On the Ropes

The quiet reliance on those who matter, the courage to face the unknown, and the understanding that friendship, trust, and loyalty are the true measures of a life well-lived.

I have been quiet here lately. Mostly, I’ve been writing, keeping up with the daily word count for the memoir that’s been taking shape in my mind for years. I turned 60 a couple of weeks ago. There have been celebrations, laughter and wonderful dinners. Then there was the quiet weight of the milestone itself. Sixty. Somehow it lands you squarely in the centre of life. It’s a reckoning. I feel the spirit of a teenager in my bones, but it’s wrapped in the quiet wisdom of a man who’s lived. Nothing lofty, just simple experience. I have faltered and I have grown. There is a strange thrill in knowing that some of the lessons of the years behind you can actually guide the path ahead. I want to focus on what matters most now; the friendships, the adventures, the quiet victories.

Friendship has been on my mind. Since moving to New York just a few months ago, we have met some extraordinary people; warm, spontaneous, and genuinely present. Manhattan seems to encourage it: a chance encounter at a bookstore and suddenly you are having coffee with someone who, a few hours ago, was a stranger. But friendship isn’t just about hanging out; it’s also about trust. It’s knowing someone will hold your hand in the dark, be your steady companion, or hold the rope when you’re dangling in fear.

I didn’t have many friends when I was younger. School was hard. The way some boys made it clear I wasn’t welcome in their world. Bullies have a way of carving out your solitude for you. So I spent a lot of time alone, wandering the school grounds, finding corners where I did not have to watch my back. One afternoon, past a cluster of prefab sheds used for the outdoor clubs, I saw a teacher coiling a rope. Boys were carrying rucksacks, chattering quietly. “Mountaineering club,” he said when I asked, “You might want to come next week.”

I had always climbed. Walls, trees, rocks - anything vertical called to me. I remember a hill near the farm where I grew up in Scotland, a strange volcanic plug rising from soft lowlands. It was ancient, sacred even, once the stronghold of a forgotten tribe. I used to scramble over its sheer face in wellington boots, not a care in the world. Then one day, I saw two men I had only ever glimpsed in magazines standing by their car parked by the field - Chris Bonnington and Hamish MacInnes. I nearly fell backward. They were here, at my hill.

The climbing club felt like home immediately. We were a ragged bunch, not suitable for cadets, none of the prowess of athletes, just boys happy to test ourselves on the rock. The first outing was to a disused quarry. I remember the weight of the rope in my hands, the jingle of nuts and carabiners, like a workman with his tools. You start slowly: feeling the fibres of the rope, checking knots and sliding into the harness. Every piece of gear matters. It could save you. Climbing is meditation in motion. Like life, you need to go steady and slow. It is easy to get stuck at a point where you cannot find anywhere to protect yourself. There is a rule which is that you must always have three points of secure contact with the rock. Without two of your hands or feet holding well-judged positions, you are putting yourself and your partner at risk. One wrong handhold and gravity quickly reminds you of the mistake. The rock will not bend to your will.

That’s where I met Steve. He was bigger, steadier, someone who had my back before I even knew how to ask. We climbed together from day one. He taught me to focus and to trust. I remember leading a climb on some sea cliffs once, the tide curling around our feet. I was reckless, way too confident. Halfway up, a handhold slipped just out of reach, and panic squeezed my chest. “Just come down,” Steve shouted from below. His voice was calm and unwavering. Step by step, slowly I made it down. Then he led, and I followed after him. That day I learned that friendship isn’t spoken, something that comes from trust.

Not long ago, I climbed again for the first time in decades with Steve. Nervously tying on, checking my harness, and the tension in the rope. I looked at my old friend and grinned. “Climb when ready.” he said. Trust isn’t spoken, it’s earned, built in the spaces between breaths, in the fingers that grip the rock, in the eyes that meet yours when the world feels big.

My heart was beating pretty fast but my legs - still spidery - were sure. Climbing helped me to become a man. It shaped my body and stretched my limbs. More importantly, it shaped my understanding of loyalty, courage, and friendship. Steve was the first friend who truly had my back, and nearly fifty years later, he still does.

Now, at sixty, I carry that lesson forward. The quiet reliance on those who matter, the courage to face the unknown, and the understanding that friendship, trust, and loyalty are the true measures of a life well-lived.

I have changed the name of this substack publication to A Boy in the Kitchen - a room that has always been at the heart of my life, from the farmhouse where I grew up to the kitchens where I’ve cooked and learned and watched life happen since. Now in New York’s West Village, sitting at my kitchen table, this is where my stories, my reflections on life, and the beginnings of my memoir come together. And maybe even a dish or two.