hits and misses

For two weeks the snow and ice meant I couldn't fence. After my fall on black ice last January, I've been more hesitant than ever about venturing on frozen surfaces and the compacted snow topped with a fine layer of frozen heavy frost made walking – or staggering – difficult. I certainly didn't plan a precarious bike-ride over icy roads and cycle paths. Briefly I thought of calling a taxi, which might have been fine, but I had visions of serious skids. Every so often, advice would be issued on TV and radio. It was along the lines of the World War II posters that inquired, “Is your journey really necessary?” I had to concede that my journey to fencing was not really necessary. Besides, I had a cold.

The one-hit epée contest approached. So did the club competition but, as soon as I saw the date, I knew I couldn't take part. For once I had a prior engagement. I hesitated about the one-hit epée too.

I've never done well at one-hit contests. Sometimes I get an unexpected victory. More often the best consolation I get is a run of “double defeats” when simultaneous scores count as losses rather than, as in normal epée, points for both fencers. I had never tried one-hit epée when quite so tired and out of practice.

Part of the tiredness was the chef's fault – but perhaps it would be fairer to blame the chaos on the railways. The chef and I planned to attend a poetry reading and she kindly invited me to a pre-poetry meal. There was no way I would refuse the opportunity to sample the products of the chef's culinary genius so I accepted, even though it meant I would have to leave work after a mere eight hours, instead of my usual ten or eleven. Of course, it didn't work out. Chaos on the railways – combined with lack of information – meant I had to phone the chef who kindly postponed the meal until after the poetry. So the words of the poets – including the excellent Alexander Hutchison – were followed rather than preceded by a meal which included chestnut roast, braised fennel, a creamy mash, cheese, biscuits, cake and mince pies. There was wine too – and conversation. I didn't get to bed till some time after midnight which was less than ideal when I planned to get up shortly after 5.

I think I overslept. I had to rush for the train – at least the ice had briefly melted so that it was once more safe to run – and bought a hot breakfast to eat at my desk, using plastic cutlery. It wasn't an ideal start to the day. I suppose the day itself went better than I had expected but, when I got home, I had to tell myself determinedly that I would do the one-hit epée, even if I never fenced again after that. I got ready in a state of grim resignation, slung my sword-bag over my shoulder and trudged to the leisure centre.

Usually a couple of beginners take part in the one-hit epée. This year all the competitors were reasonably experienced fencers, including a few sabreurs and a foilist. There were twelve of us – just enough to set up a poule unique. “Eleven bouts,” I thought. “If I can just win one – or even two – I'll be content.” But looking at the opposition it didn't seem likely.

No-one bothered to set up an order for fencing. We had two pistes and, when someone suggested we just fence one another, in any order, and hand our results in, we agreed that would be sensible. I watched for a while and then someone suggested I fence the boy. Once upon a time I could beat the boy but he's been training almost non-stop, competing and taking advantage of any opportunities that offer. My advantage of height and reach (and longer sword) is usually cancelled by his speedy reactions, cunning deceptions and accurate attacks.

We faced each other on the piste and moved up and down. Neither of us launched an attack. I could see that the boy's wrist was showing, just slightly, below his guard. His blade pointed toward me but, in theory, if I could hit that little patch of wrist from below, I could score a hit. It had to be a trick. We moved backwards and forwards some more. The boy's wrist was still showing. I felt as though I was moving in slow motion when I began my attack. It wasn't a deep lunge - I don't do deep lunges – but it was just sufficient to take me below the level of his blade with my point aiming to his wrist. The boy didn't seem to move. He looked startled as my hit landed and I scored the point. He couldn't have been as startled as I was. “One point,” I thought. “If I can get one more I'll be satisfied.”

My next bout was against a coach – the only competitor older than me but someone I could never dream of beating in competition. I tried to put up some resistance as our blades clashed but somehow he got past me and hit me on the back. I was sure it was a good hit but it didn't register. We continued fencing. I went for his foot, missed, and then – convinced my opponent had trouble with his blade – took the opportunity to hit the floor. This allowed him to check his blade, which definitely wasn't registering hits, and to borrow a replacement.

The uncertainty over the blade must have had an effect on the coach. I told him I reckoned it had been a good hit but of course a hit can't be allowed just because a fencer thinks it has registered. We had to start again. The coach came toward me and, as he began a lunge, my blade, almost of its own accord, went for his knee and scored a hit. I had the two hits I wanted – and now, I decided, I would quite like to score a few more.

It didn't happen quite as I would have wanted. I lost the next two bouts, both against sabreurs. One fleched me and I was cross with myself that I didn't react faster though, given his height, it probably wouldn't have helped. And while for a moment I thought I might catch the sabreuse with a quick counter-attack, her quick reactions and experience led her to victory. “That's it,” I thought. “Two hits. Not too bad.” But I caught the next sabreur on the mask, just as he launched a sabre-style attack.

That was three hits – as many as I'd ever scored in one-hit epée. Perhaps the tiredness was helping me – forcing me to rely on instinct and memory. Or perhaps the other fencers were tired too. In the end I won three more bouts, all against fencers who are much better than me and who have helped me with my fencing. I lost against the foilist, against a young epéeist and a fencer of foil and epée who I really should have beaten.

That's when the Spaniard turned up. She looked so disappointed at missing the one-hit epée that someone at once suggested that, if she wanted, she could occupy a piste and fence everyone in turn while the final bouts on the score-sheet took place on the other piste. It was her last chance to fence us – she's going back to Spain next week – and she was delighted to take up the offer.

I fenced her first. She beat me. She fenced the coach. She beat him. It was the beginning of a run in her favour. The boy, at the head of the poule sheet, determined to fence her last. He watched her overtake his total. I think she had achieved nine wins out of eleven when she fenced the boy. She picked up a small sword so that she would fence him with a weapon of the same length. It was a difficult and protracted bout, both fencing energetically and each trying to trick the other as the rest of us watched. The final hits seemed simultaneous but the light gave victory to the Spaniard, who instantly hugged the boy. He's still young enough to find hugs from a beautiful young woman embarrassing and squirmed away.

Then there were photos of the Spaniard with her trophy (the traditional chocolate Santa) and the rest of is clustered around her. Coming home, I wondered if I would ever fence again. Gloomy reflections seem appropriate to my age, the cold and the year's end. If that was the last time, it wouldn't be too bad. Six wins out of twelve is more than respectable and, given the double defeats others experienced, probably places me, for the first time ever, in the top half of the score-sheet.

hits and misses

One-hit epée changes the look of the salle. As I entered, the beginners were having a class at one end of the hall and a few intermediates were chatting but the main weapon being fenced in the body of the hall was epée. Even confirmed sabreurs were taking turns on the two electric pistes, determined to do well. There's nothing like the chance of a chocolate santa to inspire a fencer.

One-hit epée tournaments are regular events at our club. They happen towards the end of each of the three terms and the club president donates a seasonal prize, usually in chocolate, with plenty of smaller chocolate items for all.

I think this must have been the largest one-hit epée contest I've known. Eighteen fencers signed up for it. The skills range was from intermediate to international and the age range was nearly fifty years. A decision was taken to set up two poules of nine with the top two of each going through to the final. Looking across at the other poule, I felt I was in a group which would give me more chances. I reckoned that, for all the strong fencers in my group, I had a chance of a couple of hits at least - with luck. The other poule was already being christened "the poule of death."

One-hit epée isn't easy to predict and it's hard to plan for it. My first bout was against a sabreur. He came towards me, moving like a sabreur and hit me at once. I unclipped and handed the ground wire over to the next fencer. Meanwhile I noticed the other epeeists doing well.

I took more time in my second bout, against the doc, but the outcome was predictable. He hit me lightly and that was it. I tried to encourage myself with the thought that I'd have better chances against other fencers in the group.

Then I was against a fencer who has encouraged and coached me unofficially on a number of occasions. He tells me off for being insufficiently aggressive so I was determined to show him how aggressive I could be. I also remembered managing a hit on him in a previous one-hit epée context. It was a longer bout with considerable movement as we parried one another. Eventually we both went for a hit and my light came on. A couple of women near me applauded and I was feeling delighted when someone pointed out that my opponent's body wire had come free of the ground-wire - not his fault but a problem with old club equipment. Someone suggested it was up to the ref to decide if the point should be replayed but it seemed clear to me and I requested a rematch.

Once again I tried to be combative and parried energetically but my opponent hit before I could land a touch. I shook hands and said "well done" but felt slightly down.

I was beaten easily by my next opponent, a Chinese graduate student who fences with us as a guest when his usual club is on vacation. Then I was against a fellow epéeist who was doing well and who tends to beat me every week. I had one advantage - I'm used to fencing him. I can't quite recall what I did but I was determined to change my strategy and move more than usual. I heard the beep that meant a touch and didn't realise, till I looked, that I'd taken the point.

That gave me confidence for the next bout, against a fencer who had recently returned after a long break. Although he fences epée sometimes, he's still mostly a foilist. Being out of practice his movements were slightly wide - and I managed to hit him. Two points seemed respectable and I was feeling pleased.

My final two bouts were against intermediate foilists who had tried epée only occasionally. The first should have hit me but her attack missed and, in a messy scramble, I managed to land a hit on her. The second was quick and accurate and hit me first.

I looked at the score sheet. I'd won three bouts and three fencers from my group had scored only two. Whatever had happened in the other poule, I wasn't last. Meanwhile the doc and the Chinese guest tied for first place in our group. No-one was sure how the final four would fence for the chocolate santa so they fenced again. There was a series of doubles before the guest landed a hit and won first place from the group.

Meanwhile the club president had won the other poule and four fencers were tied for second place. The ref quickly organised them into further bouts. The tied fencers included a regular epéeist and an international sabreur. But the winner of the battle for second place was a confident intermediate foilist who was holding an epée for only the second time in her life. She was smaller and slighter than the other fencers and her quick, delicate touches took her opponents by surprise.

After some debate, a decision was made that the final four would fence in a poule unique. This was more fun for the spectators, especially since the initial result was a tie between the president and the doc. We gathered to watch the final and cheered as the club president won - and was duly presented with the chocolate santa he had donated. Then he produced small santas for the rest of us.

When I looked at the final scoresheet, I discovered I'd had my best one-hit contest ever. Five fencers had achieved two hits and four had managed three. This meant I was in joint tenth place. I don't think I'd have done as well in the other poule but, all the same, it felt like a good result. I happily gnawed the head off a small chocolate santa.

one hit

Sometimes fencing doesn't go well. I was feeling a little down when I headed for the one-hit epee but tried to convince myself I'd enjoy it. All went well until the club president, who donated the coveted chocolate Santa trophy, informed us that, as there were sixteen of us, we'd be fencing in two poules of eight instead of the usual poule unique. Sadly I looked at the list and decided I was grouped with seven people I had no chance of hitting on a first point.

There are a few people in the club I can, on occasion, take by surprise. But these don't include people who have coached me. And they certainly don't include the club's sabreurs, who are fast, effective and ready for anything.

It wasn't a good attitude to start with. I tried to watch the bouts and determined to move more than usual on the piste. But pretty soon I'd lost my first two bouts and with those defeats, my enthusiasm for the evening was waning. I began to think my attempts at fencing were ludicrous. Then, in my third bout, I heard a voice cheering me on. I still lost, but felt immensely encouraged. And in my fourth bout - against the man who'd cheered me on and always encouraged me - I scored a hit. It landed on his forearm. I don't know if he made it easy for me but, if he did, at least I scored the point. I would rather have landed a hit on a different fencer but I still felt good because I wasn't going to finish the evening without a point.

That was my only point but, when I checked the sheets at the end, I found it meant I hadn't come last. A fencer in the other poule - a better and more experienced fencer specialising in sabre - hadn't managed a hit. He didn't seem too downcast and I felt a lot better.

Semi-finals followed. Three sabreurs had qualified and one epeeist - the doc. The sabreurs got together to cheer the sabreurs. The epeeists - a quieter group - offered words of encouragement to the doc. And finally epee skills won through. It was lovely to watch the doc's light and accurate touch as he waited for his moment in semi-final and final. It was his second consecutive victory in the one-hit epee and he held his chocoalate trophy aloft.

There were plenty of small chocolate santas for the rest of us.

epeeists take on the dark side

I was quite cheerful on the way to fencing. I'd spent the day working from home, so that the youthful dentist could repair my tooth. The time spent in the dentist's chair was a pleasant rest, partly because work has been so hectic lately but also because the young dentist was remarkably gentle and skilful. There wasn't even any drilling involved. She and her assistant were quick, efficient and explained calmly what they were doing. At the end I checked my bike and decided to explore the university campus.

The exploration took longer than I'd planned. I'd tethered my bike at the Arts Centre so that I could buy tickets for a forthcoming concert (Bach - totally irresistible) when the rain shifted from a grey drizzle to a crashing downpour. The obvious decision was to buy a double espresso and watch the swan and ducks on the lake - so I did.

At fencing my optimism fell away. I was short on energy - this always shows when we're asked to jog up and down on the spot as fast as we can, raising out knees high. I didn't last long.

A rather good sabreur, who looks about 15 but is apparently a university student, has decided to take a rest from sabre and spend a month doing epee. I'm not sure this should be allowed as fencers from the "dark side" (as sabre is known in our club) have a habit of being snooty about sabre.

He began by fencing the doc and I watched attentively, realising that I would probably have to fence him at some point in the evening. While the main hall at the leisure centre is still being re-floored, the lack of space has put off a number of fencers so I tend to take what opponents I can.

Specialists who suddenly switch weapons are always unnerving at first because they do unexpected things. This can be useful. For instance, a sabreur who tried to hit with the side of the blade won't score while foilists tends to waste time trying to establish right of way.

At first the student didn't seem to be making any mistakes. He had a good epee stance with an excellent en garde. His rapid attacks and ripostes meant that he was scoring point after point. Even though he bounced up and down in the characteristic way of sabreurs, I couldn't see any way of beating him. And then I noticed the way his foot beat the ground in an appel just before attacking. He was still way too fast for me but, towards the end, the doc was beginning to break through. Unfortunately it was a little late but, towards the end, the balance of play was with the doc.

After that experience, the doc was in extra good form. So was the Man man, though I'm beginning to feel slightly more confident about fencing him. I tried to put into practice some of the things I'd tried out on Saturday. Occasionally I managed to take the blade but mostly he was too fast for me.

By the time I fenced the student the optimism of Saturday had evaporated. Although I knew in theory how to fight the student, I simply wasn't fast enough. Towards the end, I managed a couple of hits. He was thrilled with the evening and suggested it showed that sabreurs could always beat epeeists. I suggested that next time we would go for their feet, because they wouldn't be expecting it. "We'd bounce out of the way," said the sabreuse. "I don't know," I said."One good, hard toe-hit with an epee - that's stop the bouncing."

The sabreurs looked at me in surprise. Perhaps it's because of my reputation for non-violence - or perhaps because they know how difficult toe-hits are and how rarely I achieve them."

"Not a good evening's fencing," I reflected. "Perhaps improvement takes more than one Saturday session."

bladework and footwork

I thought for a moment we'd converted a sabreur. There he was, standing by the piste, epee in hand. Perhaps he'd seen the error of his slashing ways?

But no. Conversation revealed that he'd started with epee, moved on to sabre, but thought he'd fence epee once in a while to keep in practice.

It was a shame but at least there was a chance for conversation. Even though attendance wasn't quite as high as in the past few weeks, we were still queuing for the electric pistes - and I'm still supposed to be resting my foot. Anyway, I was curious about this fencer as I'd seen his Facebook page and knew he trained at the Royal Ballet.

There are clear connections between the skills required for fencing and those needed for ballet, as one of the coaches says. It's easy to recognize the ballet-trained beginners - they're the ones who don't quiver when asked to stand on their toes.bend their knees outward into a demi-plie, and hold the position for a minute or two. They have accuracy too and a high level of bodily control.

But I didn't just want to talk to him because he was a good fencer. I enjoy watching ballet - not so much as opera but still with the immense pleasure that comes from watching people make years of training look easy as they enact deep emotions. They do swordfights too - the photo shows Jonathon Byrne Ollivier of the Northern Ballet Theatre as Athos in the ballet of The Three Musketeers.

The dancer had spent four years in professional ballet - from cabaret in Zurich to a stint as a dancer with the English National Opera - before injuries forced him to give up. These days he's a nurse, putting the knowledge of physiognomy all dancers gain to a useful purpose. But he lit up when he spoke of dancing and assured me he regretted nothing of his short career. I recalled ballets I had seen from the Gloria which uses Poulenc's music and imagery from the First World War to the pure delight of Ashton's choreography for Fille Mal Gardee. This led the dancer to speak of his love of Bournonville's choreography - and as he reminisced he almost moved into the bouncing leaps that are the Danish choreographer's trademark.

The conversation was cut short when the piste became free. We connected and tested our swords, saluted and put on masks and began to fence. The dancer was a joy to watch but at least I knew there was no hope of outdoing him in grace and speed. I had two hopes. I could cut through his elegant fencing and land the occasional hit by being direct and inelegant. And I could hope he fenced like a sabreur, guarding above the waist and pausing to establish right of way.

I managed more hits than I'd expected. But of course I didn't win. And that's not just because my foot hurt, cutting my speed further. I tried to focus on bladework and did my best. But I had no hope against the strength, speed and precision of a dancer. What's worse - I have a bruise on my wrist, suggesting a fell into the error of letting my guard slip.

And if any fencers doubt the skills of ballet dancers, watch strength and precision demanded by this brief piece of Bournonville choreography, danced by the 18-year-old Johann Kobborg. What a fencer he would make.

a swarm of sabreurs

A series of domestic crises delayed me. But my epee was calling. I wanted to stab someone. It was too late to walk so I called a cab.

As I crossed the bridge to the far end of the leisure centre, I saw the beginners getting their kit on. I'd missed the warm-up - even the footwork practice. That was bad enough. But as I looked round the hall I realised something still worse. I was the only epeeist.

I tried to persuade foilists and sabreurs of the greater virtues of epee but they were unconvinced. The usual arguments were expressed: that epee needed no skill (because you can hit anywhere and there is no right of way) and, more feebly, that the bruises are too bad. I tried to point out the superior skill and strength of epeeists but I failed. My arguments seemed as feeble as those advanced by the unnamed narrator of "Murders in the rue Morgue" when he insists that draughts needs a greater order of intelligence than chess.

Sadly, I picked up my foil, marvelling at its lightness.

Sabreurs swarmed over the electric pistes. I had to fence steam, with an unamiliar weapon. I fenced a young woman with a solid, blocking parry that I struggled to pass. I fenced the smallest, youngest fencer to have left beginners and wondered how anyone could hit so tiny a target area. I fenced an older boy who always insists I'm mad. (He has a point.)

Ar last I had a bout at epee, against an experienced foilist who took pity on my isolation. We grabbed an electric piste while the sabreurs rested. The young man was swift and accurate but tended to focus on the foil target areas. Sometimes he touched too lightly to score a hit. Occasionally I broke through his guard - or, more probably, he let me through. So I my light brightened as well as his.

It may have been the foil but perhaps I'm recovering some lost fitness. I felt a little faster, a little less stiff. It wasn't a triumph but something was achieved as I struggle to improve. Even if the improvement is mostly in my mind - but I do feel faster - that will help with my fencing. I'm not exactly confudent but happier in my body and less anxuious. That should help.

Three-hit epee

The one-hit epee contest has become something of a club tradition. Towards the end of every term, all the epeeists present – and any other fencer they can recruit – fence one another for a seasonal prize, donated by the club president. This time it was a bottle of cava, which he had selected as a suitable summer wine. The mention of summer brought groans although some of us, thinking back over the past few weeks, could recall a day when it hadn’t rained.

The rules of one-hit epee are simple. Every fencer fences every other fencer. The bout stops after the first hit so scoring simply registers V for victory or D for defeat. A double counts as a double defeat.

There were nine of us: seven who fence epee reasonably regularly, a 17-year-old sabreur who had done some epee, and a fencer who had joined the beginners in September and had never fenced epee before. A little was into the contest, we found we had the youngest ref in the business – a boy aged about 9 who took it all very seriously, watched us with care and filled in the score-sheet with great deliberation. He was a rather small and quiet ref but I feel he will soon acquire an air of authority.

One-hit epee makes me feel uneasy. Even in a bout to 5 there’s a chance to get a sense of your opponent and how he’s fencing. (I say ‘he’ because I was, yet again, the only woman competing at epee. The occasional epeeists among the women wanted to fence foil last night.) In a one-hit contest there’s no chance to pause and analyse – you just have to take your chance while watching your opponent.

I began badly. My concentration wasn’t good. Walking to the piste for my first bout, I was sure I’d forgotten something but I couldn’t work out what it was. I did a quick check: mask, hairband, protective plasters on the ears, breeches, plastron, jacket, bodywire. I was just connecting the wire when I realised what was missing – I’d left my epee at the other side of the hall. Not a good start, and my level of concentration didn’t improve much during the swift opening bout.

In my second bout I was beaten by the novice – the one person I’d thought I might beat. I began to worry that I’d score no hits – at least last time I did better than that. Then I was up against the young sabreur. It was some time since I’d fenced him and that was at foil. He’s fenced for longer than me. However, his sabreur’s stance laid him open to hits and he was evidently trying to remind himself of the target area. One hit to me – it wasn’t going to be a blank sheet.

A couple of other fencers dealt with me quickly. Meanwhile, the new fencer was scoring some wins while the sabreur left the piste assuming he’d lost again, only to discover that he’d won with a neat but unintended hit to the hand.

Then I found myself against someone who’d begun fencing when I did. He’s taken part in a couple of competitions at epee and also coaches fencing, so I didn’t have much hope. However, as a coach, he has said encouraging things to me in the past so I decided to take them seriously. He attacked first – and missed. Instinctively I’d responded by extending my arm and he walked onto my blade. A win to me – and an opponent cursing himself for the failed attack.

My final bout was against the ref’s dad – a far more experienced fencer. My previous opponent urged me on. “I beat him and you beat me – of course you can do it. He likes fancy fencing – go straight into the attack and hit him straight away.”

I took the advice. My first attack failed and left me to parry a counter-attack. I couldn’t mess around trying to fence well. I didn’t even aim for the arm but pushed forward as fiercely as I could. A chest-hit shouldn’t have won against a better fencer but it did.

I’d scored 3 hits out of a possible 8. This put me in joint 6^th place, beating two fencers. Meanwhile the novice had achieved an unexpected 3^rd place. One of the regular epeeists took him off for some coaching. A few minutes later I watched the novice hitting the wrist with apparent ease time after time. He's shorter most epeeists but I think the weapon has just got a new recruit.

I got to fence the novice again when he was tired – he’s not used to a heavy sword. And I ended by beating the sabreur again – 5-3, I think. He had a convenient tendency to pause after each parried attack, as though to establish right of way – and his sabreur’s stance continued to lay him open. Of course, if he were to switch to epee he’d soon learn to avoid such faults. But for the moment, there’s something very satisfying in beating a sabreur.

If I ever fight a duel, I want the choice of weapons.

P.S. The winner of the one-hit epee was the rather good young fencer who I beat so surprisingly a couple of weeks ago. It went to a final elimination bout in which he scored a neat wrist-hit on the club president, who'd donated the prize. Many of the usual contenders lost out through double defeats. And I'm beginning to think there's something to be said for one-hit epee.