In this weekly feature, Her.ie goes behind enemy lines to see what it’s really like to be single in Ireland. From speed dating to making speedy escapes, our no-holds-barred blog will follow our attempts to venture into the dating jungle, play the field and share any wisdom that we finds along the way.

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It is with the last semblance of dignity that I can admit my dating history reads like an Eastenders script. I’ve had my fair share of dramas, from multiple (yes, multiple) gay exes’ to long distance relationships and even a brief stint with an Internet sensation. But as ever, being the perpetual ‘silver linings’ kind of girl, I’ve learned a plethora of lessons to share from these experiences. We shall start at the beginning, with the humble first date. My number one rule for first dates is No Alcohol, No Cinema and No Rock Climbing. The first two are fairly obvious and I have an abundance of tales as to why they’ve been enforced. Like, really enforced. How and ever, let me tell you a cautionary tale as to why the third firmly stands. Once upon a time, in a sparse late night diner, I met a young dapper gentleman who happened to be a soldier. Over a 9-piece, he shared his passion for rock climbing and adventure activities. My much younger self had a penchant for adventure and the challenge was alluring. Slightly inebriated, I accepted this chap’s offer to join him in Killiney quarry later in the week. Now, older and wiser and having spent the majority of my twenties analysing my youth, I’ve come to realise that the affinity for adventure was actually a desire to partake in the less adventurous of the adventure sports. I loved kayaking, still do, but that’s just sitting in a long hollow thing and moving your arms in circles. I loved abseiling but that’s just being hoisted to the top of a height and bouncing off a wall to the ground. I have since realised that the fitness level I assumed I had was a mere illusion. With a predictable amount of determination and arrogance, I drove to meet Soldier boy in Killiney and was horrified to find, not a multi-coloured wall with potholes (á lá Carlingford), but rather, a giant vertical sheet of solid rock. A quarry of solid rock, in fact. Perched on the edge of the highest point, was my date – kitted out fully in lycra and tiny, tiny climbing shoes. He was a good looking chap and pulled it off but as he explained the process of abseiling to the bottom to climb up in turns, I knew in my heart of hearts I’d made a huge error. He said: “You can stop whenever you want.” Soldier boy abseiled in seconds and scaled that sheet of rock like Spiderman on performance enhancing drugs. And then it was my turn. He had me in that harness before I could dispute, tied up (and not in a good way) and just as we edged the quarry, he stopped and said, “you’ll need climbing shoes”. Mortified that my Chuck Taylor’s weren’t up to scratch, I stood dumbfounded as he said “you look like a six, you can take mine”. Now, two scenarios immediately formed in my mind. The first was to admit to this man that although his tiny man feet were not a personal issue, there was an issue in that I was a size seven and a half and knew factually that this would not work. The second was to ignore all common sense and try fit into these tiny foot prisons. I’m not proud to say I chose the latter. I abseiled like a pro as, it is, for all intents and purposes, bending your knees and bouncing. But then began the ascent. With the wise words of M.R. Cyrus ringing in my ears, I embarked. “It ain’t about how fast we get there, it ain’t about what’s waiting at the other side – it’s the climb”. About half way up, I could feel the blood pumping from my toes. Dirt was embedded in my nails and I’d been climbing for what felt like decades. My face was plum in colour and bright enough to have safely landed an aircraft. My spaghetti arms shook like jelly and I had a very unfortunate wedgie from the harness. All in all, not a great date look. And yet, I persevered for another quarter, heaving my way up the quarry like I was some sort of Lara Croft. Shaken but proud of myself for coming that far, I shouted up that I wanted to stop and abseil back down. Abseiling was, after all, my only distinguishing achievement of the day. As my shaken legs landed on the cold ground, I realised that the only alternative route to the top was quite a lengthy and still quite vertical stroll. Forty-five minutes later, as I reached the top and the sun set, Soldier boy suggested we part ways, clean up and head to the cinema. He said he’d text me a plan. It’s been six years and I’m still waiting for that text. To this day if a potential date ever suggests an “adventure activity”, I politely decline, wriggle my toes in my Chuck Taylors and move on to the next lesson in life.