The End of Summer…
Did it ever begin?
Having spent the last seven weeks reasonably fit for rock, the weather, or more to the point, the rain, has not stopped. It has been a frustrating summer.
Sitting in Ynys, the Climber Club Hut in the Llanberis Pass my unofficial summer residence, I have the time to reflect before jumping on a plane…
The summer started well. The BMC International Meet – sun, dry crags, loads of climbing, loads of routes to work the winter out of my body…The Axe, Me, Mr Softy, Authentic Desire, Right Wall, Left Wall, Pretty Girls make Graves, Rust Never Sleeps, Cream-Vector-Void… Dry rock, tanned skin and bullshit in the evenings washed down with red wine and Favresse thrashing his mini-guitar like a mad-man.
This summer, more than any summer was going to be amazing…
Cyrn Las – Lubyankar and the Skull… Noddy and I picked up the Pimp as He and Evans abseiled bailing from their second attempt at the Skull - Evans already late for dinner.
Devon was fun… sprinting up the heavily featured fins of Sharpnose between showers. Noddy slapping in the wet, his hair plastered to his head, laughing and fighting… Falling from Coronary Country was disappointing but at least I had given it a go and lying in the cave beneath Pentire Head waiting for the shower to stop, desperate to climb Darkinbad was more than disappointing. Gear-up, flake rope, tie-on, pull-on… almond drops hitting heavy… untie and run away was becoming a factor in my summer.
Another day walking the sodden headland and climbing in the rain at Cow and Calf – while over there, around the dark crumbling coast Smoothlands beckoned and the hull of the wrecked ship, The Incredible Hulk, burst from the shingle rotting in the rain… We left Devon early when the drizzle became too much.
Wen Zawn was dry and perfect in May, but as fitness improved the rain increased… Wainright, McHaffie, Geldard and me rapped in to Wen zawn without a hope in Heaven. Alistair and Ian had driven from Sheffield to film and we owed them at least a look. Caff had a close look, but the wall was wet and a sky-hook held when a hold broke.
“Does anyone want to top-rope it to my high point?” Caff asked with only a sky-hook as the top anchor… Nutter!
Rubble – my climb, dripping salt and rain, didn’t inspire… and then as the tide turned, the sky already dark… turned black. We jugged the ab-rope pelted by rain and laughed but in deep inside we wept with frustration.
A new route on the Upper Tier at Gogarth with McManus, then, psyched, he suggested Free Spiders Web for the cool down… “It’ll be a laugh.”
A laugh!
I suggested the Ragged Runnel in Easter Island Gully… And several hours later we emerged with yet another memory banked… And more respect for Joe Brown with his fishing rod and Big George without, as we ran away laughing, shaking heads and murmuring like mad-men… “The fucking Ragged Runnel, oh, the fucking Ragged Runnel... E56a Bollocks!”
North Stack, Grey Seals, Guillemots, yellow and green on the vertical field, a brisk breeze funnelling into the zawn and desire… I fell in love… again … And again her folds revealed movement like no-other. Desire saw me climb Wreath as a warm up… Then slow sideways movement attempting the Angleman until like all the other relationships, I could not commit.
Holding Neil Youth’s ropes on Hollow Man brought back memories… North Stack, more than anywhere holds my heart. The wind gusted and the sea whipped and sprayed the quartzite and for once I didn’t turn to talk to the Grey Seals swimming behind me in the bay. Youth, calm and collected sent The Hollow Man with style.
We battled on Lundy as the wind and the gales smoothed the Rough Granite and battered our psyche and our determination. I ran around the island one day. Waves crashed, spume and foam flew raking the cliffs. Seagulls twisted in the dark sky. The rain pelted my skin reminding me I am living. This, my first visit to Lundy made me remember it’s the experience, the situation, the hardship and the risk that makes something worth while…
I received a text the day I sailed to Lundy telling me a Great E6 was now an average 7B because one man decided it could be and while watching Dan passing, without clipping one of the many bolts placed into the granite here on the Lundy cliffs, more than ever I feel the routes climbed through arrogance and impatience and lack of thought or fibre should not be included in guide books.
Wainright and I slid down the rope, passing red and green and history until beneath The Super Calabrese. I climbed the new start that Youth and Caff put up last year using their handholds as footholds. Pritchard’s original start, green slime and festering with one old peg didn’t appeal sans ice axe, or is it I was not brave enough to attempt the climb in its original style? The original start has only had one repeat… maybe we should bolt it as lack of ascents appears to justify the death of adventure on other crags? Then when the climb has lost its personality and the hoards have raped it we can celebrate and shake our very small genitalia… The climb is there still in its original form and so it should remain, it is a masterpiece and a credit to its maker.
Two days ago I returned from a week in Mallorca, with tufa’s and DWS and friends and laughter…
And now it’s over… another one done. The plane takes off on Friday and my winter begins.