The walk home after sixth form past the glue sniffers was losing its appeal. I didn't need my large glasses and dodgy adolescent hairdo to attract any more ridicule than they already did. Being loudly compared to a newsreader off the telly wasn't the sort of recognition I wanted. As I ran from the stones coming my way, it was clear that something had to change. Not long after, I found the Doncaster Mountaineering Club in the cosy confines of The Swan. Welcomed in by warm-hearted characters who became my friends, I was quickly led astray. Every Sunday we'd drive to Grindleford Caff in Dick Tutin's chugging Vauxhall Viva. We'd have a brew and a teacake, and chose a crag. On the way there we'd go for a cheeky piss up the side of the Fox House Inn (“Bastards barred me”, grumbled a mischievous Mr Tutin each time). Once at the crag, we'd swear a lot, have a crap in the bracken and then fight our way up the day's routes. I spent every Sunday seconding, and the following week wandering round school with scabby hands, looking hard.

One morning we were lurking in the Caff. With a humorous twitch of his beard, Dick introduced the day's game: I was to choose a route from a choice of three, and then lead it: I was terrified! I'd had a hard time seconding and had no idea about leading so I chose the most innocuous sounding route I could. To my innocent teenage ears, Moneylender's Crack sounded “generous”.

When the escapade began, the laugh was on me. Towards the end, the situation was fairly spicy and no one was laughing. Edale brought the first confrontation of the day with the infamous “Mr Sticky”: a gentleman fond of beating people with his cane as they passed his gate. He was a 'friendly' lunatic and posed no danger, so we moved on! The final confrontation of the day was with Moneylender's. It began easily, but became serious as I dropped gear and my placements rattled or fell out. I shook, was nearly sick and finally found halfway peace with my head jammed in a weird gritstone erosion hole and my arse wedged in a big crack. The seriousness had dawned on the others and a rope was lowered, but I had no idea what to do with the unknotted end a few feet away. Panic stricken I pushed on, gasping towards the sunlight. By the time I got the top of the crag in my hands, I'd looked death in the eye. Dick's outstretched hand helped me haul over the top in a mess of fear, spittle, and dirt. The blood and retching became a celebrated comedy feature of my early leads. However, this was made up for by the friendships, beer and 'accidental' Sunday morning shoplifting that was an essential part of my growing up.

I may not have turned into Jerry Moffatt, but the life I found on those dark moors is worth a thousand adolescent dreams of grandeur: Yosemite and the North America Wall, Sinai granite, Fair Head and a thousand other places in between.