Catherine made it clear, back in 1998 when we were in Prague, that she would opt out of all “climb tall structure” travel activities — her knees just can’t take it — and this was the first time that a tall structure presented itself with Oliver old enough to climb it with me.
So we scrounged up 30 kroners from the bottom of the knapsack, paid the man at the bottom, and headed off up towards God.
God, I must tell you, lives very, very high up in the sky. Many, many stairs must be climbed. And some of the stairs have that precarious “scenario plan me tumbling to my death while Oliver looks on in horror” quality to them — windy stairs, steep stairs, cramped stairs.
Now for a guy so ready and willing to drag himself up tall structures, you would think I’d be pretty free of fear of heights. But, oddly (even to me), I am not.
So when, after 15 minutes of stair climbing, we reached the outdoor platform, I could feel the vertigo coursing through my veins. Fortunately I had Oliver to calm me — he would have happily continued on the additional slippery outdoor stairs to the very top of the spire if I’d let him, and was completely unaware of the whole “we’re up really, really high” quality of the expedition.
As it was we spent about 15 minutes at the top marveling at the view — as it turns out some of the only rain-free minutes of the day — and then made our way back down the stairs.
I’d do it again in a heartbeat — the stairs may have seemed precarious, but the church was build like a rock, and there was never any danger of everything going to hell (as it were).
I’m sure it will be the first of many tall structures that Oliver and I drag each other up.