By Viv Foster

I’ve always loved adventures. Almost exclusively they have involved mountains and always, until recently, they have been intensely physical and outdoors. I was born in London, destined for the Ford car factory or a mundane job in the big city. I was saved by the locally owned outdoor education centre, Trewern, which is based in Wales. A week there opened my eyes to a world previously unknown to me: mountains. I moved to Wales, got a job in The National Mountaineering Centre and was in a world of adventures. People there had climbed Everest, the North Faces of the Eiger and the Matterhorn. They had stories to tell, amazing stories. I lived in that world for many years: climbing, skiing, trekking, travelling and, at the same time, moving on from working in a Mountain Centre to building a career in the NHS.

I guess we all think of ourselves as a certain kind of person. I saw myself as outdoors-busy, loving any form of physical activity. I was definitely not a writer. Never particularly interested in anything academic; although I loved reading, always have. Reading inspires, it takes you to a place outside of yourself, but writing – no, that was never me.

One day, a friend jokingly suggested I write a book. I laughed. But then a weird thing happened. This story started to appear in my head. Of course, it was a story centred around mountains. As it grew, memories popped back into my head: mountain days, all of them different, some glorious with sunshine, incredible views and tempting mountain lakes. Others that were extreme and challenging. Days of storm and snow, wind and rage. Those days stick fast to the memory cells. Those were the days I loved above all else. They are full of visceral, intense emotions. They test and reward in equal measure. They change the world in the blink of an eye. Colour turns from bright and primary to muted and sober and then again to dark, threatening and malevolent. Mountains are wonderful beings, for they feel human, full of personality, always changing. Some days they are gentle and kind, some days they are playful, almost laughing at your mistakes, taking the wrong track, tripping on the rocky path. On other days, they can be angry and soulless, ripping away sight with dense heavy clouds, pulling warmth from the body with driving rain and relentless wind. Mountains make their own weather. It can change in an instant, but is still wondrous. It touches every physical sense.

As my mind was drawn back to those days in the mountains, so I began to sink into the story in my head. I had the beginning and I knew the ending. The middle was a jumble of memories and imaginings. But I was not a writer. I hadn’t written anything since schooldays, a very long time ago. In a mad moment, I mentioned to my partner  I had an idea for a book in my head, expecting him to laugh and agree with me that I was not a writer. But no: instead, he showed me the computer and suggested I sit down and write it.

And so began my latest adventure. I’d like to say the words flew onto the page, but my typing skills were abysmal, frustratingly so; they couldn’t keep up with the story. The characters appeared, and I immediately fell in love with them. They were real and I nurtured them as though they were my own family. The whole thing took on its own life. Again, it was as though I’d embarked upon another journey and the fact that most of the script was unknown was wonderful. I was back in my world of mountains, experiencing it in a new and totally free way. I was writing a chapter a day, looking forward to sitting down and slipping into my new world. The story grew, side plots appeared, new characters appeared.

When Sam, my main character, hit the mountains, the story gained its own life. It walked alone. All I had to do was add the descriptors and make sure all the side plots and characters took their turn, didn’t run too fast and melded together in one story. There were so many small and large images locked in my head: vistas, smells, emotions and stories told by travellers I’d met along the way. My first time in Zermatt, for example, I was absolutely enthralled by the sheer prettiness of it. This small perfect village encompassed within this cirque of mountains that came straight from the front of a chocolate box but, if not respected, could seriously harm. That first night, I watched as the local goat herd were ferried off the mountains and paraded through the streets for the tourists to take pictures, followed closely behind by the goat herder, suited and booted in the local costume, sweeping up all the droppings and putting them in a shiny silver drum: magic! That just had to go in the book – enhanced, of course – but how could I leave that out? Then there was the story that had worried my head for many months: the story of Sam.

It was to be an adventure story, of course it was, but I wanted it to be more than that. I wanted it to be a love story as well. Not the traditional boy-meets-girl script but a story of the love of a brother for his brother and the love of a family torn apart, coming together, risking their lives to be reunited and at peace again. The story of two young people knowing what was right and what was wrong and putting their lives on the line to fight for what they knew to be right. The tale was growing. As I got further and further into this new world of mine, I realised this was now bigger than one book. It had morphed into a much longer, more intense journey. This now had to become a trilogy. All the memories that had grown and joined together waiting to become this book that might never have been written were now bigger than just one. The first book was almost at its end; only the last few pages to be written. It just lacked one thing, a title, that was offered by my partner, who’d read every word as it had been written and it was perfect: Maths To The Matterhorn.

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