The night before, the rescue helicopter had taken two people off the route next to the one we were looking up at – they had taken more than ten hours to get to the top and couldn’t get down after night had fallen. That was a mammoth 12 pitch, 400m route to the top of La Taillante (3,185m) and one my friend Iga had just told me we’d try tomorrow. Umm, okay. I’d only ever climbed once before on rocks, a small 2 pitch climb just outside Marseille the year before.

Our route today was a 5 pitch, 200m route up a beautiful slab of polished schist rock. It looked stunning, as did the view sweeping down the valley over lakes and far away peaks. It was wild and really felt like we were deep in the mountains. It was late, having only arrived into Briançon that morning on the night train from Sheffield, via Paris – then we’d wasted time finding the correct start to the climb. It was already after 2pm and there was a risk we would become the second casualty of the rescue helicopter if we didn’t climb quickly. No pressure.

The train journey had been wonderful. Three trains to travel more than 1500km in just over 18 hours, arriving in the morning after a spectacular journey through the Alps in an overnight sleeper train. Around the same price as flying, with less connections and far fewer emissions and hours awake; it was how all travel should be. My face had been pressed up against the window the last few hours of the journey in the narrow corridor next to the sleeping berths, taking in the changing scenery, the people rushing up to grab loved ones as they got off at stations along the route; with the hypnotic background sound of the rolling wheels on the rails bringing the romantic feeling of travels past to mind. 

The journey had seemingly prepared my soul for the climb ahead, setting off confidently on the first pitch after belaying my friend up first. Our 50m rope was long enough for all the pitches except one of 55m which would involve some ingenuity – we would take it in turns to belay each other, then swap around after each pitch, carefully changing equipment on the rock face. We had two friends who were climbing the route slowly ahead of us which lead to the strangely abstract phenomenon of congestion on a steep rock face. Waiting for the route ahead to clear whilst balancing awkwardly on the tip of one foot was slowly seeping my confidence, strength and willpower in not shouting ‘hurry up – it’s getting dark soon’.   

Cresting the final rock was a wonderful moment when adrenalin gave way to exhaustion after more than 3 hours on the face. I’d made it! The trek back was an otherworldly journey of daydreaming as dusk came, broken only by a large herd of ibex charging by. Sleep in the tent that night came quick as brains went into comas.

Rain had come that night while in the tent, falling as snow to as low as 2500m; unusual in the middle of summer. That scrapped the chance to climb the much longer 12 pitch climb as snow now covered the mountain. I was strangely relieved whist simultaneously craving the challenge. After mental and physical rest in the coming days, the climb was remembered as a wondrous experience, pushing my boundaries and experience far in one day. A short trek in the snow followed by a spa day and learning to sail a catamaran on a large sunny lake far down the valley had been rejuvenating – being shown how to dance the boat across the lake at speed in tight zigzags was both exhilarating and mesmerising.