The name of the hill that calls. Books and outdoor destiny.

I remember a story in MBUK or another Mountain bike magazine in which Olly Beckinsale, British Olympic standard xc biker had his psychological profile partially appraised by his girlfriend. Apparently you can tell a lot about a man by his DVD collection. Um. This leads me by outdoor sport association here to suggest that you can also tell a lot about a person by their library. Here in front of me I have a lovely copy of Dolomites East and West. I did for a while have Mont Blanc the finest fifty in glossy hardback, a sort of modern version of Thierry Henri and Gaston Rebuffat "The Mont Blanc Massif, The Hundred finest routes". I feel a bit like I gave away a serious dream by selling it barely reading it, but so is reading. It can actually determine you as you are in part what you know and reading choices are important as a result if they fire the imagination. Alpine glossies often return the images of Les Drus. This peak is not climbed the same way by many sane people anymore anyway due to so much rockfall yet still seems the raw symbolic literary summit of alpine ambition. As it happens I have "On the Heights" by Walter Bonatti which kind of covers that obsession as his name stands as the most reknown route, except that it is in Italian. This too which does explain more about me but is complicated because it does not genuinely mean I can read Italian though I do believe my basic level is there. I have taken the foot off the pedal of my life in order to read and learn languages despite how it has cast me aside.

I think for languages in Britain the learning culture of respect and handed down knowledge is inadequate. I have done a lot on my own. There is a very knowing look you get when discussing French and Italian in Britain. How much and how useful? Really? We all do it the same way you know when certainly those who wish to get ahead cannot do this? Visting and having contacts and holidays, the language part is easily forgotten or swamped by jealously guards over the language skills not mastered by the patrons. This is a new type of book display in a new room or even a different house really to the highstreet or most homes I vist and not of interest. But it has a thousand leads all the same and took me twice to the city of books in France, Montmorrilon.

Books connect to a handed down culture of data, ideas and passions that can be shared and make a living for writers, journalists and readers too. You can be in a hundred places in a few pages talking to people who you would never otherwise have even heard of. What is on the shelf is a good sign of a life of passion and interest but it is more than that. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder it is something shared and can be done consciously or in a fastidiously personal manner. The real thing here is that the community of books is a very large and diverse one. It guides and exists and makes new directions and reflections creating more and more possibilities that regularly someone has published in that field or subgenre. I am often reminded how to sit in a guesthouse full of magnificent books once took away the pain of only passing through La Palud by the climbing fantasy area of gorges du Verdon. It made a cursory look around a village campsite, the unintentional brazen shameful spit at its threadbare uncomfortable appearance less guilty. The comfort was magnificent. I needed that so much as was tired and disorientated. Geology is so important and there were books with knowledge of ancient and recent peoples living as cliff dwellers in the limestone. I maybe should have been wild camping or in the village square but my motivation was cultural; the human settlement I was biking through and the to touch the walls closer I could read books. Writer's lend a home to the reader but the dust bowl of a spaghetti western outside in the square would I think have better suited the DVD crew (not to say they exclusively don't read books aswell ). To escape their padded living room of film and books the romance of the climbing holiday needed no luxury. They also had strength and purpose and had planned in advance mostly making reading now a waste of time. As my existence had become deadly isolated, no home looked likely except where I had left off. This other connection of rooms and villages of literature were closer to the mental space I was living in. It had been hoped via another job or opportunity to become more European and experienced in working and travelling. Instead I was picking out the trail ahead, had a map and guide based upon daily distance but culture was an avalanche that I could barely afford the time to absorb. No opportunities were apparent. In fact still only last year I was still being ousted from jobs. Due to not being aware of my good fortune and other hungry mouths it has never ended whence it did start my loose connection with the material world. To read is to enjoy and create new worlds, quite often necessarily better ones. Facts abound for the curious to appreciate in the networks of interconnected book .

Books connect to a handed down culture of data, ideas and passions that can be shared and make a living for writers, journalists and readers too. You can be in a hundred places in a few pages talking to people who you would never otherwise have even heard of. What is on the shelf is a good sign of a life of passion and interest but it is more than that. As beauty is in the eye of the beholder it is something shared and can be done consciously or in a fastidiously personal manner. The real thing here is that the community of books is a very large and diverse one. It guides and exists and makes new directions and reflections creating more and more possibilities that regularly someone has published in that field or subgenre. I am often reminded how to sit in a guesthouse full of magnificent books once took away the pain of only passing through La Palud by the climbing fantasy area of gorges du Verdon. It made a cursory look around a village campsite, the unintentional brazen shameful spit at its threadbare uncomfortable appearance less guilty. The comfort was magnificent. I needed that so much as was tired and disorientated. Geology is so important and there were books with knowledge of ancient and recent peoples living as cliff dwellers in the limestone. I maybe should have been wild camping or in the village square but my motivation was cultural; the human settlement I was biking through and the to touch the walls closer I could read books. Writer's lend a home to the reader but the dust bowl of a spaghetti western outside in the square would I think have better suited the DVD crew (not to say they exclusively don't read books aswell ). To escape their padded living room of film and books the romance of the climbing holiday needed no luxury. They also had strength and purpose and had planned in advance mostly making reading now a waste of time. As my existence had become deadly isolated, no home looked likely except where I had left off. This other connection of rooms and villages of literature were closer to the mental space I was living in. It had been hoped via another job or opportunity to become more European and experienced in working and travelling. Instead I was picking out the trail ahead, had a map and guide based upon daily distance but culture was an avalanche that I could barely afford the time to absorb. No opportunities were apparent. In fact still only last year I was still being ousted from jobs. Due to not being aware of my good fortune and other hungry mouths it has never ended whence it did start my loose connection with the material world. To read is to enjoy and create new worlds, quite often necessarily better ones. Facts abound for the curious to appreciate in the networks of interconnected book .

The pages to my story in climbing are quite pronounced and dramatic. The road of travel has been too. They have as partners the large literary adventure press. The way is marked like on a map by references but the shelves are slightly different according to each mood and inclination. This genre is crowded with stunning images and serious physical endeavour, hard training and highly practical technical equipment. Is it close to action novels and thrillers for me? Well the links are too numerous to state and though the highways of books are not bricks and mortar they are true options for travel destinations and learning can change your destiny. They are factual and stamp the very ground you climb with names and history. By reading you connect to a culture that turns up in the pub or at the crag more than the regulars.

There are for climbing too many biographies and memoirs. They may have a strong cultural resonance but frequently are obviously more personal. Outdoor fiction is a loosely ascribed partner but it is not a strong market. However much you say you conquer a route it seems for writing in fact it conquers you. In a novel the before and after cannot be condensed appropriately into that climbing route so it seems to have been a misnomer to call something a climbing novel. We have dramatic scenes in certain films or novels, the best scenes even but it would be wrong to change the genre from thriller or action and adventure to cycling or climbing. The most appropriate book is a guidebook or magazine or a novel using a memoir format. There are great tales but often they draw us closer to the mountain or adventure and it is very difficult to be original. As we get closer the mountain gets bigger and it is like a memoir or a guide or account. I do think the "Flammes de Pierre" stands as an outstanding collection of stories however, also suiting the title mountaineering stories.

The book collector is a memoir collector is an adventure enthusiast and in fact and joins a large references source. In the lounge before a weekend away with a friend you can read about the place you are going. Publishing is a good source of support to the leisure industry and can be like a home away from home to a vast city.