You can catch me today at Darlene’s fab blog, Finding The Write Words, talking about inspiration and characters, among other things.  Go read, comment, join in, enjoy….

Day Five – Family Voices, or, Today We Will Be Mostly Saying, “Argh!”

Today I’m participating in a mass blogging! WOW! Women on Writing has gathered a group of blogging buddies to write about family relationships. Why family relationships? We’re celebrating the release of Therese Walsh’s debut novel today. The Last Will of Moira Leahy (Random House, October 13, 2009) is about a mysterious journey that helps a woman learn more about herself and her twin, whom she lost they were teenagers. Visit the Muffin (on the 13th) to read what Therese has to say about family relationships and view the list of all my blogging buddies. And make sure you visit www.theresewalsh.com to find out more about the author.

Day Five:-  Logan Botanic Garden

Hobble:-  2 miles
Words:- 4,386
Food:-  jacket tattie and beans
Soundtrack:-  Moby again.

Today is a day of screams and grunts.  I am very stiff, and very tired.  I thought it would be my ankles and knees that were protesting today, afterall, my left knee felt like a spit-roasted melon last night: hot, swollen and knifed.

But no.  No, today it’s all about the big muscles in the front of the thighs.  Crouching down to pick something up requires a handhold.  There is a distinct delay between the nervous impulse to stand, and the actual movement of muscle to obey….

I am blistered, too, sadly.  I always think of a blister on a hill walk as a sign that I’ve failed, somehow, that my boot-and-foot management didn’t pass muster.  Dad would be tutting and shaking his head.  But the sad fact is I have lovely feet, tractable, behaving themselves, reasonably attractive, reliable feet – right up to the point I put them in walking boots.  Walking sandals, yes.  Approach shoes (fusion boot/trainer footwear) definitely.  Boots, oh no.  I have this recurrent problem of the tendons under my left toes cramping.  It’s agonising and really difficult to manage or prevent. 

I’ve found that if I use good quality (sorbothane, how we love thee) insoles, and DON’T use thick socks, this is minimised, and only really turns up when I start to get dehydrated.  BUT the thinner socks don’t provide enough protection for my heels and I get blisters.  Compeed is good, and keeps me going a few more miles, but Compeed does not like, no sireee, he does not like, the soaking the feet in peat bogs approach.  Alas.

So, stiffness, a blister or two, and a couple of bruises.  Not bad, really.  Considering.*

The thought of staying in the cottage and slowly sitffening up all day had me out and on the road shortly after breakfast.  I’ve headed for the Logan Botanic Garden, one of the most important gardens in the UK.

And, even thought I’m holidaying alone, I’ve brought my family with me.

Yesterday I had Dad on my shoulder whispering encouragement and instruction.  He taught me about walking (and running – he used to do fell running, jogging up and down mountains we’d struggle to walk up and down) and climbing in the hills.  He taught me how to pick my footing, to take little, fast steps on ascent, and know where my feet would land two or three steps ahead on descent.  He taught me to place my foot sideways on steep, uncertain terrain, how to recognise the safe and the unsafe.  It was Dad showed me how to read a map and use a compass – when I refresh myself on these skills before a walk, I can almost see his hands in front of me, smoothing the map and following the contour lines.  Dad’s voice, and his teachings, are with me every day in the mountains, even though he can’t be with us anymore in the flesh. 

But that was yesterday.  And today the voice on my shoulder is Mum’s.

Dad taught me to walk safely.  Mum told me it was the little yellow blooms of tormentil and the fire spikes of bog asphodel I was treading on.  Dad showed me where bogs were treacherous, Mum showed me the insect eating plants that grew there – the little green fly-papers of butterwort, the misty red tentacles of the tiny sundew.  I give my respects to the birch and the rowan, the sedge and the lady’s smock, calling them by name because Mum introduced us.

Now, today, I’m conscious that I’m in a place that would give Mum as much pleasure as it’s giving me.  I’ve only been as far as the entrance, the ticket office, and the coffee shop (hazelnut cappuccino!  And it’s good!) but already I’ve had three, “oooh, Mum you have to see this moments.”  I don’t have Mum’s botanic knowledge.  I only know that she’d be intrigued by the double nasturtiums, awed by the flowering cordeline, and knocked out by the big house-leek-on-stalk-type things in purple.  (Mum?  What are they called again?)

EDIT – Mum says they’re eoniums!  Thanks Mum!

See, I said I didn’t have the botanic knowledge….

I’m taking lots of pictures, and thinking about how to get them to her.

I like holidaying alone, just once in a while.  But I love that my family comes too, all the time. 

*Actually, pretty awful.  By the evening I was snivelling.  It never ceases to amaze me how far we can actually make a body perform beyond its comfort zone.  Ow.

By Therese Walsh

A LOST SHADOW
Moira Leahy struggled growing up in her prodigious twin’s shadow; Maeve was always more talented, more daring, more fun. In the autumn of the girls’ sixteenth year, a secret love tempted Moira, allowing her to have her own taste of adventure, but it also damaged the intimate, intuitive relationship she’d always shared with her sister. Though Moira’s adolescent struggles came to a tragic end nearly a decade ago, her brief flirtation with independence will haunt her sister for years to come.

A LONE WOMAN
When Maeve Leahy lost her twin, she left home and buried her fun-loving spirit to become a workaholic professor of languages at a small college in upstate New York. She lives a solitary life now, controlling what she can and ignoring the rest–the recurring nightmares, hallucinations about a child with red hair, the unquiet sounds in her mind, her reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t help that her mother avoids her, her best friend questions her sanity, and her not-quite boyfriend has left the country. But at least her life is ordered. Exactly how she wants it.

A SHARED PAST
Until one night at an auction when Maeve wins a keris, a Javanese dagger that reminds her of her lost youth, and happier days playing pirates with Moira in their father’s boat. Days later, a book on weaponry is nailed to her office door, followed by anonymous notes, including one that invites her to Rome to learn more about the blade and its legendary properties. Opening her heart and mind to possibility, Maeve accepts the invitation, and with it, a window into her past. Ultimately she will revisit the tragic November night that shaped her and Moira’s destinies, and learn that nothing can be taken at face value, as one sister emerges whole and the other’s score is finally settled.

Note: To read reviews about The Last Will of Moira Leahy, please visit Therese’s website: http://theresewalsh.com/News_Reviews/news_reviews.html

 About the author, Therese Walsh:

Therese is the co-founder of Writer Unboxed, a blog for writers about the craft and business of genre fiction. Before turning to fiction, she was a researcher and writer for Prevention magazine, and then a freelance writer. She’s had hundreds of articles on nutrition and fitness published in consumer magazines and online.

She has a master’s degree in psychology.

Aside from writing, Therese’s favorite things include music, art, crab legs, Whose Line is it Anyway?, dark chocolate, photography, unique movies and novels, people watching, strong Irish tea, and spending time with her husband, two kids and their bouncy Jack Russell.

Therese’s website: http://theresewalsh.com
Therese’s blog: http://theresewalsh.com/blog.html
Writer Unboxed: http://www.writerunboxed.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/ThereseWalsh
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/therese.walsh  

THERESE!  Many, many congratulations on the release of your debut novel, The Last Will of Moira Leahy!  It’s been a honour seeing its journey. 

I seem to have missed journalling day three, and I can barely remember what the day held, so I’ll skip ahead to day four, which is much more interesting… 

The Merrick is Mine – Climbing The Merrick via Benyellary; descent via Loch Enoch, Loch Valley.
Walk:- 11 miles and 3,000 feet ascent.
Words/Research:- 0
Food:- chinese takeaway.  I caved.
Soundtrack:-  Kate Bush

Oh, I had SUCH fun today.

Fun in a oh-god-make-it-stop kind of way.  Like being tickled but with less laughter and more groans.

I love hill walking.  It’s a symphony of little pains and niggles, and some big ones.   There’s rain and sweat and bog water, bugs and gusting wind and cloud.  I don’t walk up mountains for the view, although when I get it, it takes my breath away.  I don’t walk up mountains to ‘conquer’ them – what an egotistical illusion that is.  The mountains can, and will, wipe you out in a blink of an eye, and it’s a privilege to be among them.  Every moment you spend in their company is a gift from them to you.   I think I walk up mountains to challenge myself.  When I walk alone, I’m always just a little bit scared.  It’s my do-something-every-day-that-scares-you contribution.

By the way, if you ever hear a Red Deer stag, in the flesh, roaring out across the valley, you will a) nearly wet yourself and b) wonder how the offspring of a minotaur and a lion got onto a Scottish hillside.  Really.  Viscerally arresting.  Yikes.

Today was a good one.  Partly because I felt like it was just me and the mountain, the whole time.  I walked from 7.30am to 3pm, and didn’t meet another soul until I was within spitting distance of the car again.  Partly because the cloud came down, and I had to be careful and sensible and pay attention to map and compass. 

The summit, in cloud. 

The solitude was starting to get to me, though – I know this because firstly I was talking to myself a lot and secondly I was inordinately disappointed when the sheep ahead I was looking forward to saying hello to turned out to be a rock.

Partly it was good because I took a route down that was off the path, and needed decent navigation skills, but mostly because I couldn’t believe how much my, let’s face it, occasionally malfunctioning body could take, and still deliver the goods.

It wasn’t really about the distance, although 10 miles is usually my comfort limit.  It wasn’t really about the ascent – The Merrick is a small mountain, really only a hill (I just like the word mountain) at 2,700 feet or so.  It was all about the terrain.  That off-path descent was bloody hard work.  Bogs, crags, steep grassland, heather and scrub.  And that distinctly evil walking surface – tussocks.  And I mean knee-high tussocks, where you can’t step on the top because it tips over, and you treading inbetween is a journey into the unknown, that could (and several times did) drop your unsuspecting foot into a chasm between granite boulders, or into a boggy sink hole.  I turned my ankle within an hour of starting down, muttered to myself, “you can’t afford to do that too many times,” and then proceeded to do it five more times in three hours.

The cloud lifts for a second, and you get a glimpse of the lochs you’ll pass on the way down. 

Usually, I descend far faster than I go up.  At least twice as fast.  I started at 7.30am, got to the top about 10.45am, left the top at 11:55….. And got back to the car at 2:54pm.  The last two miles took two hours.  Even when I got back to a path (of sorts) I couldn’t make much headway in slippy boggy patches, worn away sections and narrow, ankle-breaking rocky gaps.  I fell over three times.  Twice in grass, converting a trip into a controlled bum-slide.  And once, in true slapstick fashion, stepping out onto a sandy-muddy flat spot at speed, and finding that contrary to every visual clue, it was liquid and not solid.  I catapulted myself forward as soon as my feet felt the difference, went in up to my knees, but fell forward straight out again, and spent the next two minutes on hands and knees thinking how comfortable it was down there, and shouldn’t I get up now.

Heading for Loch Enoch.  Just a bit steep. 

Even then, I was conscious that I had more energy, if I needed it.  I was capable of farther, more, longer.  I was concerned about my knees and ankles, because they were starting to get shaky, but I wasn’t truly tired.  Health wise, I’ve had a dodgy year or two.  I can’t tell you how triumphant I felt, standing by the car in the rain, breathing hard after the last quarter mile ascent AT SPEED, and feeling wrecked, pained, tired, but absolutely certain that if I had to, I could do more.

That felt so GOOD.

I don’t walk up hills to conquer them.  But perhaps I do it to conquer the mountains in me.