Church Tower Abseil

I hadn’t intended to take part.  It’s a mad way to raise funds and I hate heights anyway, so I planned to take pictures of those who were brave enough to attempt it.  But then I had reckoned without the atmosphere on the day.

The weather was perfect.  The 100ft-high medieval tower of All Saints Biddenden, Kent, was bathed in late summer sun.  There was not a breath of wind and all of nature, still green, seemed to cry out for celebration.  Among the onlookers, the tone was quietly jocular as the first batch of abseilers received their instructions.  Children played among the slanting grave stones, grown-ups rested their cameras on stone tablets where the dead were forgotten amid this profusion of colour and life.

As the morning wore on and triumphant abseilers, many of them novices, either stepped or sagged off the end of ropes, joining them became a matter of community spirit.  It looked easy too, I thought, as I watched the harnessed candidates crawl backwards down the wall like spiders: people of all shapes and sizes had succeeded.  If I didn’t try now I knew I would regret it.

At least that’s what I told myself as, duly trained, I stepped out onto the flat top of the tower.  The wind was no stronger up here but the sounds of people were much further; the tower exuded its own special tension.  Our mouths went dry and I began to wish there were a toilet nearby.  Jane, ahead of me, joked through gritted teeth about witches as she ascended the scaffold that would launch her into the void, tethered at the front but with nothing behind but a bit of harness.

My turn.  I am hooked up, twice, for extra safety.  My instructor is calm and reassuring.  As soon as I push against the ropes I am hovering over the edge, and then I can no longer see him.  Keep my right hand on the rope behind, my left in the loop in front, concentrate on loosening the right a bit at a time.  I am told to straighten my legs when all I want to do is curl up in a ball.

But I stand up straight and then the world goes quiet.  They are all watching me, the scattered matchstick-sized people I know are waiting below, but I won’t look at them.  There’s just a wall, a set of ropes, a lot of sunlight, and me.

Going down is harder than I thought.  I pass the landmarks made familiar by watching earlier abseilers: the windows, a couple of ledges, a bee’s nest in the rust-stained stone.  My weight is still supported by my gloved hand but I can’t reach the wall with my feet; instead of making a fluent descent I am swinging into nothingness, the ropes threaten to tip me on my head or spin me round altogether.

I reached the ground shaking but exhilarated, sound rushed back into my ears and time began to move forward again.  I felt I had earned my round of applause.