In reply to abr1966:
My first ever trip to the gritstone: frosty November morning, groped our way up to the rocks with dense fog sliding through the trees. Smoke coming from the grim Rock Hall as we shuffled past beneath looming buttresses. Then out of the mist comes this old guy with a roll of fire sticks on his back like something off that Led Zeppelin record cover. He stopped us and said something loud in Staffordshireish, a big axe slung over his shoulder, then just drifted off into the mist.
The Roaches will always be magical for all that...