The Bleaus

Jeu de Toit 7A

Heat bakes down on our white backs, sun cream is forgotten. Hands are chalked, become sweaty and are chalked again. Feet are forced into tight rubber shoes, it's time for the game to begin. The rock is too hot, too smooth, too sharp, the feet are non existent. We rest too little between goes, sweating in the patches of sun that filter through the trees. Holds are brushed obsessively, becoming greasy again at first touch. Ragged breathing and the dull slap of skin on rock pierce the sleepy French afternoon. Curses rain down on the rock, the conditions, the state of skin. Tips of fingers are red raw with days on end of effort. Endless discussion breaks out: footholds, handholds and body position. Feet pop from tiny smears with a scraping sound that makes you wince, bodies flop inert onto crashpads. We are deep in the forest of Fontainebleau, where they've been playing like this since the nineteenth century.

As the day continues, the bitching flows steadily. Contrived sit-starts, pof using Bleausards, grades grades grades. Injuries to shoulders, elbows and fingers are discussed at length. Heels are removed from sweaty shoes, free at last. Dirt and grime collect on trousers and under fingernails. Sand sticks to sweaty limbs. Spotters murmur a low stream of encouragement to the climber, a throwaway remark causes spontaneous laughter. The climber falls, shrugs, and laughs. The mood lightens.    

Downtime

A breather: collapsing on the crashpad in the shade. Water is drunk, nobody drinks enough. Cream is belatedly applied to red shoulders. Baguettes and treats from the Patisserie are rapidly consumed. Still the discussion continues, guidebooks are scrutinised, scrapes and injuries compared. We lounge, waiting for our psyche to return.

Back at the camp-site the fire blazes, vast quantities of pasta, beer and wine. Laughing, joking and everywhere bouldering. 'Where are we going tomorrow?' debate ensues. Therapeutic homoeopathic vitamin E super-mega-balm is smeared on hands in the hope against hope that skin will somehow recover. Conversation meanders to projects, to famous boulders, and very occasionally to real life. Gradually sloping off to the tent, sleeping bags and oblivion. You never sleep this well at home.


Three days, one week, one year is never enough. For every boulder climbed there are many more regrets, things left undone. The holiday over, I limp back to Paris, every muscle in my body aching with fatigue. The forest shrinks, giving way to suburbs and housing estates. Sitting in the train, I glance down at my hands and realise that they are soaked in sweat.

I'll be back next year.

Jack preparing to leap on Sphincters Toniques 7A+