winning a bout (an unusual event)

As readers of this blog will know, I don't expect to win. Occasionally I get a good hit or two but winning - except against beginners - is a pretty rare event. Of course, in my fantasies I could take on d'Artagnan or Cyrano, but in real life the clash of blades is usually followed by a point to my opponent.

Last week, however, I felt on good form. Physiotherapy and the use of a TENS machine had done wonders for the pain from my fractured vertebra. I headed to fencing feeling cheerful and unusually alert after several nights' sleep uninterrupted by pain. I'd forgotten how good that felt. Ignoring the twinges in my back from the weight of my backpack - I still can't risk cycling - I enjoyed the scent of flowers and mown grass in the light evening. Lilac blossoms stretched over the tarmac pavement and the path to the leisure centre was lined by cow parsley.

The fencing boys were away on half term but the fencer I think of as the Welshman was there. (He isn't actually Welsh.) More importantly, he was keen to fence epée. As usual, I didn't expect to win but I hoped I wouldn't too badly. Like me, the Welshman is a late starter but he's been fencing longer than I have and has entered competitions. He also takes part in other sports so is plainly more athletic.

Still, I was filled with enthusiasm, especially when I surprised myself and my opponent by scoring the first hit.

I was relaxed, which helped, and moving more freely than I have for months. This probably wasn't impressive but it gave me the confidence to think about strategy and vary my attacks. When we started to score doubles, and I was ahead, I realised that a run of doubles would be enough. But as we reached 9-8, my opponent was faster and the score went to 9-9. But somehow I'd achieved the sort of calmness I needed and went for the next hit. I scored. "10-9," said the Welshman, whipped off his mask and held out his hand.

I hadn't been sure whether we were fencing to 10 or 15 but I was certainly happy to stop with a victory at 10. Victories don't happen often.

Holding onto the epée piste, I persuaded an intermediate foilist less than half my age that he'd like to give epée a go. He has the height for it. He's fast, but he's not yet familiar enough with the weapon. His en garde was still based on foil and I even managed a wrist hit. I could also take advantage of that little pause that is characteristic of fencers used to establishing right of way. It wasn't easy to beat him 10-8 but it was easier than beating the Welshman. After we'd finished I explained about his en garde and the pause and suggested he ask one of the coaches for advice. I wonder if I'll ever beat him again.

It would be good to end this post with a victory but that isn't how the evening ended. I fenced steam against an experienced and younger foilist who has done quite enough epée to avoid the usual errors. I couldn't get to grips with her foil technique and found myself repeating errors. We weren't keeping score but it was easy enough to see that she smashed me. But I still got a few hits.

fencing the air force

I wasn't sure there would be much chance of fencing this week as our club was hosting a couple of epée league matches. This can mean that all the good epéeists are tied up, leaving little chance for fencers of a lower standard to practice. However it does provide a good opportunity to watch epée so I went along.

I had a further incentive. The club president is now acting as armourer and had displayed a price list for weaponry repairs. Last week my best epée failed to register hits and was plainly in need of re-wiring.

I've watched instructions on how to rewire an epée and looked at the helpful advice on the Leon Paul website. It led to the inescapable conclusion that, even if I had all the necessary equipment, I lack the time and ability to do a good job. I was pleased to be reunited with my healthy and much-loved epée, although I suspect I was under-charged for the work.

Inspired by the reunion with my epée, I happily accepted a challenge from one of the intermediate fencers. He's a foilist really, and less experienced than me. However he was clearly the better fencer last week and I wanted to prove to myself (and him) that I could do better. Luckily I observed his habit of lifting his wrist, offering a target to my attack. I caught him on the hand twice before explaining what he was doing wrong. After that, his hand was protected but I was pleased to manage a few more hits on his arm. At least I could once more hit a moving target.

I'm still tiring easily so didn't fence for as long as I would have liked. Instead I started watching one of the epée league contests, between our club and a local university. One of the club fencers, who is a member of both, chose to fence for the university who won by two or three points in a close battle. Then my club took on the Royal Air Force.

I noticed the cold as I stood watching. There hasn't been any snow for a couple of weeks but most nights are frosty and it felt as though the frost had invaded the leisure centre. The parents sitting round the edge were hunched into scarves and warm jackets. I was surprised to be so aware of the cold, despite wearing fencing kit. I hoped I'd get another bout soon.

As a campaigning pacifist, I sometimes find myself handing out leaflets outside army bases. I've met a range of people from the armed forces in various circumstances. Usually I like them as people, and the soldiers I've met through fencing seem particularly kind and friendly. This doesn't stop me opposing their military activities and, of course, I hoped that the club would beat the RAF.

Of course, we weren't fencing the entire RAF - only their local representatives, including some who were relatively new to fencing. Still, it was good to see my club score an easy victory. As there was no-one around to fence, I watched the whole match, getting colder and colder, and some of the friendly bouts that followed.

Someone suggested I fence the woman from the RAF. I was a bit worried about this. She may have been in the losing team and less experienced but she was plainly physically fit and less than half my age. Still, it was a chance for a bout and I wouldn't get much fencing if I said no. I briefly reflected on the complex ethics of fencing against members of the armed forces, then concentrated on attaching my wire and saluting.

She was, of course, better than me. However the member of the RAF who was presided complimented me on a parry and praised my technique! I managed a couple of doubles and one neat hit and determined to keep fighting. I went for the lowest lunge I could manage and felt a muscle strain in my calf. It was a familiar sensation - the second time this year and the third time in five months. I was losing anyway so could say nothing. I limped through to the inevitable defeat and watched some more. Then I tried to fence a fellow club member. After three points I gave up.

My calf still hurts but is recovering. One fencer suggested muscles to strengthen my calf. I think I probably needed exercises to warm up but I'm not experienced enough to tell. This time no-one has started a sentence with the words, "At your age ..." - at least, not yet.

"Fail again. Fail better."

I'm back on Blogger. I didn't mean to take a break but life (and death) caught up with me, as they do. I've missed a couple of fencing evenings, once because I had to travel to the funeral of a friend and once because I was away at a Quaker event - Britain Yearly Meeting - where we finally and overwhelmingly reached the decision to treat same-sex marriages in the same way as opposite-sex marriages. It was quite an easy decision and relatively quick, given Friends' labyrinthine processes - it only took us twenty-two years.

In the meantime, my fencing has been erratic. I was greatly encouraged by a postcard from Beth at Screw Bronze which arrived just as I needed it. Losing a friend can make it hard to focus on anything and this friend worked hard at remembering to enquire after my fencing progress. There was even a phone-call once announcing that there had been fencing on the television. I was thrilled. "What weapon?" I asked. There was a pause, then a question in reply, "What's the difference?" But those regular enquiries helped immensely. It's ever so good when a friend takes an interest.

Back from the funeral, I found myself fencing a young woman of less than half my age who usually defeats me easily, even though foil is her main weapon. We agreed to fence to ten. I didn't feel like doing anything but decided I'd fence as if my friend was watching and supporting me. It felt good. I took the first two points, then we realised that there was a problem with the wiring. When it was corrected, we started again from zero and, yet again, I found I was two points up. I didn't seem likely to win, even with that advantage, but I determined to do my best.

Somehow, every time she caught up, I pulled ahead, never by more than one or two points. She drew level at 8 all and then I managed the hit that took me to 9-8. I wanted to get the next point and win the bout. As I darted forward with my blade, I felt her point attach on my arm. I was sure it was 9 all. But when I looked at the electric box I saw both red and green lights. It was a double - I'd done it and won 10-9.

After that my fencing slipped but it was good to know what winning felt like. I tried to remember that as my skill slipped in the rest of the evening - and in the club's one-hit epee contest where, to my surprise, I didn't come last. I gave advice to a couple of young sabreurs who were trying epee for fun - one hit me while my brief bout against the other ended in a "double defeat" (doubles lose in one-hit contests). I managed a solitary victory against a fencer who said he'd done what I warned him against last year - somehow he walked onto my sword. I knew that what I needed was the will to win - and, ideally, greater strength, speed and accuracy. The club president, who is in his 60s, had one of his frequent victories though he refused to take the sparkling wine which he had donated as the prize.

August is for free fencing and we have the hall for only two hours. I made it this week. Attendance had slipped to no more than thirty, mostly foilists and sabreurs. I spent some time fencing the only epeeist there - he's taking a break from coaching foil. Again I fenced as though I were showing a friend what fun it was - and I was faster, more varied and quicker to see openings. I may have achieved a hand hit by luck but it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been doing my best. I remembered to parry more and to follow each parry with the best attack I could manage, even though my wrists weren't quite strong enough to take my opponent's blade easily.

Towards the end, I began to tire and when my opponent suggested we fence to five my will to win had evaporated. He attacked more strongly and my defences were too slow and weak. He won 5-0. But he remarked that I had improved and was harder to hit, adding that in our preliminary fencing I'd managed five hits in a row, so I didn't feel so bad.

There were no other epeeists. Seeing a 12-year-old sitting at the edge of the hall, I asked her if she'd like to fence me at foil. It's sometimes hard for fencers of that age to challenge fencers who seem much older and more experienced. It was good for me to try the discipline of foil and good for my legs to take up the challenge of fencing someone much smaller than me. After only a year, my young opponent has a good stance and technique. Perhaps she'll move on to epee when she's bigger and stronger. (I won, by the way, though she'll probably beat me when she's a bit bigger. Still, it's important to remember that fencing is not just for the young.)

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.

stabbing the ref.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" the chef asked, as we lined up for footwork practice. There wasn't really enough space. Yet again there were 40 or 50 fencers in the hall and most were lined up, trying to follow the coach's instructions without tripping over one another. Luckily it was a short practice just varying speed and length of step with the occasional lunge and recovery.

It probably wasn't wise, but I shan't feel the pain till tomorrow. My foot still hurts and the doctor did tell me to rest it. I have rested it. (When I sleep I rest it for hours at a time.) Fencing is a great deal better than not fencing. And fencing with lunging and movement is much better than standing still and trying to parry. Perhaps I say that because I'm not very good at parrying. Doubtless the practice has been good for me.

Yet again there were queues for pistes. After Easter we're to have the hall for longer which should resolve the situation. As it was, the chef and I spent most of the time fencing steam, though we took out turn on the electric piste for epeeists. For some reason, the chef insisted we do foil as well as epee, just so that we could remember how to do it. But I don't remember how to do it. I tried to recall how to parry a foil, how to get right of way, what the target area was.

The pistes seemed narrower, though perhaps my clumsiness was to blame. On the electric piste, I was too close to the sabreurs, who seemed even more exuberant than usual after their successes in the recent Open. I was trying to be exuberant too, I've worked out that if I take enough exercise, I can't feel the pain in my foot any more - and that must be a good thing, mustn't it? ("You mean it's numb," the chef said critically.) I wasnt very successful but I got some hits and at least I was moving backward and forward and managing some lunges, though they weren't very deep. I tried some tricks and actually got a couple of hits by coming en garde in the low line and then raising my blade ... until the chef worked out what I was doing and hit me on the wrist. I tried some energetic parries and a few more odd blade positions - that's when I hit the ref.

She wasn't our ref. - she was reffing the sabreurs on the next piste, and perhaps I did no more than catch the body wire which wasn't properly tucked in her breeches' back pocket. I don't know what the penalty is for stabbing the ref. - or whether a ref. on an adjacent piste can impose a penalty. It wasn't a proper bout anyway - just a knockabout.

I lost the only scored (steam) bout that I had, against one of the male epeeist. He won 15-8, which would be a good score for me if I didn't suspect that he was deliberately leaving his forearm open for me to hit. Sometimes I missed. The chef reffed and I didn't stab her, even when I wasn't sure about the point. When I reffed the short bout that followed (curtailed by closing time) I was too tired to see the blades clearly. They flashed and blurred and I wasn't sure where the hits had landed.

My foot suffered twinges and the last half-mile of the walk h ome made me wonder if I'd been wise to fence. But I don't regret it, even though there may be pain tomorrow.

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.

shoes, blisters and taking the blade

I was late to fencing. My train was late home, there was no lift, so I stuffed my kit into backpack and sword bad and set out to walk.

I haven't yet replaced the old trainers with holes, which finally lost all efficiency. It was wet, so sandals wouldn't do. I thought about walking boots, but for some reason could find only one. So, rather than wear the white trainers I keep for fencing, I put on my blue work shoes. After all, the heels aren't that high.

By the time I'd left the house, returned for the things I'd forgotten and set out again, I realised I was going to be late. With only a few yards covered, my feet began to hurt. I stuck out my thumb in a hopeful attempt to hitch. After all, if any driver proved dangerous I did have three swords with me.

The drivers didn't stop. They must have thought a middle-aged woman with large rucksack and three swords was most likely mad. I could see their point. I staggered on.

It's school half-term so there was plenty of space in the hall. Unfortunately some of the space was caused by the absence of epeeists. There were only two other epeeists: male, experienced fighters, taller than me and with a longer reach. I managed a few hits, possibly because they were being kind. They managed quite a few - but this week most of the hits I took were painless, which was an improvement.

I struggled quite badly in the second bout. "You have to take my blade," my opponent said helpfully. I tried in the approved manner - forte to foible. Every time I tried he still managed to control my blade, force it into a circle, take it out of the way and land a hit.

"So what do I do?" I asked. "Exercise to strengthen my wrist?" It didn't seem likely I could make my wrist that much stronger.

"Aim here," he said, helpfully, indicating his wrist just behind the guard.

"But you take my blade first," I complained. "And anyway, I'm already trying to be accurate."

"You could win on speed," he encouraged.

"But I don't do fast. I think this is as fast as I get."

My opponent smiled.

OK readers - any ideas?

restless fencer looks for a mirror

I was late to fencing and had to leave early. One hour and ten minutes just isn't enough.

All the careful arrangements for lifts fell apart so I rang for a taxi. There were none available. After trying a list of cab firms without luck - what was going on? and why wasn't I invited? - a friend gave me and my son a lift. I'd missed the warm-up and the club was swarming with sabreurs, whose slashing movements take up (I'm convinced) more room than foil or epee.

The good news was the return of an epeeist who has been unwell and off work for the past eight weeks. I thought this might affect his fencing but, while he may be rebuilding stamina, his accuracy was devastating. Perhaps he spent eight weeks in bed practising wrist hits on visitors.

I fenced two other opponents with a little more success, still not managing a stance in which my wrist was well-guarded. "Practise with a mirror," I've been advised, but we don't have any big mirrors - our biggest is about a foot square and awkwardly placed in the kitchen between the cooker and the saucepans. That's probably not the best place to brandish an epee. There are a couple of mirrors on bathroom cabinets but no space for a lunge. And then there are a couple of small mirrors (about four inches square). I suppose I could hang one on the raspberry bushes that are taking over the garden - or even on the plum tree - but I wonder what the neighbours would say if they saw me with a sword in the garden. Might they think it's a new technique for cutting the lawn or trimming the hedge? If not, an ASBO seems inevitable.

I had less fencing than I wished, but I probably had a better evening than my son, whose back is troubling him. The doctor says it's a result of growing rapidly; he's suddenly taller than me (only just) and his voice has deepened. Growing an inch a month for six months causes odd aches which makes fencing tricky. He did his best, but left early and walked home in the warm Spring night.

Since the curtailed club night, I've been tired and restless. I'm busy at work, but too much time is spent sitting at my desk. I look for excuses to prowl the corridors or go up and down stairs. I'd quite like to stab a few colleagues (consensually and competitively). But it's probably not a good idea. Mind you, there are some good big mirrors in the ladies' toilets. Now there's a thought.