I did. Not all the way to the main La Santa peak, but to the line of reef which demarks the first set of decent inside rights. If truth be told the neck gave me a bit of grief towards the end of this exploit. However, it put Lanzarote localism in perspective. I'd heard a lot about this but didn't see any evidence of it, and in fact one Spanish surfer paddled over to ask if I was OK (I guess not too many people swim at La Santa). I didn't get his name but he ripped - and was a nice bloke, too.

Back on dry land, with a couple of cuts on my legs from being bashed against the rocks on the swim in, I felt happy. But then I watched yet more surfing... And the angst began again.

Fortunately, Dennis Smith, of Centrepoint Surf Lanzarote, was on hand. He'd been running a surf school for kids at the very mellow first reef at La Santa. Dennis could see what was on my mind and offered me his longboard. I demurred. Surfing had to wait a while longer, I couldn't risk it, the neck was giving me twinges from the swim etc etc. "OK mate," said Dennis, "do whatever you feel's best. But the board's yours if you want it."

Naturally, I decided that going for a paddle would do me no harm, so off I went. I didn't go anywhere near the serious La Santa waves but headed over to where some teenagers were surfing - the very mellow first reef. En route, a 3ft set came along and I was caught inside. It wasn't heavy but with a metal cage in my neck very small waves assume very large dimensions. But I was fine. So then...

I paddled, caught a wave, and jumped to my feet.

Then I did the same thing again.

Two short rides, no moves, just a bit of trimming.

The result?

Totally stoked.

Thanks, Dennis, for the board (which I now have for the rest of the stay). I don't plan on surfing more than maybe half an hour or so each day - I can feel a fair few twinges, now, in that damned neck - but I'll be out there. In the sea, surfing, with my lad Harry again.

If that's not a result, nothing is. Aloha!

Easy on that neck...

 

Despite nearly missing our plane at Bristol airport early yesterday morning, we made it here with time enough to check out the excellent Stayecochic retreat and the surf. Tila, the man at the helm of Stayecochic, is a top bloke and happens, in his elder son Josh, to have a fine surfer for one of his offspring. Josh is the same age, give or take a week, as my Harry, and the pair of them snagged a few waves at Famara yesterday afternoon. I was stoked because, for the first time in seven months, I was in the sea again. I swam out through the cross-shore two to three foot waves and had no problems with the neck at all. It was great to be in the water with Harry again. Typically, I got a bit carried away and borrowed the 7ft board he was riding - just to see what it felt like to paddle again, you understand. Paddling felt fine so then I thought I'd better see if I was able to catch a wave. And then...

I only paddled for a couple of waves, and both were small, but I bottled the take-off on the first one and on the second felt a very nasty twinge in my my neck as I pushed on the rails to jump up. This led me to abandon this wave, too. I gave the board back to Harry and swam in.

I'd experienced a similar twinge in London last weekend and back then it left me with a wonky left leg for a day. I knew, therefore, that discretion was the better part of valour. Surfing has to wait a while yet. But I remain stoked: I can now swim in the sea again, so back home in Cornwall may well take to swimming out to the line-up while Harry is surfing. (I'll try not to get in anyone's way.)

Meanwhile, I had the pleasure of bumping into Kirsty Jones yesterday, a lady who is one of the best kitesurfers in waves in the world. I interviewed Kirsty for Surf Nation on a sodden autumn day in Llangennith a few years ago but this time happened upon her in a bikini on a bed in the house of Dennis Smith, an Aussie emigre with North Devon connections who runs Centrepoint Surf Lanzarote. Kirsty was mid-massage, this being another of Dennis's skills, which he demonstrated by quickly having a go at my knackered left calf (with fine results - it feels good today). Dennis has also loaned Harry a 6"0' thruster and is taking him and Josh out for a few waves later, probably in the La Santa area. The hangover I have from a night out with Tila and the Stayecochic crew means that even if fit, I reckon I'd be beachside for this one. 

More soon. Until then, vaya con dios.

Pictured: Kirsty Jones, in her element.

La Santa Looms (sort of)

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from a writers and photographers' organisation of which I'm a member. It referred to Stayecochic in Lanzarote, who were looking for journalists to check out their very nice looking operation. One thing led to another and, so long as a cloud of ash doesn't scupper my plans, I will be that journalist, or one of them, after arrival in Lanzarote tomorrow morning. I'm writing a piece for Huck on Tila, the interesting dude at the helm of Stayecochic, and will doubtless pen one or two other things, too.

My lad Harry will also be behaving journalistically, writing a Grom's Eye View of the Lanzarote surf scene for The Twisted Pilot.

The mention of surf is, of course, problematic. A long time ago I windsurfed a lot in Fuerteventura, dislocating my right shoulder near Lobos, but since then have not made it back to the Canaries. In the meantime, talk of great waves like La Santa has come my way from many people. Now that I'm finally going to make it over there again, my neck is still not quite up to paddling out.

Will I therefore be hideously frustrated as I'm relegated beachside, consigned merely to stand and watch as Harry gets wave after wave? Perhaps. But probably not. I'm stoked to be heading abroad for some sun after a tricky seven or eight months. My health is very much on the up and a week in Lanzarote is just what the doctor ordered. Well, not literally, because doctors, in my experience (which is plentiful), confine themselves to medical matters rather than urging patients to travel overseas, but you know what I mean.

Stoked, therefore, I'm off. This blog should appear pretty much daily while I'm away, so check it out for a bit more on the Lanzarote scene. 

Image courtesy of Zee Jones.

The Evening in Them

This bizarre freelance life of mine sees me soon to set forth for the gilded pavements of London. Once there, I will be checking out Gilad Atzmon, a somewhat controversial sax player, for Huck magazine and then attending the Theatre of Dreams, i.e., Loftus Road, where my beloved QPR - a team often cited in the same sentence as the likes of Real Madrid and Barcelona, but only by me, and for no real reason - will be playing Newcastle Utd in the last game of a season which has seen us strive first for glory, then ignominy, before settling for the meaninglessness of mid-table mediocrity. Then it'll be westward once again, but before I go let me commend a show here in Penzance. I was at its private view last night and it's excellent. What could it be?

OK, I'm a little biased. But The Evening in Them is the title of new artwork by my wife, Karen. It's at Cornwall Contemporary until 26 May. I think the 10 or so paintings there are Karen's best yet, but then again, I might be a little biased. I also think everyone should get along and buy one, but then again, aside from being a comment prompted from barely hidden well-springs of bias, if this happened it would have a downside, because all the paintings would be sold and there'd be nothing for the rest of everyone to have a look at. So maybe I'll just stick with saying that if you like abstract art, Cornwall Contemporary over the next three or four weeks is the place for you.

Right, off I go. To absurdity, and beyond. The painting below is by Karen and is called Nanjizal Rockpool.