Australian Crawl in the English pool

England is exactly how we imagined it would be. Rolling green hills, windswept moors, craggy peaks, quaint villages, ruined castles, pubs on every corner and all-consuming grey clouds. It’s everything that they write about in the books. But nothing can prepare you for the ceaseless wet... Here’s how we handled it, April 2008 – May 2009.


Tiff and John in London
For the first time since leaving home, John was able to use his EU connections and boldly walk where many men had gone before him: through the ‘EU citizens - including Switzerland’ immigration line. Thus leaving Tiff in the shorter ‘All Other Passports’ line.

We were met in London by a friend from Australia, Stacey, who had been living in London for a year. She quickly realized that we were not in the English frame of mind when we asked her to please buy tube tickets for us as we didn’t know how to ask the station attendant for what we wanted. Adding to our confusion was the intense sense of multi-culturalism we were attacked by. We saw Indians, Africans, Asians, we saw black people, white people, fake tanned people. We had to check ourselves for we were feeling truly displaced and never entirely certain that we had gotten off the plane at the right stop. Australia is happily billed as a multi-cultural land, but England is in a totally different league.

Stacey’s advice for England – no one speaks English especially the English, (to prove this you just need to look at the pronunciation of such place names as Gloucester and Worcestershire). And it gets worse the further north you go.

Grammar seems arbitrary. The progressive tense doesn’t exist. It is, “I’ve been sat here all day,” instead of, “I’ve been sitting here all day.” Grrrrrr! Oh the Australian vs. English arguments we had on this point. Old Will Shakespeare would pack his bags for sure.

Stacey and Wes’ engagement party was difficult. In non-english-speaking countries whenever anyone spoke English they were usually speaking to us; so with multiple English conversations going on we thought they were all for us! After a year of teaching English, we also starting speaking in simple language, and had to resist the urge to correct grammar mistakes…

London greeted us with flowers, sunshine, green grass and animals in parks – is the big city really as bad as everyone makes it out to be? We questioned our desire to leave pretty London for the unknown north. Apparently we were being lulled into a false sense of fondness, duped by beautiful weather and the accompanying good-natured people. We were assured by Stacey that everything would return to normal soon. ‘Nah’ we thought…

We spent three days in the big city, setting up bank accounts and exploring. We had to check ourselves from speaking too loudly, remembering that now the surrounding people could understand us.

Tiff and John in Manchester

Manchester – our chosen base in England. Supposedly a modern city, recently re-developed, and just half an hour from the Peak District and England’s climbing scene. Also meant to yield a greater selection of jobs for both of us. It was meant to be a lot of things.

We spent three weeks in Hotel International, looking for jobs, going to interviews, and generally being frustrated with very little return for effort. Tiff got an administration job and we moved into a share house. John got a welding job. We lived among chavs (Aussie bogans).

The share house was crazy – a live-in obsessive compulsive landlord and two other young men, a stroppy spoilt cat and a psycho cat. When we went to inspect the house the psycho cat ran outside, hid under a car and the door slammed shut behind the landlord - locking his keys inside. We saw this as a good omen.

We bought our first international car, Pickles: a year 2000 five door Corsa with a huge 1.2L litre engine. A dead-sexy mustard-yellow, baby-poo smear gold colour with sporty sun-roof; a bit ironic in England. This car was built to cruise and pick up chicks, or groceries – one or the other. A handy hatchback to give us freedom. Oh yes! Not being on someone else’s schedule, timetable, stop plan. What a luxury!

We visited the local climbing gym and found an exclusive snobbish crowd. The staff told us that Manchester climbing was hip and trendy, while Sheffield was much more of a laid back Bohemian scene. When we visited Tom, a friend we’d made in Thailand, in Sheffield one weekend, we realized that comparatively, there was no climbing scene in Manchester, and Sheffield was it. We decided to move. The grass was definitely greener in Sheffield, but there is a reason for that, which we didn’t take into consideration just then…

Tiff and John in Sheffield

We decided to move once John had a permanent job in Sheffield, which we did, though the ‘permanent’ job lasted only 2.5 days. We were then living in a new sharehouse in Sheffield and jobless again (though this time we were sharing with a drunk Polish man and ham on the floor).

But jobs come and go in Sheffield as quickly as the weather changes, and by the next day John was employed again, and we had found a beautiful apartment of our own to move into. Things were looking up.

Tiff got a job. It’s too long and complicated to explain here, but she managed an office. And worked with a great group of people.

A smile from one beautiful girl at the climbing gym (Michelle) saw us sidle our way into the ‘it’ group in Sheffield climbing – ‘it’ being the Hathersage Massive. This initially consisted of Michelle, her brother, her boyfriend and Tiny Tom Frodo.

What followed was 12 months of several job changes for John, the monotony of work, the oppressive depression of the long dark winter, the sleepless nights of 10pm sun in summer (the only sun they get by the way), freezing cold indoor bouldering where you could see your breath steaming, and huddle in down jackets in between attempts.

Tiff and John in the Peak District

This amazing green belt of land, punctuated by dark thrusts of rough granite, and gently meandering sheep and cows, is a place we fell in love with. To be able to walk across lush moors, along paths lined with heather shrubs, to stare; with teeth gritted against the chill harsh wind, over valleys and into the horizon, was a joy beyond joys after the claustrophobia of Tokyo. This was also a time where we could don the running shoes. For John especially, this was a milestone in the ever-ongoing recovery from accidents past.

The Peak District was meant to be the heart of English climbing / bouldering, but we derived much more joy from running across the moors, up its tors and across its vales.

Oh and we finally understood why the grass is so green here. It rains. It rains and it rains and rains again just for good measure. And when you think you see the sun, it rains again just to make sure you’re really wet. But perhaps rain is too strong a word, because we like rain, as rain-deprived Aussies we like to see a good drop. But English ‘rain’ is altogether different. It is more of a persistent drizzle, which dampens, then soaks, relentlessly striving to piss you off and depress you over an unimaginably long time. Water torture, English water torture, that’s it.

But the funniest thing is how the English cope with said water torture. An indifference, an ambivalence, or a steadfast denial that anything untoward is coming from the sky. A classic example when at midday, after over night and continuous morning ‘rain’, the sun appeared. “Hark!” the English said, “Its dry! Perfect conditions for climbing! Lets go!” “Umm…” we said, “…but surely it will still be wet?” “Good lord, heavens no! Grit, god’s rock, dries ever so quickly!” So off they went, stoically striding through the ‘rain’ as it had started again, bouldering mats getting soggy, but their spirits never dampened as they reached the first of many sopping wet lines. Perhaps god’s rock needs a little more time, we thought, or maybe it’s like the belief in god itself, blind faith, and patience waiting for the miracle of sun to happen…

The climbing didn’t get much better. Needless to say we didn’t get much climbing outdoors done. The cantankerous rock thrives in winter when friction is good (apparently – it was way too cold for a pair of hot Aussies to find out). So day in day out we would watch armies of mad Englishmen march out onto the freezing, grey damp moors ready for a climb.

Oh and rope climbing on the ‘mighty’ Stanage and Burbage edge is a laughable affair. We had seen movies and photos of classic ultra hard stuff being done there. We were psyched. But seeing it for the first time we were more than a little confused as the height didn’t seem to break more than eight meters in most sections. Yet hordes of climbers approached the cliff with huge trad racks and double 60 meter ropes. Only to place one or two bits of gear while the other 52 meters of rope sat sluggishly untouched and coiled at the bottom. And then the higher, harder classic test pieces usually meant death if a climber took a fall as you could never protect it properly.

We never got our heads around the English approach to climbing. So we dreamt of the sweeping sport routes of Thailand and hoped that soon we would see good climbing again, and maybe sun. We like the sun, but could hardly remember what the warmth felt like…

Which of course meant that we spent a lot of time climbing indoors, bouldering in fact. Why bouldering? After Japan, bouldering was where the fun was at for us. In Japan it was fun, egoless, communal and supportive. In Sheffield it was more than a little different at first. Quite the opposite. Until you really got under the other climbers’ skin. Perhaps it is just an English trait. You have to work hard to be accepted, to become known, to break the ice, to learn understanding, and to finally reveal the warm and friendly side. And after all the hard work, we met and made friends that we would dearly miss.

We entered three competition series’ (four rounds each) in Sheffield and had fun being casual about it all. John placed top three in all three series, and Tiff would have too, had she not fallen 2.5m in the third last comp onto a straight arm (damaging her elbow). But they were super fun (and shockingly hard) and social, and that was the main thing.

Possibly the hardest part about living in England was the food. It was also the easiest part. The proliferation of great-tasting, easy-to-get in abundance food made eating a joy, and training a chore.

When we first arrived in Sheffield we were weak after four months of no climbing, but lean from the rigours of travelling. We started training (climbing, running and buying our own in-home weights set) and regained strength quickly. However, this also meant injuries abounded, and with the cold and rain, not as much incidental exercise as we were used to – the weight piled on! We found winter particularly difficult, when we left for and arrived home from work in the dark, and running outdoors became impossible as the freezing air hurt our lungs within seconds. Bits of our extremities even fell off – we think. Eventually we sucked up the money issues and joined a health club – for both our physical and mental wellbeing – and started swimming as well!!!

Climate change made itself felt in Sheffield in February, by dumping a whole heap of snow down on the Peak District and greens of Sheffield. Us visiting Aussies (enamoured of the novelty of snow) made the greatest use of this by sledding down steep hills on an improvised sled (bouldering mat covered in a tarpaulin – John’s put a patent on this). We managed to rope a few friends into doing the same, and ended up with a three-person team crumpling in a heap down a slope. What fun!

One reason we had decided to live and work in England was its proximity to the amazing climbing in Europe. We sampled the delights in Fontainebleau (France) and Chironico and Cresciano (Switzerland), bouldering meccas of Europe. It was a dream come true, both in a climbing sense, and to be in Europe proper for the first time.

Tiff and John in France

On the ferry from England to France, we recalled gazing wistfully at boarding charts in airports around Asia listing European destinations, and wondering how long we would have to wait to arrive there. Our first time driving on the right hand side of the road was interesting, but going back to the left was much more difficult. We were greeted in France with beautiful yellow autumn colours.

The boulders of Font were incredible – the formations surreal and fantastical. The style was unique, and just as we were leaving (after days of being sick in a caravan, rain bucketing down outside, and megatons of croissants consumed) we were just starting to get the hang of it.

On our visit to Font we had a day trip to Paris and walked hand in hand along the Seine, under the Eiffel Tower, around Notre Dame, along the Champs-Elysee and beside the Arc de Triomphe. We were also privileged to have a home-cooked dinner with Liz and Steve, some friends of Tiff’s family, who were living in Paris in an amazing apartment. Liz did some personality profiling and struck chords in both of us with her accuracy.

Tiff and John in Switzerland

Chironico was INCREDIBLE. We flew into Milan and hired a (left hand drive) car, taking us to a beautiful little Gite (holiday home) in the Swiss mountains. It was the first time that John had touched the soils of his ancestral home, though it was much more Italian than Swiss-German.

The climbing was amazing – there was snow on the ground and in the air, but we were still climbing in t-shirts in sunshine. Magical! The vistas were as picturesque as any postcard, and the problems actually had holds on them!!!!

Tiff and John’s Family in Sheffield

We had a brilliant visit from Tiff’s sister, Gemma, in July. She spent most of her time reading and running and sleeping while we worked, but having her there – a beloved face from home – made us both amazingly happy, and sadly melancholy. We visited Glen Nevis in Scotland for Stacey’s 30th, to hike Britain’s highest mountain (Ben Nevis, 1344m) and Gem did the hike too. We were SO proud of her!

We had a visit from Louisa (Tiff’s cousin) and her partner Jonathan, had lunch at our favourite Peaks 'gastropub'“The Fox House” and walked the windswept moors together…

Tiff’s dad (Tony) and partner (Jennie) also made their third appearance in the Tiff and John travel itinerary towards the end of our stay in Sheffield. This was handy as we needed help cleaning up the apartment when we moved out.

Tiff and John in the Bureaucracy of ‘Ol Mother England

It is hard, unnecessary, complicated and designed to cause as much frustration and confusion as possible.

Holding an Australian Drivers license is acceptable only for one year. At which point you must surrender it for a UK license. Upon doing so you are now considered a ‘new’ license holder and therefore inexperienced, and unable to do the things you have been allowed to do thus far. Idiotic.

One brain doesn’t know what the other hand is doing. Setting up utility accounts became a nightmare of competing companies, misplaced transfer requests, untended orders, cancelled and subsequently re-installed lines. Debt collectors searching for long past tenants unaware that there have been several new tenants and accounts.

But sometimes the total disarray of organisation can work in your favour. A year’s supply of electricity, free….

Tiff and John on Leaving…

But time moves as time does, and the seasons change as they must. For just as we seemed to be truly finding our feet and rhythm, it was time to move on - the main catalyst being Tiff’s working visa running out with zero practical way of extending it.

Saying goodbye to our dear friends, lifestyle, home and Pickles, was harder than we had anticipated, our heart-strings being well and truly yanked. But knowing that we would return in a few months did help to lessen the emotional blow.

One of our long standing dreams was to tour Europe in a van, to live the life of gypsy-ism. So we turned our attention and efforts towards facilitating that.

So we bought BOB. The Big Orange Beast. It’s a van, but not just any van. It is a van that eats most small cars for breakfast then consumes hundreds of miles in a skip. We insulated it, ply lined the interior and painted it warm terracotta (i.e. pink). She was ready to roll. Onwards to Europe and the next adventure…

In Summary

The steel city turned out to be steel-less, the famous English climbing scene was a wash-out, the pound lost value but the taxes didn’t, petrol prices went through the roof and our time in England was not as successful as we hoped it would be. We invested a lot of time, energy and money, and in the end we got very little return save for beautiful memories of sunny green fields and rolling hills; the first little lambs of the season; of the first snow in years; of the long monotonous dark, depressing days; of the faces of beautiful friends; and the not-so-nice people too. But such is the eclectic mix of any and every country we have set foot in.

*It’s funny that the sun only shines when you don’t want it to. Late at night when you are supposed to be asleep.

*To quote the words of a wise drunk Russian man: “Australia, good! (thumbs up) England Phhhht! (thumbs down)”

*To quote an outdoor clothes stall seller: “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.”

*To quote an English woman on holiday in Spain: “If it’s too hot, we can complain. If it’s too cold, we can complain. If it’s perfect, we can complain that it wasn’t like this yesterday.”

*To quote every international climber we met in Europe: “English climbing is shit – why’d you want to go there?”

*To quote an English climber in Spain: “Man, what the f**k are we doing living in England?”

*To quote a patriotic Englishman in England, quoting the Australian Prime Minister: “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” We left.

*Good friends are hard to come by and are priceless when you find them.

*Australians don’t know every fact about Australia for Pub Quiz purposes.

*Sydney is the biggest city by population in Australia. Who knew!?

*The Aussie sense of humour induces tumbleweed rolling, cricket chirping moments – i.e. dead silence and confused looks.

*Tiff found that Australian women make easy friends, from co-workers in Manchester (Emily), twin sisters (Amanda), peers in language classes (Brook) to employees you hire (Peta).

* A tea break is every five minutes.

*It’s tea time all the time.

*Would you like a cup of tea?

*The worst violence known to Brits is tea-throwing. How could you waste a good cup of tea like that!?!?! (Found in an article about river-punt operators. The rivalry is described through cutting boats in half, knife fights, and worst of all, hurling cups of tea.)