missing fencing and watching the nationals

I was looking forward to fencing. It was a tough day at work so I was happy to anticipate the joy of stabbing someone. Not the chef, as she was staying away, but surely someone would give me the opportunity of a few hits.

But the computer I'd borrowed had different ideas. Perhaps it feared I was neglecting it. Or perhaps it was cross about overwork - I'd been typing frantically on the train. I got into work, plugged in my laptop, switched it on, and ... nothing.

I'd copied most of the paper I was writing elsewhere but the media files were another matter. I begged the technicians for help. Although busy, they found time to look at the computer and eventually managed to copy most of the files. It was the media files that were missing.

One of the technicians stayed late to help. I was ever so grateful but my hand itched to hold my epee. I could go late, I thought, as the technician finally searched in vain for the missing files. "Leave it with me," he said at last. "I'll do it tonight or in the morning."

I'd planned to work on the paper that day and was beginning to wonder how much I could do after fencing. Work and anxiety had added to my tiredness. Still, I promised myself, I could manage an hour ... just a couple of bouts.

As I struggled out of the building with books and bags, I realised how heavy the rain was. I was glad I'd put on my summer mac ... until the rain started to leak through before I'd left the courtyard. After ten minutes I was soaked to the skin, apart from my feet. I was so soaked I didn't notice the inches-deep puddle.

Before I reached the station, I knew I wasn't going to fence. Twenty-five minutes in a train wearing wet clothes was no preparation for anything but a hot bath and a good meal. Besides, I would work on my paper.

Gloomily, after supper, I sat down to write more, only to discover I'd left the main book I needed in my office. It wasn't a good day.

Despite the setbacks, the paper happened. I wondered what to do when it was over, especially as my son was staying with friends for the weekend. I didn't wonder for long. Friends from my fencing club were competing in the nationals so I decided to take the train to Sheffield to support them.

It was easy enough to find my way from the station to the tram and from there to the English Institute of Sport. And as soon as I arrived I saw a club member whose wife was fencing in the women's sabre competition. He gave me directions, which I promptly forgot at the sight of the huge main hall with its indoor athletics tracks set out with more than thirty pistes. I watched the epeeists for a while, trying to see Jon Willis, but was unlucky. Still, I marvelled at the skill and speed, wishing I could be half as good.

Eventually I found my way to the second hall, where the sabreurs were camping. Their poules didn't begin till the afternoon but they had brought drinks and the kind of picnics that help fencers maintain their energy levels. I can't remember how many pistes there were in all - at least 54 in the glossy new building. Our leisure centre is pretty good but this was in another league. But there were the usual bags of fencing kit left at the edge of the arena and fencers in kit called up to referee. And while I welcomed the friendliness of the cafe staff and the cheapness of the food - I could afford lunch - the food itself was sadly tasteless. Perhaps my standards have risen since I started using an organic delivery scheme.

The fortunes of our club fencers varied. It was a shame to meet our best foilist - still in his mid-teens - and hear that his usual good form had deserted him after his first two poule bouts. He didn't make the cut. The sabreurs did better and I watched one woman, who started fencing when I did, gradually improve through her poule to win her final bout 5-0.

I would have liked to stay for the sabre Direct Eliminations but I felt tiredness steal up on me again. I drifted to the main hall and watched more epee. Then I headed back for the tram, train and home.

Later I heard that many of our club sabreurs had done well and they'd had a great day.

Two memories stay with me. There was an epeeist - I didn't see his name - swearing at himself and trying to force himself to win through anger. It didn't work. After he lost his temper with himself, he didn't score another hit. It was so unlike the bout on a neighbouring piste where a young epeeist stayed calm and defended well, making it hard for his stronger, more experienced opponent to gain points. The young epeeist lost too but he stayed calm and competed well, right till the end, and his bout was a pleasure to watch.

The other memory was to do with breeches. I couldn't stop myself from asking a young sabreuse, "Where did you get your breeches?" "Leon Paul," she replied. "They make them specially for the Cornish team." I know I don't live in Cornwall and I know I'm not a good enough fencer but I want to be in the Cornish team. They get to fence in BLACK breeches.

bow-ties, shoes and swords

I hardly recognized the fencers.


We had gathered at the golf club for our annual dinner and awards ceremony. There had been suggestions about dressing up, but I hadn't expected a white-tie affair.

Not that white ties were compulsory. There were also black bow-ties, coloured ties, shirts without ties, waistcoats and, from determinedly casual dressers, sweatshirts. The women did their best but could hardly compete, althought there were some fine dresses and ensembles. In particular, one epeeist had gone for the 1940s look, with straight seams down the back of her legs. Were they stockings, I wondered, or the really authentic 1940s austerity look, created by gravy browning and eyebrow pencil. Alas, she had adopted the modern option - tights. Still, her shoes and dress were very fine, and she approved of my shoes too, before our conversation moved to more general subjects. Soon we had left outfits and fencing far behind and were talking of cinema. "You must see Ang Lee's Lust. Caution," I was told. "I've heard it's good," I responded. "Oh yes," my friend replied, "and the shoes are excellent."

We seemed determined to show that our interests went beyond fencing, although there were fencing questions in the traditional quiz. I didn't know many answers. I have no idea how indicators for national rankings work and couldn't calculate the numbers of D.E. bouts in a large contest. At least I remembered which British epeeist won the 2007 Heidenheim championship. One question revealed the decision to include the bib as a target in foil. My hits often land on the bib but it still sounds an awful idea - and an expensive one. Presumably foilists, like sabreurs, will need special and expensive masks for fencing on electric pistes - a further deterrent for fencers with less money. Epee remains the pauper's sport, with the cheapest equipment.. (Looking at discussion sites, I see talk of outlawing the fleche as well. I hope it will stay. I've never used a fleche in combat but there's something exhilarating about ending footwork practice with a fleche and a shout.)


Speeches at the end of the meal were crammed with jokes. We poured the last of the red wine and were easily amused. Award winners posed with their trophies as cameras, mobile phones and glasses were raised. The main trophies are retired weapons (with ornaments for keeping) but there are also medals for second and third place. We cheered and applauded the winners. Opposite me sat the new master-of-arms. I leaned over to admire his swords and medals and tipped my wine glass. A red stain grew on the medal ribbons. No-one had white wine to remove the stain so a friend tried using salt. It didn't work.

British fencer makes the news

The other week, fencers were talking of a new British epeeist who "came from nowhere" to win a major international event. And the story has suddenly reached the British press. (It's rare to see fencing mentioned in the British papers.)

I'm pleased to see Jon Willis isn't posh. (His dad's a postman.) Until I met fencers, I assumed it was a sport for the rich. I knew it was taught at some public (in Britain, that means private) schools. I thought the social aspects of fencing might be much scarier than having someone attack me with a sword. It took me many years to find the fencing club at the local leisure centre. It was a relief to find that the members aren't the sort of people who get their pictures in The Tatler - or, if they do they keep quiet about it.

There have been quite a lot of fencers who haven't fitted into high society. My favourite is the Chevalier de Saint-Georges, the son of a slave and a slave-owner, born in Guadeloupe. He was the best fencer in France, a conductor, a composer, and a colonel (of a black regiment) in the French revolutionary army. (This French website includes extracts from his work.) And Alexandre Dumas, fencer, author of The Three Musketeers and grandson of a slave, was another outsider.

It's a shame that the idea of fencing as a posh sport persists. People ask, "Isn't it terribly expensive?" and are surprised to discover that I pay less to fence than they do in gym fees or that I was able to borrow the equipment when I started. I wonder how many people are put off fencing because they think it's just for posh people.

I wonder if Jon Willis will help change the image of fencing in Britain ... or if there'll be any more stories about fencing in the press.