by Sally Hyder
The rest of the day was relatively simple in terms of wheelchair access and very successful for shopping, too: I found a hat, bag and shoes and jewellery, all in the sales (Clara has an eye for a bargain). As usual, the counters were too high for me to reach and the pin machines couldn’t be tilted to facilitate my reading of the screen.
Clara spent the next two days sewing green beads into the necklace, earrings and handbag.
‘This way, we can tie your whole outfit together,’ she explained.
The great day arrived and it was sunny and warm. I spent the morning horizontal, resting so that I wasn’t too tired to enjoy the afternoon. How absurdly cool it felt to drive into a barricaded Holyrood Park, waved through by the police and escorted into a special area for disabled parking. Andrew and I joined the queue, presented our passes and proof of identity and then we were ushered in. The tea tent was stunning with beautiful floral displays; its theme was pink, so there were beautiful cakes and tarts, all pink, tiny sandwiches and large tea urns. The tea wasn’t very warm, though: tea from an urn is still the same, even from a gold-plated one! Like statues, the Royal Company of Archers stood to attention in their feathers throughout the proceedings, which unsettled Harmony, who began to growl. I gave her a reassuring cuddle.
Oh no, please don’t disgrace us now!
So there we were, Andrew and I, nibbling Victoria sponge and drinking (lukewarm) tea with Harmony by our side, watching the Queen chat to those lucky enough to have been plucked from the crowds when out he popped, the man in the top hat! And if he was the Mad Hatter, I must have been Alice.
‘Would you care to present your dog to the Queen?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes, please,’ I gasped. ‘And can I bring my husband?’
We were ushered through the thousand or so to the inner court, a grassy area where HM Queen Elizabeth stood in a dazzling lilac coat and hat, surrounded by courtiers minus her corgis. She certainly didn’t look her age, nor did she seem frail. I couldn’t curtsy, so I tipped my head. She smiled at me.
‘What’s her name?’ she asked.
‘Harmony.’
‘What does she do for you?’
‘She takes my laundry out of the washing machine …’
‘Can she undress you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s very tidy – she doesn’t leave the clothes on the floor. She puts them in my lap for me to put away.’
‘Why, every teenager in the country needs a Harmony,’ remarked the Queen.
I couldn’t have put it better myself.
The sun shone and I’d shared a joke with Her Majesty, who patted Harmony with a gloved hand. What a perfect day. Then, like Alice, I woke up …
Chapter 19
Tasting Freedom
Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in the British Isles. The first time I climbed it was with Andrew and his family just before he started a degree at Reading University. I was still training to be a nurse and I knew I would miss him, so we decided to mark the occasion with a climb. We descended using the so-called interesting shortcut that Andrew and his dad decided upon (Andrew never repeats a walk, it’s circular walks only for him). All I remember about the ascent was that it seemed endless: afterwards, we were so exhausted that we were too tired to eat the meal I’d prepared in the flat. I remember going to work the next day with chronic discomfort in my thighs and knees – that pain echoed the feeling in my heart as I began a new life in Edinburgh, alone and without Andrew.
If you’re a ropes-and-crampons climber, the main attraction of Ben Nevis is the 700-metre (2,290-feet) north-facing cliffs. The pony track is the easiest route up and was originally constructed to enable ponies to take supplies to the staff manning the Victorian observatory at the top. As you can imagine, it was the perfect spot for meteorology readings. Ben Nevis also plays its part in Scottish mythology but that’s another story.
Knowing my hill-climbing days were over, when did I decide to have another appointment with Scotland’s Everest? I’d have to be honest and say it was in response to a request from Canine Partners.
Here I need to rewind to one Monday morning in February when the phone rang.
‘Sally. Good morning, it’s Annemarie [the then Scottish fundraiser for Canine Partners] here. We’re organising a new press campaign for 2010 and would love to photograph you and Harmony. Can you think of somewhere iconic and Scottish?’
‘Lots of things come to mind. Can I have a think about it and get back to you?’ I asked.
Immediately, I set my mind to thinking about it. Edinburgh Castle? A bit obvious, perhaps. Scottish Parliament? Boring and ugly! Mountains, hills, lochs … Ben Nevis … How cool was that? A picture of Harmony and me at the top of Ben Nevis! I wish …
As soon as Ben Nevis crossed my radar, that was it: I began wondering if there was any way that Harmony and I could get to the top. I googled all-terrain vehicles before mentally discarding them all as unsuitable for what I had in mind.
In 2009, the NHS had reassessed me for an electric wheelchair. They tried hard to prove that I wasn’t sufficiently disabled to qualify but in the end I was deemed ‘bad enough’. After this, they were incredibly helpful and supportive: they allocated me a chair to accommodate my spasms and inability to sit up straight. I can tilt in space (i.e. I keep sitting) but the chair tilts backwards and so rather than recline (which stretches my legs and back), this keeps my legs bent in the normal sitting position but takes the pain out of my back and doesn’t put me in a spasm (which an ordinary recliner does). But, and it’s a very big but, the NHS outdoor wheelchair will only go on tarmac.
As I have already mentioned, my scooter took me to places it shouldn’t have done when I was out exercising Harmony, but I wanted more. Hurrah, I had found it! An off-road wheelchair that would endure 16 kilometres of rocky terrain to reach the summit and get me safely back again; it’s called the Boma and is made by Molten Rock, who are based in Milton Keynes (the chair was invented by sports enthusiast, Chris Swift, who has been a tetraplegic since the age of 19). It looked perfect; it looked fantastic! Orange, with thick mountain-bike tyres, the chair embodied the outdoor spirit of disabled people such as Chris and me.
Mountain bike-orientated technology means the Boma can go upstairs and downstairs (the website had pictures to prove it – it had been tested in Africa and the Alps). It’s portable and operates with handlebars similar to those of a motorbike. I read how someone had travelled all the way from East to West across England on a Boma. It looked like a cross between two mountain bikes put together and a go-kart. I wanted one: at the very least, I was eager to try one.
First of all, I had to ring Annemarie.
‘Hi, Sally here,’ I said. ‘So, OK, how about doing the photo-shoot at the top of Ben Nevis? I’m thinking that I could do it as a fundraiser for Canine Partners as well.’
At first, I was met by stunned silence at the other end.
‘Right. So, how are you going to do that?’ she eventually asked.
I explained about Molten Rock.
‘Just leave it to me,’ she said, and promptly rang Molten Rock and got through to Chris.
‘Don’t think of it as a wheelchair,’ advised Chris, after she had tracked him down. ‘Think of it as a four-wheel mountain bike.’
Chris couldn’t have been friendlier or more eager to help in any way he could. Indeed, he agreed to lend me a Boma for the climb itself and also for training. Two months later, Stuart (the company’s Scottish rep) brought one down. I felt like a pioneer – I’d never imagined it was possible to feel so brave and intrepid, to be in the position of taking a giant step for womankind. Indeed, I was grinning from ear to ear. I didn’t think of the Boma as a wheelchair; I didn’t have any of the residual sadness I feel when I’m getting into my regular wheelchair. Instead, as I lowered myself into the bucket seat with its low centre of gravity, I was mentally attaching the mountain bikes to the back of the car and taking off for a day’s adventuring! Stuart showed me how to use the contr
ols (basically the Boma is operated by two dry-cell batteries that sit in front). I got in and discovered that even the handlebars move to accommodate legs that can’t lift over, switched it on and off we went. Harmony had to trot to keep up with us.
‘It’s so comfy,’ I kept saying. ‘It’s so fast.’
In contrast to the jerky, stop-start experience of using a wheelchair, this was an incredibly smooth ride. I had an immediate sense of speed. Suddenly I could go anywhere, my horizons were no longer confined. I kicked it into full power and off I went.
Chris left it with us. Five days later, Andrew and I drove up into the Pentland Hills for the first time in almost a decade. It felt so good! Harmony took one look at me and came over as if to say: Shall we? I recognised the look in her eyes. Come on, I dare you – give it some Wellie! I opened the throttle and we flew around the field in ways I’d only ever dreamed of. Harmony ran with me, ears back, fur flying.
‘It’s just like the old days,’ said Andrew with a huge grin. ‘I’ve even got muddy boots!’
Melissa was on respite and so it was just the two of us, the hearty walkers of old. Life felt real: we weren’t on a disability track and I didn’t have to worry about tree roots or dropped kerbs. The wind was blowing and the air was fresh. We made our way along the road and then turned off onto the path beside a stream. The sun twinkled on the water like diamonds. Already, I was doing something my soul had been yearning for. We kept going: over the bridge, up the stone steps, up a steep incline and onto the hillside. I started squealing, it was scary.
But the Boma didn’t tilt: it careered across the uneven ground, with me in it. Harmony splashed in the stream and charged over the hill. She kept coming back to check I was OK. We approached the top but I wasn’t confident enough to try the really steep bit. I cut the engine and we sat in silence and looked out at the view.
A walker, coming from the opposite direction, stopped in his tracks and stared. There was a sharp intake of breath.
‘How the fuck did you get up here?’ he asked.
I laughed: it felt great to be part of the walking community again, to be back in the hills. I’d forgotten how many smiles and nods you get; how many people you meet with a common goal. We headed back down and stopped at the pub with our muddy dog. I had the best pint I’ve ever drunk: the sense of freedom and exhilaration was incredible. Harmony had spurred us on to this wonderful moment. Perhaps with the Boma I could once more see the top of a Munro?
This was what Harmony had given me: she had inspired me to start enjoying the outdoors again. Despite my accident in the woodlands earlier that year when I slipped on the ice, I felt safe wherever I went with Harmony by my side.
‘I think I might get my mountain bike out again,’ mused Andrew.
And it wasn’t just me who had Harmony to thank: the whole family’s spirit of adventure had been restored. The following weekend we drove to Glentress, a forest near Peebles in the south of Scotland. It was a place where we had often walked as a family and even held a birthday party for Peter there. Ten boys, each armed with a water pistol, battled in teams (refuelling at the Lochen). Happy memories! So back we went. The place has become a Mecca for mountain-bike riders – there are lots of mountain-bike trails. Andrew walked and I was in the Boma; we met bikers coming the other way, who were genuinely impressed by my vehicle.
‘Now that’s a cool piece of kit!’
I was thrilled. Not only was my disability invisible but now I was scoring brownie points for my kit, too. Way to go!
The July weekend of the trial run up Ben Nevis arrived. At the last minute Chris Swift and Jon, the company engineer, rang to say they couldn’t make it (Chris’s car was in the garage and Jon was overwhelmed with work). It was huge disappointment: I wanted them to see ‘the Ben’, as we call it here in Scotland, and meet Andrew but I knew how hard they work and what a mammoth undertaking it was, getting to Edinburgh. However, they sent spare batteries and fuses up on an overnight courier and Jon spoke to Andrew to explain how to change the fuses.
Preparations involved packing for an overnight stay and I had to make sure I had all Harmony’s gear and mine. Paramo, an outdoor gear company, lent me three pairs of amazing trousers plus jackets to keep me warm and dry. We (that’s me with Andrew, Peter, his girlfriend, Clara and Melissa) finally set off at 11am and arrived an hour late (caravans in Scotland in the summer, groan!). We travelled in two cars, as we also had the Boma. We arrived at the bunkhouse accommodation owned by Alan, the mountain guide we had engaged for the attempt (he’s a lovely man with a weather-beaten face and twinkling eyes). While hugely supportive of our expedition, he was also something of a doubting Thomas, though.
‘This is the machine, huh?’ He looked doubtfully over towards the Boma. ‘Are you happy to get on with it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, excited but nervous too.
‘Well, let’s go.’
We threw on our walking gear and followed Alan, who has lived in Fort William for 40 years. What he doesn’t know about Ben Nevis and the surrounding mountains can be written on a postage stamp (he also guides in the Alps and other mountains); we were hugely lucky to have him with his love for, and knowledge of, mountains. We drove to the base and parked by the Ben Nevis Inn, the main resting point after a walk. It’s s simple wooden structure with a ramp leading to the top floor, where the bar is located – now that’s what I call ‘access all areas’!
Jacqui, a local physiotherapist, and Stuart, the Scottish Boma rep, were waiting for us at the Inn.
‘I’m impressed by this machine,’ said Alan, who was obviously coming round to it, as Andrew and Stuart got talking about the Boma. Meanwhile, I had to curb my impatience: I wanted to get up that mountain.
‘Great day for it,’ continued Alan. ‘Unusually there is no rain. We were forecast gales and rain. We’re lucky – the weather’s on our side.’
Lucky indeed … Boots on, kit on. Off we went.
Even Melissa wanted to try walking some of the way. With her hand trustingly in Clara’s, she stepped onto her first mountain and up we went. Peter’s girlfriend had Harmony on the lead (the early part of the Ben is grazing and we didn’t want her to chase the sheep). Dogs should always be kept on the lead around sheep and I am sure that given the chance, Harmony – just like any other young dog – would succumb to temptation and enjoy chasing them. We came to our first obstacle: a stile with a locked gate to the side. Out I got and the team lifted the Boma over it. Peter hauled me over the stile as Alan remarked, ‘We’ll get the key to the gate for the ascent.’
‘Can someone make a note of that?’ I asked.
Off we went. (Note to self: When someone says there are great big boulders and stone steps to clamber over, don’t dismiss it. Believe them.)
‘Go for it!’ everyone said, and so I did and the Boma made it … so far.
We encountered the first of the drainage ditches designed to channel the water off the mountain and ensure the path doesn’t become eroded. These ditches have large slabs of rock either side with a 10-inch gap in the middle. Easy, I thought as I went whizzing over the gap. Then came the next slab.
‘Can’t I go round it?’ I asked Alan.
‘No,’ came his stern reply. ‘You must stick to the path!’
He was right, of course: only by sticking to the path will we conserve the Ben and its wilderness. This time we had someone behind me and someone else either side of me in case I tipped out. But I didn’t and so on we went. Each time we stopped, Melissa (still clutching her big sister’s hand) caught up with us. It was a miracle: she was climbing up and up until, as expected, eventually she had had enough and Clara kindly took her back down again. Unfortunately, Melissa slipped and fell, which resulted in Clara having to manage a panic attack. But she did it – well done, Big Sis!
My attempts to negotiate the difficult terrain made Harmony very uneasy, however: she was barking and whining. If she was off the lead, she was fine because she could stay near me. On the lead, it
was very hard for her. Every time we stopped, she came up to me as if to nag and grumble and checked me all over. It seemed to be easier if she was ahead so long as she knew I was OK and on my way.
We crossed more stone outcrops. This was not the smooth track of my childhood, or had I failed to notice the tricky bits when my legs were working? As we went up and over another outcrop, the steering twisted out of my hand. I banged a rear wheel on a rock, squashing Jacqui and Peter and running over Andrew’s foot. We came to a standstill. Well, that’s one way to end an expedition: knock everyone else off the mountain with your vehicle.
‘Is everyone OK?’ I asked.
There was a chorus of ayes, then on we went: I was getting higher and the houses were beginning to look tiny. For the first time in years, I was getting a view.
BANG!
‘Stop!’ everyone shouted. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Oh dear!’
Disaster, the rear wheel had come off. Stuart, who initially had no intention of coming up the mountain, was luckily on hand. Off I got with Harmony all over me: licking, checking that I was OK. Her concerns had been legitimate; she circled me with a look of pity and indignation: Now you’ve done it, Sally! You’ve really done something stupid, haven’t you? While emergency repairs were undertaken, I sat on the ground and gazed down on Glen Nevis: it looked so green and serene, the toy houses and cars blinking in the sun. Was this it? Would I have to call a halt to the Big Adventure?
‘That should do it,’ said Stuart.
The wheel went on, but we decided to descend: in total, we had covered under two kilometres. Although heartbroken and deeply disappointed, I was trying hard not to show how I felt. It was a quieter group on the way down: this time ropes were attached to the back of the Boma in case of emergency where it would be necessary to lower me down the rocky outcrops. The descent was well managed and we made fast progress, although the wheel once more came off.
Back at base, we marked the end of our trial run with a round of drinks at the Ben Nevis Inn. Jacqui’s little boy, who was only four, came up to meet us with his dad. He told us that his father looked after him when Mum was out at work.
