Carry on up The Devil's Crack (Fat Man's Agony)!

Our walking holiday on the Costa Blanca in Spain was booked before we sold the house. During the time it was on the market, we decided  we wouldn’t let the chance of a sale interfere with our other plans. If we had put our social life on hold we wouldn’t have gone to China or Argentina, had some fantastic walking holidays or enjoyed the many caravan breaks in France and Britain. I’m a fatalist, what will be, will be. If someone wanted to view the house while we were away, the agent handled it – that’s what they’re paid for. And that wouldn’t be possible with an Internet estate agency. So bear that in mind.

We hadn’t been having much luck since we started house hunting at the beginning of March, so we welcomed the opportunity to get away for a week in sunny Calpe. I’d arranged for the caravan to have its first annual service while we were there, and friends in Newton Le Willows had kindly offered to let us stay the night before we flew, and when we arrived back in England. Beth also did our washing and ironing, cooked us dinner (twice), gave us a home-made pie for our first meal back in the caravan, and a goody bag with some essential groceries, so we didn’t have to go shopping. With friends like that, who needs five star hotel accommodation?

Everything was set. There was one problem though. Linda’s twisted ankle was still far from right. Still, there was a heated swimming pool and Jacuzzi in the apartment block where we were staying. Maybe she would settle for a relaxing week? Maybe not.

Sea view from our apartment

Walking through the pretty valleys and up the rugged mountain sides of the Costa Blanca was something we had done a number of times. The holidays are run by two members of the rambling club. Jan and Phil’s organisational skills are matched only by their caring and inclusive attitude towards the walking wounded and the occasional awkward so and so. They went out of their way to make sure that Linda made the most of the holiday, despite her injury. In fact she took part in several of the walks, including a more strenuous one.

One of the  walks she did decline for the Jacuzzi involved a scramble up rocks then a squeeze through what is called ‘Fat Man’s Agony’. When it was described to us in the previous day’s briefing, it reminded me of another walk. That involved crawling along a natural tunnel through a mountain peak. Memories of that, and listening to Jan talk about the Fat Man’s Agony set my nerves jangling.

In the early years of Calpe, Phil had promised us one of the top walks in Spain; a climb up to the Sierra Bernia. When we were near the top, he had explained with relish, there was a fifty foot crawl through a tunnel to emerge on a plateau with eye-watering views.

Two years on a run he had promised us this amazing experience, and both times poor visibility had knocked it on the head.  The group’s disappointment was not shared by me. I felt a guilty sense of relief! I’m not happy in confined spaces, especially involving solid rock where it seems there is little chance of rescue.

The following year, the same promise was made. How delighted everyone seemed when on the morning of the walk, the weather was warm and dry with good visibility.

We started up the steep path to the Sierra Bernia, and as we approached the top, I was puzzled that those ahead of me seemed to have vanished. Then I saw why. They were disappearing into a small dark hole.

“Does anyone suffer from claustrophobia?” Phil asked cheerily, not expecting a response. I put my hand up. He tried to reassure me. “Once you’re inside you’ll see light at the end. You’ll have to take off your rucksack and crouch down though, maybe on all fours, there’s not much head room. But you’ll be fine...”

Looking happier than I felt...

I decided to take a deep breath and do it. As long as there was no one in front of me, and no one behind, I explained, so I wouldn’t feel trapped.

I did it. I did it again the following year. Now I was facing a new challenge: Fat Man’s Agony, or as some wag called it; ‘The Devil’s Crack’...

I voiced my fears to Linda. On the morning of the walk I phoned Phil and Jan’s apartment, and told them I was thinking of doing the less strenuous walk, that didn’t include Fat Man’s Agony. As I was one of the minibus drivers, my decision had a bearing on who my passengers would be. They reassured me it wasn’t that narrow, and I would be okay. Of concern to some people was the possibility of a fall. I said something like: “I don’t mind falling a hundred feet, but I draw the line at getting trapped between two slabs of rock!” I checked images of it online, and found one that showed an eight stone weakling squeezing through the rocks. I wasn’t reassured, but decided I would have a go.

'The Devil's Crack' at the top of the ridge...

As we approached on the path I could see Fat Man’s Agony high above us. It didn’t look that wide! To get to it involved a fairly difficult scramble up loose rocks that were sprinkled with snow and ice. I was ahead of Phil, and remember one final difficult climb where it was barely wide enough to get your foot in and then swing up.  I stood up and looked back at Phil, as it dawned on me. “Is this it?” I asked. He nodded. Fat Man’s Agony. It wasn't the ordeal I had imagined! And what a great sense of achievement as I climbed out the other side.

Looking back at Phil, it dawned on me. I was in The Devil's Crack!

So, what’s the moral of the story? Face your fears? Listen to expert advice? Don’t always assume the worst? Be prepared to have a go? Or how about: Don’t get fat and you’ll be able to squeeze past all of life’s obstacles...

Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

What estate agents don't want you to know!

We’ve been busy looking at houses. Yes – actually going out and looking, as opposed to virtual viewing on the Internet!  

Our intentions were to drive to a property and take a look at its location, and to see if it appeals ‘in the flesh’. If it passed, then we would contact the agent and arrange a viewing. But... So far none have passed the drive-by test, and when we’ve broken the rule and arranged a viewing because the property is too far away for just a drive-by – we’ve been disappointed.

Why is this? Is it because we’re ‘too fussy’, hard to please, as some of our friends and relatives have suggested? That unless it’s the most perfect property in the world, that ticks all the boxes (and more) and is at a bargain price, it doesn’t stand a cat in hells chance of even wetting our appetite? Well... I’m sure there’s some truth in it, but there’s another reason too: Estate agents don’t always present the truth.

Are we too fussy and hard to please?

We found a house on Rightmove that on the face of it was what we were looking for. It was a new-build, but constructed from old bricks and designed to look like a barn conversion, and was within our budget.  It was also empty, so we thought we drive over and have a look through the windows.

When we arrived there was a lady leaning on the five-bar gate at the top of the drive, looking suspiciously at us.

The number of times we’ve driven to an address, intending to park on the road while we take a leisurely look, only to find the owner in the garden glaring at us, suspecting we were casing the joint for a burglary! On this occasion we decided to bite the bullet and got out and said we were interested in the house. Mary agreed to show us around, as she was the owner.

It turned out to be a shared drive, and she lived adjacent to the property (not apparent on the promotional photographs), and half of the tarmacked parking area (which we assumed was for the new build) was for Mary and her visitors.  There was also an issue with the paddock at the bottom of the shared drive. The owner had applied to build bungalows on it, but the application had been turned down, but that didn’t mean a different, future, application might not be successful.

The worst omission was that in the field next to the house was a sewage works! Granted, most of it was hidden underground, but even so – the agent’s pictures had been carefully framed to hide it. And despite an assurance from Mary that it didn’t smell and there were no flies, you wouldn’t find out until the summer when you and your friends were sat outside cooking chicken on the barbecue.

Would there be flies and smells when barbecuing for friends?

If we’d known all this before venturing out, we wouldn’t have wasted our time. Obviously, vendors and agents want to present only the positives to encourage house hunters to go and see. But if you are tempted to view, you might feel you’ve been cheated.  So what’s the point, and how can you prevent it?

Street View can save you a lot of heartache. You can travel up and down the road where the property is located, do a 360 degree turn, all without leaving the comfort of your Alde heated caravan. Often it enables you to see the things the estate agent doesn’t want you to see. Street View has revealed to us nearby quarries, adjacent run-down farms, next door’s twenty foot Leylandii, over-shadowing factory units and busy roads within feet of the front door.

It does come with a caveat though. Some of those street views can be twenty years out of date. So the house you’re looking for, or the sewage works that’s there, can’t be seen, because they don’t yet exist. Same with the satellite view. Sometimes you’ve no alternative but to drive out and see things for yourself.

We did that the other day. In the photographs, the barn conversion we’d examined on Rightmove appeared to have a generous gravel drive. Just what we needed to park the caravan. When we got there, we found it was one of several properties set around a courtyard. The gravel ‘drive’ was a communal parking area. Not only was it unsuitable for the caravan, we could have our neighbours parking their vehicles right across the picture window!

The estate agents wide angle lens has a lot to answer for. It can make the frontage appear huge, with space to park several vehicles, and rooms big enough to host business conferences.

One other lesson we’ve learned, is read the agent’s description carefully. Often you can glean information by what they don’t say. Sometimes they don’t even state that a property is semi-detached, and carefully posed photographs make it hard to tell, so you might assume it is on its own.

Estate agents aren’t the enemy – but if you don’t want to waste your time and money on expensive fuel, you have to have to do your home-work and have your wits about you...

P.S. We're taking a break from house hunting, and are off to Spain for a walking holiday. Well, I'll be walking, Linda will be hobbling...

Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)

When they tried to throw us of our pitch!

You’re not going to believe this – but every word is true...                        

When we first arrived at the caravan site, the owner, Malcolm, warned us that he was fully booked for the Easter weekend, so come the end of March, we’d have to move off our hardstanding pitch onto the grass opposite for three nights.

We accepted this with good grace, although we didn’t relish the prospect. We were happy on our hardstanding pitch, immune to the wet weather, handy for the water tap, with fine views across the Cheshire countryside. And, even though the move was only thirty yards, it would mean taking down the awning, transporting its contents, and putting everything away inside the ‘van to prevent breakages during the short journey across the uneven ground. In short, a lot of work and bother just to move from one side of the small site to the other.

But we accepted we would have to do it, because that’s the sort of people we are; reasonable, fair and understanding. Secretly though, I was hoping it would snow on Good Friday, so they couldn’t get here, or they’d have a breakdown, or just cancel because the new grandchild had been born, or the dog had cut its head open and had to be taken to the vet, or they’d decided to go to Tenerife instead.

Whatever, but we would accept our fate.

We'd have to move of our hardstanding for some soggy grass...

I spoke to Malcolm a couple of days before about it, and he’d told me, “Yes, you’ll have to move, unfortunately, but if I can see a way around it, I’ll let you know.”

The weirdness began appropriately on the morning of Good Friday. Call it synchronicity if you like, although we didn’t realise this until later in the day. We got up, had breakfast, and come ten o’clock, were wondering when Malcolm was going to give us our marching orders, as we were hoping to go into town as there was jazz and blues artists playing in the pubs. I decided to go over to the office to find out.

I found Malcolm, and his thick black eye-brows rose when he saw me. “We were wondering what the position was, regarding us having to move.”

He checked the bookings’ ledger. “Yes, you’re going to definitely have to move onto the grass.”

My heart sank. As well as all the hassle, heavy rain was forecast later in the day. 

“You’ll definitely have to move,” he continued. “Definitely. Unless I can persuade one of the new arrivals to go onto the grass.”

My heart lifted, but not for long. “Obviously I won’t know until everyone’s here – so we’re talking this afternoon.”

“The earliest arrival time is 2pm,” I said gloomily, quoting from the website, thinking we’ll be hanging around for most of the day, then we’ll probably have to move after all. No jazz but plenty of blues.

“No, I think it’s twelve or one, maybe.”

That’s when I became aware of a chap standing in the doorway, because a voice said, “It’s definitely 2pm. It’s on a notice in big letters in the information room.”

Malcolm could be forgiven for the lapse of memory, as he had been busting a gut these last few days putting in a few extra hardstandings. Although not for us, apparently.

Malcolm seemed to soften. “There is a couple I’ve got in mind who I think I can persuade to pitch on the grass. I’ll tell you what, you can have a choice. You can either move now and then do something with the rest of the day, or you can leave the caravan where it is, go out, and I can ring you if I need your pitch, and they’ll just have to wait.”

I thanked Malcolm, and turned to leave, apologising to the chap in the doorway. He smiled. “It’s okay; I just wanted to know where the elsan emptying point is.” (Non-caravanners, don’t ask).

He got a lot more than that. In retrospect, I wondered how much of the conversation he had heard, and how much of it he had taken in...

We decided to leave the caravan in situ, and go into Nantwich for lunch and sample the entertainment. As Linda pointed out, “If we’re not here, it’s more likely the other people will go on the grass.”

After parking the car on the edge of the town, we set off, Linda (still) hobbling beside me with her walking stick. An amusing incident occurred as we approached the centre. She asked me how much money I was carrying. I took out my wallet and found almost two hundred pounds inside. She asked me for some of it, and as I was peeling off the notes and handing them over, a couple walked past and the man gave me a smile and a wink, like we were both members of a secret club.

There are two interpretations of his behaviour. The second one goes something like this: I know the feeling, mate. Handing over some of your hard earned cash to the missus so she can buy a new dress. Well, it keeps ‘em happy!

It’s sexist, and condescending – and if he knew the truth, completely wrong!  I told Linda, and we had a good laugh.

After shopping and some lunch, we settled down in one of the bars for some musical entertainment. It was a very talented acoustic duo called Toftie & Bennett, who played rock classics, including Floyd’s, Comfortably Numb!

It was during a break by the band, that a couple standing near us began to chat. “Aren’t you staying at Riverbank Touring Park?” the man asked. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. “Remember me? I was standing there when you were talking to Malcolm.” I nodded. Yeah, the man in the doorway listening to our conversation.

Toftie & Bennett were brill - but we had a secret agenda...

In retrospect I’m really pleased that he didn’t want to talk about it. It could have gone something like this: “What do you think of the band?”

Me: “They’re great, but really we’re hiding away for a couple of hours.”

Him: “Why’s that?”

Me: “We’re hoping if we’re not onsite, that couple who should be on our pitch, will get peed-off with waiting, and will just go on the grass.”

This would end with me smiling at how clever we were, and them joining in. Maybe not.

We went our separate ways, sampling the live music in some of the other bars and pubs. At about four o’clock we decided it would be safe to return to Riverbank. As we drove in there was a sense of relief. A caravan was pitched on the grass. We got out of the car at the same time the couple we’d been talking to in the pub were walking past. It was then I was so glad I’d kept my big mouth shut.

The chap who had heard my conversation with Malcolm was walking across the grass towards the new caravan. She stopped when she saw us.

“They’re our friends, she explained, pointing. “They’ve just arrived. Apparently they’ve been put on the grass, and they’re not happy at all!”

“Well, it’s only over the Easter weekend,” I said putting a positive spin on it. “And there’s no heavy rain forecast until tonight!”

I wondered if her husband would fess up to her about what he’d overheard that morning. More importantly, would he tell their friends?

We hurried into the ‘van, and pulled down the blinds.

(Read my novels; Stench of Evil https://goo.gl/VQOVuS and The Devil in Them https://goo.gl/aS1cjZ in ebook format and paperback...)