Forget Leo Houlding. I was the original kiddy climbing prodigy; a fat, gurgling pioneer who equipped with nothing more protective than a hand-me-down smock, cream tights and round-toed, patent shoes, made short work of the domestic arêtes of an art-deco semi on the blustery Southern coast. Pudgy-faced, dumbly determined and tiny, I claimed first ascents on The Corner of The Bath, The Patio Table and The Fridge Door – technical grades not noted. So historical accuracy would therefore have it that my first lead was not simply a lead, but a rather ambitious solo at the smooth end of a table leg circa 1983, whilst my mum hosted a coffee morning in the lounge, serving up biscuits that you can't buy anymore.
In reality however, it took place twenty-three years later. Four months into a rather curious love affair with climbing - injured, recovered, cream tights optional - I stood at the bottom of Grooved Arete. The chilled silence of Ogwen, the neutral trickle of a mountain stream, the fighter jets that claimed the valley as their own playground, irreverent in their ferocity and the whole damn thing bathed in milky sunlight. 'So, do you want to lead it, then?' That was John, prosaically sorting out gear, dumping it, grouping it, clinks and heavy ropes, a few feet from me.
'OK.'
And that was it.
It was a weekday, a school day, a decadent day to be out alone, caught in the hoof of the mountains.. The lead itself? A desperate, breathless cleave up the arc of the route. My first belay was thrown to me, words whipped away on the breeze; no worries, I figured it out. Below me, two trembling sweethearts took refuge from their own fear (the woman, sprouting tears onto her new, shiny clothes, the man looking sombre, as if he should've taken her to the 'flicks after all....), watching me instead as I looped a sling around a rock and sat back, chuffed.
'Climb when ready!' I yelled.
And then, I realised. I was not just leading for me, but for John, too. The roles now reversed as I watched him come up, taking pride in my own placements, in the path I'd laid for him. I watched, the sun lowering a few degrees, washing the valley floor in the cool of evening, my hands quietly, carefully, belayed him up, the ropes coiling into obsolescence behind me. And suddenly, shyly, the little girl, thumb in mouth, patents on, reappeared beside me. A ghost on a crag, we sat side by side in symbiotic silence beneath apricot skies, her enthusiasm hushed and me, giving rise to the silent careful moderations of the adult, watching. We walked off Tryfan that night, and I turned to look at her. In dusk, the mountains were turning into volcanic black silence. I watched the sun sink, the stars begin to shyly appear, and with goosebumps rising on my arm, walked back to my car and drove home.
You know, growing up is taking someone with you
Comments