Its Friday, I'm on the train to Manchester happy about my destination, less so about the journey. As the train pierces through the countryside I see the Moors out my window, the dying bracken enclosed by the rich blue autumn sky and the rich green pastures that cover the ground. I know in a few hours I'll be passing through the Pennines. Oh to be on the grit or sandstone on a day like today with skin hardened from the cold and spirits lifted by the sun.
The recent memory of last nights climbing at Clemitts offers brief respite from the drudgery of the train. A glorious evening with the dying light laced with the smoke of the heather that burns so violently on the horizon. But I look back down and I'm on the train, I hear the drunken voices of teenagers heading to York for the sole purpose of drinking. What a use of day like this. Still I'm on a train throwing away one of the few perfect days you have in a British autumn.
But the goal is justified I'm heading to Manchester to drive to Wales with my University Mountaineering Club, a good reason I'm sure but it still feels like a wasted day. I wish I was out. I suppose this is what it'd like to have a job. Sitting all day, just sitting slowly aging. Whilst the golden opportunity slips away and the dream of climbing on a crisp sunny day becomes that a dream, a wistful myth of the days that could have been. Oh to feel the bite of the grit or sandstone. Oh to be bouldering, tradding or walking. Oh to be out
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