Font Flashes

Font Flashes

This year, for the first time the words ‘font’ and ‘blog’ got mentioned in the same sentence. After repeated mentions, I realised that people were actually expecting some sort of write-up of this trip. It was 6 days though! I can’t remember everything, and even if I could it would end up dissertation-sized! So instead of a conventional day by day account, I am going to create collection of 'font flashes,' moments captured by photos, writing, poems and film about font, by myself and others. 

I will add to it over the next few days as people send me things and I write more, but here are a few to begin with.

Anything not otherwise stated is by myself :)

So it began..

It seems so long ago now that we were loading up the buses at 3.15am outside the Union, double-checking passports and trying not to tangle with any drunk students….

…in fact we had our own drunk student to deal with. #wynning!

We also had a Ross who blithely thought that the 3.00 departure time was in fact 3pm not am and as such had packed precisely nothing although luckily was still up reading  at 3am so Jim’s car could pick him up from his house!

 While we're on the subject, let's remember some other #wynning moments of the trip.

Is this really a Wynn for Adam (sorrynotsorry)

 Rab are trying out a new avenue of poster girls

Here is s short story from Emma, about the continued exploits of Maddy.

"Disclaimer: I'm not an alcoholic"
by Emma Yates

Having napped- Rab poster girl style- from the camp site until the first rest stop: McDonalds, at about 10.30 am, Maddy proceeded to line her stomach. Chicken nuggets, chips and a newly found French delicacy: chip sauce, would do it. It was a long journey ahead.

Jumping back into our van Maddy proclaims: “Ah, I might start on the beers! Paddy and I are going to do Port-to-Port on the ferry!”

Alas, due to our van missing the earlier ferry by seconds, Padaline’s plans of getting merry together for one last time on French soil were ruined.

Nevertheless, Maddy proceeded to drink several of her left-over beers from McDonalds to Calais. Of course this resulted in relentless giggling; general rowdiness and a full bladder.

“Hurry the fuck up!” shouted Maddy to the German car in front of us at the ferry terminal.

Seeing a group of school children hop off their coach and skip towards a building that may or may not have had access to a toilet, Maddy snarled: “I’ll piss on their heads!”

With no restrooms or bushes around, the rest of our van found Maddy’s predicament very amusing. However, once it transpired that we weren’t allowed on the earlier ferry with the rest of the group, Maddy spotted an opportunity. Running, like she’d never ran before, as though her life depended on it, Maddy found a bathroom.

Appreciating the comfort of an empty bladder, Maddy started on the wine. Although there were no glasses available for said classy escapade, she resourcefully used her empty beer bottles as containers.

Once on the ferry, Maddy handed out beer bottles of wine to each of us. Despite declining remarks she remained firm “well I’ll have it, just hold it for me.” Connor and Phoebe accepted theirs although Connor, having gagged at the taste, dutifully handed his back.

The ferry journey was pleasant. We found comfy seats; ate and played cards. Maddy drank.

As the ferry reached Dover, we all headed back to the van. First though, a quick trip to the loo.

In a cubicle opposite Maddy and Phoebe I heard Phoebe cry, “MADDY!...Was that you?!...Omg!” Amongst Maddy’s exclaims of “F**k!” and “S**t!”

I ask “What’s hap..” as the almost empty beer bottle rolls into my cubicle, spilling wine along the way. Maddy and Phoebe are now in hysterics, frantically trying to mop up the spilt red wine. Maddy later informed me that she had tried to balance the beer bottle on top of the toilet roll dispenser which obviously failed and covered the floor and both walls of her cubicle in red stains. She then frantically tried to clean the walls, leggings round her ankles.

Laughing, we exit our cubicles to be greeted by the scowling faces of teachers, accompanied by a group of traumatised young children. We promptly left, leaving puddles of red wine in our wake.

This is where Maddy’s recollection of the journey home pretty much ends. On the M25, in pain from a wisdom tooth with no pain killers to hand, Maddy used rum to numb the pain. Maddy then passed out, only to be revived by Adam’s voice informing University staff that we were returning a ULMC minibus.

Confused, Maddy said: “...What happened?!”

However Maddy has many strings to her bow and has recently added video-making to them: 

 

Unfortunately I am not telented enough to make blog spot do things it doesn't want to do. 'Video file too big' Help, what do I do?? 

French <3

We were indeed a grumpy bunch on the ferry, but soon cheered up when we reached the land of baguettes, wine, and saucisson. There was, of course, no racial prejudice or stereotyping abounding in our bus with Jack as the driver, cursing the ‘bloody French’ and their ‘stupid cross-road/roundabout things.’

Petrol Pump Shenanigans

Charlie and I ‘Englished’ really hard and successfully made massive idiots of ourselves at any available opportunity to interact with anything once in the land of France. Here is one of the more embarrassing moments.

We pulled up at a petrol station to fill up, and as we got out and faffed about putting trousers on (I was only wearing bright purple merino thermals for some reason) we looked over to the kiosk wondering why the women there was quite obviously having a quiet laugh at us. My leggings weren’t that funny…

When we couldn’t get any fuel out we realised the cause of her hilarity and Charlie dutifully, if somewhat sheepishly trotted off to pay her.

‘How much?’ The woman asked (she correctly assessed the extent of our French)

‘Full..?’ offered Charlie hopefully .

‘No.’

‘Ummm 80 Euro?’

Charlie came back and I spent the next 2 minutes holding the fuel nozzle handle down. Waiting.

Nothing.

Eventually, non-plussed we had to signal our incompetence to the woman again, whose amusement at our expense was steadily growing.

A few wiggles of the various nozzles later and the ‘Gazole’ was flowing.
‘Merci’ we called apologetically.

‘What if it stops at 70?’ Jack asked, still unclear why this weird French system was a good one.

We just leave, I’m not going in there again!’ replied Charlie.

Of course, it stopped at 69…I managed to get it to just over 70 but it wasn’t giving us anything more.

After much protestation and reluctance, Charlie had to get over her social anxiety and go back in and claim our unused 10 euros. She was not happy.

The woman was though and needless to say the rest of the bus thought it was hilarious! 

La Dalle a Poly 

Also  known as 'the cheese grater' this awesomely tall boulder strikes fear into the heart of the 

ardent boulderer who in fond of not scaring her or himself shitless - 'that's what trad is for!' 

La Dalle a Poly, a.k.a 'the cheese grater'  with Connor beneath for size.

We found this giant boulder on the last day and Jim, of course, led the charge! 

Connor, Sam, Charlie and I followed suit once convinced of the juggyness of the jugs. It was still a terrifying experience. Here is a very accurate breakdown of emtions experienced during the ascent by Sam:

Connor then gave us a verbal breakdown of the route which Charlie has made into a short video clip: 

 

Here are Connor and Jim looking colourful on the next door, harder problem.

 and someone is actually spotting in both of these..! 

Spotting... 

'The Story of Ross' is one that shall be told presently, but for now lets enjoy the poetic fruits that resulted from his unfortunate injury:

  For the Love of Bouldering 

by Ross Baxter

A guide to bouldering in Font: 

 1. Decide to get off your comfy-mat.

2. Prepare your extensive bouldering kit..

3. Get on rock.

4. Try and hold sloper...

5. Gurn as you fall off sloper..

  

6. Thowing a heel on might help..

 

7. Or just pull gurn- face some more..

 

8. Clean shit sloper..

 

9. Try really bloody hard..

10. Execute a mandatory alpine whale..

 

11. Enjoy a post-whale collapse while you contemplate the near death experience...

 

12. Conclude that you never should have got off that comfy-mat in the first place...

While the rest of us spent our time in Font, pottering around like this, for one man, Font represented one thing: the oppertunity to tick 7a. Here is Sam's account of events:

Steve Howie: Man on a mission.

by Sam N-E 

Anyone unlucky enough to have shared the company of the one man war on political correctness called Howie knows that the man is irreverent at best, outright scathing at worst, of the ULMC’s trad-climbing focus. Bouldering, with its much higher ‘mince’ factor, is his chosen domain. Balance, poise, and technique all matter little when you can lank your way up a little boulder, doing two moves where others suffer six. Says the man himself: ‘I don’t need technique, I have strength’.

After the 2015 Font trip, where he discovered that indoor grading may not be entirely in line with the real world, and leaving with substantially less skin than before, a dream was born.

Steve would climb f7A.

It seemed to me that any time I visited the Station in the past few months, Howie was there, attempting to tick every single hard problem, outraged when they were reset, elated when a circuit was ticked. V6 (f7A) and higher went smoothly indoors, but would that translate to Font, where grading is imaginary and designed to crush dreams?

It was a worrying start. Ultra-classic, ‘Le Toit du Cul du Chien’, wouldn’t go. A lack of flexibility thwarted an assault to the upper reaches. Howie left with his target frustratingly close. Further stress was provided by a horrifically blank wall at Apremont.

On the 23^rd March, I was pottering around La Roche aux Sabots, when I came across Howie, who had quietly wandered off at the start of the day. He’d found his line: Lime a Ongles (V6/7A). As I went around ticking off kinder problems, Howie was working on his moves, striving to unlock the sequence. The holds were desperate, the slopers at their most slopey.

And then that most Howie of climbing thoughts hit him: why not just dyno it? Minutes of launching himself up the line stretched on, until, finally:

“YES!”

It had happened.* Dreams do come true. And we all had to deal with an unbearably happy Howie, who now had evidence to back his claim to the title of ULMC wad.**

* This '7a' tick was later challenged by some Bristol climbers who claimed certain holds had been used which shouldn't have been. I actually don't know either way, I just enjoy trolling Howie and stiring the controversy pot a bit.

* *Jim would like to add this comment, reminding you all that: "the real ULMC wad (me) flashed the roof of steves dreams, La Toit du Cul du Chien''

 

Here he is... looking happy??

Now, on the subject of firsts at the grade, here is a short peice from Marie about another 'first.''

A first font 6a 

By Marie Julien

I know this is not the route but you look cool here!

It was the Wednesday, the last day. It also happened to be the late afternoon. My friend Johanna, had driven to see me and spend some time climbing with me. We were trying out a few problems here and there, a few easy slabs she’d manage to get up regardless of her shitty Decathlon shoes. We tried slab behind the 6a+ Charlie had been trying (and that others had managed to send). The slab was really easy, so we moved on to the one just to the left of that 6a+.

It didn’t seem to have any hard moves, and wasn’t really a problem, more of a scramble up the descent route. I initially tried it using the pinch and some pockets to the left. It was easy, I sent it on my first try. Pleased with my ascent, I then noticed that there actually was a problem (I think number 20) just to the right of where I had clambered up. So I called out to Jack and asked him what problem this was. It turned out there was a 6a problem which was pretty much exactly what I’d climbed (save for the fact that the left pocket was forbidden). This got me really psyched, I’d pretty much already done this problem, surely I could do it now! So I gave it a go. With Jack, Johanna, Ao-hin, and Tom Liddell there to cheer me on, I was sure I’d do it. But I didn’t. I lost my balance whilst trying to get my left foot up.

 I let the others have a go. Each of them, apart from Jack who’d wondered off, gave it a good go. After a while, it was my turn again and this time I was efficient and managed to get up over the mantle. I cautiously finished the top section and let out a small shout. My first font 6a..and it had felt so easy! What also felt awesome was the fact that two German dudes managed to top it out too thanks to the beta I gave them. It was a really great way to finish the trip and I was pretty happy. 

Happy top-out face. (Also not the route - I know!)

IT’S THE LITTLE DIFFERENCES
By Connor Ackroyd

Because I’m late to the party, many topics of discussion have been discussed, but the mysterious world of Carrefour has not. I’m the first person to call a spade a spade, it’s a thing, it does a job and it does the same job anywhere in the world in exactly the same way.  Just like a knife and fork. You would then assume that a supermarket, essentially a shed with food in it, would be the same anywhere in the world to.  But oh no, join me as we delve into the world of the weekly shop, Carrefour style.

                  Right, what is going on with the baskets? The handle was at stomach height and it had three wheels, clearly it was too grown up to be carried, but not big enough to be classed as a trolley, and as with all adolescents, you have absolutely no idea what to do with it. Pull it along? Or maybe give it a push? Either way was less than fluent and then, when it comes to unloading you’re forced to bend down to the floor in order to collect your shopping, unlike the conventional basket, which can be placed on the conveyor belt for easy depositing.

                  The next subtle difference is the ‘weigh before not after’ process of buying fruit and veg. You have to personally weigh and price up your own veg, how bizarre. Usually when I go into a shop the shopkeeper tells me how much I should pay, rather than me researching the RRP and then letting the shopkeeper know. On the other hand this way of doing things does provide the consumer with ample opportunities to ‘tinker’ with the scale, i.e. weigh 2 oranges, price it up, then throw 3 more into the bag. The problem is, you only get told the protocol when you’re at the till, fucking nightmare. Firstly there’s the kerfuffle of trying to work out what everyone is saying, that’s embarrassing enough, then you have to make a horrible split second decision: Sprint back and weigh your goods, keeping the whole queue waiting for the moronic Brit to fumble around with his veg whilst constantly saying “pardon” in a French accent; or just ditch the fruit and veg in a blind panic at the till, leading to many blank faces of fellow shoppers. Either option guarantees social chaos.

                  Oneof  my personal favourites however was taking a walk down the ‘world foods’ aisle. We had Italian, Chinese, Indian, Caribbean and then, at the bottom, a section of classic UK cuisine, it wasn’t the biggest shelf, but it was well stocked with, Patak’s Curry Paste, HP sauce, Scott’s Porridge Oats and Bovril. That did make me laugh.

 

        So that’s Carrefour, a wild world that fools you into a false sense of security, and then throws a curveball and leaves you with your pants well and truly down. It’s those little differences you get when shopping in another country that add to the whole experience. Perhaps it is for the reasons above, and probably many others too, that the shopping trips took so long. It’s would seem that in Carrefour times goes slower, some of those ’45 minute’ food stops were the longest in my life, weird…….