Nick Bullock writes about a memorable day of ticking climbs at Tremadog...

Years down the line, if you're lucky, you've gained experience, you've sorted your ego and you really begin to enjoy climbing for the climbing and disregard what others may - or may not - be thinking. At this point, the weirdness, the quirkiness and the beauty of mad movement become something to aim for — two-dimensional doesn't quite cut it anymore. You become like Quint, the Captain of the Orca in the film Jaws; a person who bucks the trend, someone a large percentage of folk can't quite fathom. 

Living in a popular climbing area like North Wales has advantages. The advantages include, of course, that you have the time and knowledge to get stuck into all of the climbs a visiting climber only has a short window of opportunity to complete. There are also disadvantages: one being, that after several years of ticking-off the best climbs in the area, you now turn to esoteric and unstarred. After this, you resort to traverses, link-ups and weird challenges — and after that, you turn into a person like my friend Tim Neill. Tim is a shark hunting in the dark and murky areas, seeking rotting morsels that other fish leave well alone. 

Among the many hunting grounds in my territory is Tremadog. Situated on the north-west coast, south-west of the more dramatic and mountainous Llanberis Pass, it's a series of crisp (and mostly solid), dolerite cliffs. Looking out from the Tremadog cliff tops, there are fields grazed by sheep and cows, a bird-inhabited marsh, and the Cob; a dam (with a road and a narrow-gauge railway running its span), controlling the vast swathe of dark, tidal water forming Cardigan Bay. 

In British climbing history, Tremadog is important. It is also very popular due to its dry climate, its close proximity to the road, its spread of grades — and generally, its well-protected, thought-provoking style. More often than not, the climbing is vertical with bold arêtes, tricky grooves and physical cracks. Trusting friction, and being able to unlock weird, three-dimensional sequences is to your advantage! If you lack these qualities, more than likely you will find yourself over-grasping, pumped and lobbing. Taking a lob on many of the crags in North Wales is fine, it's a dirty little secret between you and your belayer. Tremadog is different, lobbing at Tremadog is very on-show, it has to be treated as a group activity and embraced. If you don't like to be seen floundering, give Tremadog a wide berth.  

Over the years, I've had a hate-love affair with Tremadog. In the beginning, it was somewhere to go when it was raining in the hills and when it wasn't raining, it was avoided. My rudimentary, self-honed, front-on brawn that overcomes all style, failed on my first Tremadog visit. In fact, it failed so dramatically, I ended up unconscious in hospital. 

Many years after my fall, in 2003, I paid off the mortgage on my house, gave up full time work as a PE Instructor in the Prison Service, and became not a professional climber (I can't imagine being professional at anything, especially climbing), but more of a climbing bum, with no fixed abode. Having the freedom to stay anywhere, I chose to spend my summers in North Wales and with the extra time, found myself frequently at Tremadog. On occasion, it felt like I was getting it! In general, though, I still avoided the place, because the style remained too bruising for my ego. I could romp up mid-grade Es almost anywhere, but not Tremadog.

Thousands of climbs later since that first, bruising visit to Tremadog, I'd like to think, I've become a climber with a bit of nouse and some form of technique (open to discussion!). I was climbing with my partner Zylo and about to start the three-star classic, Silly Arête. Over the years, I'd climbed Silly Arête many times. It was a fine climb; crisp, crozzly, grippy, airy, solid and all at a moderate grade of E3 5c, a grade harder than the one I had fallen from and ended up in hospital! Silly Arête was a sparkling, flamboyant beast, situated high up, a bold line to be tiptoed not bullied.

Zylo and I had climbed a few easier routes (I'm not sure Barbarian, the Joe Brown E1 we had climbed earlier, was much easier than Silly Arête, but on paper it is, so there you go!), and I suggested we finish with Silly Arête. The following morning, I was catching an early flight for the Netherlands and I thought it would be a pleasant tiptoe, leaving us (me), sated. Zylo had not been climbing much, and felt like she'd done enough, but I explained that the climb was just a slabby arête: 'it's all on the feet, it's more about the leader run-out, you'll be fine, it'll be over in a jiffy'. Reluctantly she agreed and I set off before she changed her mind.

I zoomed up the parallel cracks at the start of the real climbing, but as I reached the top of the cracks, forcing my body beneath the large overhang that guarded the flying arête above, I suddenly remembered that pulling through the overhang is actually quite tricky. I really wished I remembered this kind of thing, but for some reason, my mind (or is it my ego), often blanks out the difficulties of previous ascents. At times, my mind even made things up; it was almost like something deep in the grey wanted to teach me a lesson in humility. I pulled from beneath the overhang, leaned out as far as possible and fished my hand around looking for a big hold. At this grade, there was obviously a big hold. Hmm, not a lot! Then, with my years of trad experience, there would obviously be a good piece of gear to keep the leader (me), should they fall, (Heaven forbid) from smashing into the wall below. Hmm, not a lot! I reversed and wedged beneath the overhang. Repeatedly, I pulled from beneath the overhang, looking for something, and cursed: Bloody Tremadog, just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water, this! 

At this stage, it would have been obvious to anyone — well, anyone other than me — that this was my lot (it should have been obvious as I'd climbed silly Arête several times!). I reversed, climbed, reversed, climbed. There were two small quartzite scabs. The more I crimped, the sweatier they became and the more I remembered that these were key to pulling over the constriction. Zylo shouted up encouragement. 

"At this rate, you're going to miss your morning flight." 

My answer to her encouragement was succinct and to the point, 

"Fuck off!"

Oh, what fun Zylo and I have! 

Eventually, I saw the foothold I'd been missing, performed a weird back-foot, drop-knee move (nouse), crimped the quartz edges, and made the move (stubbornness). Climbing at Tremadog can be supremely rewarding or frustrating and humbling, especially if your memory matches that of a fish.

It was the beginning of May in 2016 and one month later, a group of friends and I would take the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin to begin a three-week trip to the west coast of Ireland, finishing in the North at Fair Head. I had climbed twice before at Fair Head. The rock type is dolerite, the same as at Tremadog, and to climb some of the remaining routes that interested me, I felt I needed to get into the dolerite zone. The the place to do this was, of course, Tremadog.       

Tim Neill (king of the esoterica and rubbish routes that no-one else will ever do), and Kris McCoey (young, spritely, squeaky clean appearance and very talented) were joining me on the Fair Head trip and also keen to get into the dolerite zone. What better way, we decided, than a Tremadog extreme V-day. A V-day is as exactly that, a challenge to climb all of the extreme routes that begin with the letter V. In reality, this is piffle, because it's not all of the extreme routes beginning with the letter V.  This was bluntly pointed out by Mick Lovatt, (also known as The Perfect Man or TPM, due to his perfect appearance. If you don't know what Mick looks like think something along the lines of the mayor, Larry Vaughn, in Jaws with his well-groomed, snappy appearance and a bit of a bouffon). 

"What about Valerian." The Perfect Man said in deep and dulcet Lancashire.

"What about Valerian?" I replied.

"Well, it's not an extreme V-day without Valerian, is it?" He brushed at his perfectly thin, denim-covered thigh and steeled me with his perfect blue eyes.

Not being one for facts and figures and more of a, 'let's just get out and climb', kind of person, I could hardly remember the name of the six routes we were hoping to climb — never mind some obscure E1 on Pant Ifan. I brushed it aside, similar to TPM removing the speck of dust from his jeans, but the following day, as Tim, Kris and I stood on the grass verge next to the road beneath Vector Buttress, I mentioned the conversation to Tim. I had by then, of course, forgotten the name of the climb that TPM had pointed out that we were not climbing. Tim looked somewhat aghast; it was almost like I was asking for the beaches to be closed on a holiday weekend!

"Valerian."

"Yes, that's the badger."

"We don't need to do that."

"OH!? So, in this OCD exercise of ticking a list, we are not actually ticking the list?"

"It's not on the list."

"But it starts with V and its E1."

"Shush Nick."

Tim was looking uncomfortable. Tim is a lot taller and much more OCD than me, although he frequently argues this isn't true, (the OCD bit, he's 6'7", no one is going to argue he isn't the tallest!) but when it comes to lists and ticking, he most certainly missed his true vocation as a data analyst. I consoled myself. I was out for fun and to get into the dolerite zone — it didn't matter whether it was six, or seven routes.

Kris looked on with a total lack of concern, he was out for a sociable day of climbing with two old codgers and saw it as a service to the community.

The sun was shining. The grains of fine dolerite sparkled. The leaves on the trees that hide a large section of the cliff fluttered in the breeze. Void was the first climb. Tim decided that this one was his, which I didn't mind. I find the climbing into and out of an overhanging pod, desperate. Kris didn't mind. He was originally from Belfast, Fair Head had been his local crag, so it would all feel easy to him. Unfortunately, as we stepped from the loamy ground, the first 'easy' section was feeling quite difficult and I mused that if this was the first pitch of around ten (or should it have been twelve if we included Varian, which we were not!), I didn't have a hope in hell, which, as I've already explained, didn't matter. Not. At. All.

Sometime later, I pulled the last moves of Void with finger joints complaining and sat beside my big friend on top of the crag.

"Is it too early for the pub?"

"Shush Nick."

Kris topped out and asked, what next.

"Vulcan." I spat before either of the others could say a word.

I'd climbed Vulcan clean for the first time only yesterday. I'd been unceremoniously spat from it several years before when I attempted the onsight in full sun, with the floppiest pair of shoes possible. To say I was confident would have been a lie. Vulcan was not like — to quote from Jaws — 'going down the pond chasin' bluegills and tommycods'; get it wrong, it would be 'a little shakin', a little tenderizin', an' down you go!' 

I attacked the first hard finger-locking section and fell off. My mind and mouth were on the cusp of blurting "it's too warm, it's much more difficult in this sun!", but I held it in.

"Let me down, I'll give it another go." 

The second attempt went better. I scraped through without falling and as the three of us abseiled it began to hail, which reminded me of a story The Perfect Man had told me the day before. 

It was March, 1986. TPM and Paul Pritchard were in the slate quarries above Llanberis where TPM wanted to attempt Heading the Shot. Heading the Shot is a very technical slab on the dark and frictionless rock. In those days, it only had three bolts with home-made, angle iron hangars, which stuck out threateningly. The Perfect Man had inched his way to a standing position above the third bolt, where he strained to see the chips and divots in the black. Bolting on the slate was historically quirky and unlike the holds, the bruising fall he was looking at with those sharp, sticky out hangars was obvious. At that very moment; the heavens opened in the form of hail. TPM bowed his head against the rock. Paul, belaying, cackled like a demented snowman enjoying the craziness of the situation. Like frozen petit pois, pyramids built on those perfect and strong fingers and toes. After five minutes the hail stopped, but the slab was now running in water. The only dry patches were beneath TPM's fingers and toes. Not wanting to fall and now unable to move because the hail, piled onto fingers and toes would wet the tiny edges, he shouted to Paul:

"TIE ME OFF, RUN TO THE TOP, DROP ME A ROPE." 

Paul lassoed a boulder, ran to the top and dropped a rope with a loop. TPM yelled that it was in the wrong place, but no matter how much he shouted, the rope didn't move. The deep and manly Lancashire had risen an octave or two, some may say it was not so perfect, almost a little whiny! 

TPM could wait no longer, and jumped. He caught the rope, but it stretched and he fell head-first still clinging onto the rope. A few metres from the ground he whipped to a halt. The rope from above and the tied-off ropes from below eventually held him. Paul, puffing on a roll-up, peaked over the top to have a look at what all the swearing was about before bursting into howls of laughter. 

After the hail, neither Tim, Kris or I were howling with laughter, but after a bit of blather, we headed back to Bwlch y Moch and Vulture. Tim told me I had to let Kris to lead this one, as it was his turn, and he hadn't climbed it before. I'd like to say that I was happy with this — no, I was happy with this, but secretly, or not so secretly, today, I really wanted to lead Vulture. I had Vulture wired having climbed it many times and if I climbed it now, I would tick my quota. I'm not sure what was happening to the 'I'm not bothered how many of the six (or is it seven), we do?' mentality. The weather was as twisted as my head was becoming; so far it had been warm, sunny, cold, cloudy, raining, sleeting, snowing.

Kris onsighted Vulture (of course) and as Tim and I topped-out, my mind started to become a little obsessed. 'We can do this, we can climb these six, (or is it seven).' Oh no, its begun, but in a moment of lucidity, I had another thought, 'Fuck it, if we do five out of the six, or is it six out of the seven, I'll just say, I've done enough, numbers and lists don't mean anything, I'll go and sit in the van, and rejoice.'

We walked the path a few metres and stood beneath a perfect v-groove. TPM would have approved. I looked up and my heart sank, it looked desperate. Neither Kris nor I had climbed Venom, but I had heard of it and on the occasion I actually remember something about a climb, it generally means it was for the wrong reason. The v-groove had 'Get spanked!' written all over it!

Tim led Venom clean. He led it in great style and was now belayed beneath the final pitch of a climb called Pretzl Logic. Both Kris and I had been impressed watching Tim, a giant, who appeared to span left with a reach longer than the wings of an albatross. This stupid list was starting to weigh heavy. Looking into this groove, I could feel the definite yearning of wanting to complete the six (or is it seven), and not only did I want to complete them, I wanted to climb the six (or is it seven), clean and looking into this yawn of dolerite, I suspected I was about to fail. Kris — being young and talented — showed me the way to climb the groove without an albatross span and now, much to my relief, the three of us stood on a large belay ledge looking at bright green abseil tat wrapped around a tree.

"Are we abseiling then?"

"No, we have to climb the top pitch of Pretzl Logic as it's now included in the new guide as the finish to Venom."

I pointed out to Tim the error of his judgement, as we were not intending to climb the seventh V, Valerian, so it made no logic to bring in ethical rules to something without any rules. I looked a long way up into the eyes of my big friend wondering if he was having a pissing competition about who has the biggest scar! But maybe I was being pessimistic, maybe I was the Chief Brodie of Tremadog demanding a bigger boat, and before I could complain any more, Tim set off, jamming and smearing and pulling out squishy trumpet plants.

"Shush Nick."

The sky decided to dump hail and rain on the three of us as we abseiled back to the ground, and as we sat in the dark cave beneath the climb, it was obvious, this was it, this was the end of our V Day, with only two (or is it three) routes left to climb. Climbing parties were abseiling and running and shouting. The sky was black. The rock was wet. 

"I've had enough of shovelling this chum."

And with that, we sprinted to the van, and as the three of us squeezed into the front seats (Have I mentioned how big Tim is?), I began singing…

"Farewell and adieu to you, fair Spanish ladies. Farewell and adieu, you ladies of Spain. For we've received orders to sail back to Boston. And so nevermore shall we see you again."

"The first pitch of Vector will remain dry no matter what happens, we could climb that, and if it's still pouring, we can abseil?" Tim said

"OK."

I belayed Kris, who didn't appear concerned that the first sloping holds were wet as he appeared to sprint to the Vector cave. Tim and I joined him in the cave, and the sky cleared (along with all other parties on the crag), but out on the horizon, the night, the dark and the cold were fast approaching. The bell was tolling; we were about to slide along the deck and into the jaws of failure.

Kris took us to the top of Vector and serendipity (some would call it planning, but not me) now played its part. Yesterday, along with Vulcan, we had also climbed Valour, something of an obscure, but very good E2, with quite a difficult and bold, top pitch. This was the last of the climbs in the six (or was it the second-to-last, in the seven?). While Tim and I had sat in the Vector cave, we decided that we didn't need to do the first pitch of Valour (funny how Tim's determination to climb every pitch and forcing us on the top section of Pretzl Logic, had now done a U turn). It would be wet. It was a builder's yard. It wasn't the crux, so stood on top of the crag after completing Vector, I geared up in the gloom. Tim and Kris ran to the top of Valour and set up an abseil.

We threw ourselves down the rope, down into the gloom, down into our quest to complete all of the Tremadog Vs. Well, almost all, because with the night fast approaching, we had at last declared that Valerian really didn't count (along with the first pitch of Valour), but we had climbed all of the others!

I hit the belay tree running, and set off in the last of the light, trying not to think of all the smears in the shiny black rock I had confidently stood on yesterday. I was fine, fine… fine until I reached the final 4c v-groove, which required smearing and I couldn't see a single ripple, nor a pocket or an edge. Then, I was not fine! What had I done, I had allowed myself to be caught up in this quest for some arbitrary list, that wasn't even the full list, and here I was, slithering around a v-groove, in the gloom, about to fall. But at last I committed and by the lights of the Porthmadog rugby ground, slithered from the top of the groove and sat on top of the crag.

Kris and Tim joined me, both were laughing. We had completed the Tremadog Vs (well, all but the one that appears not to count because no one wants to do it!). It was half past nine, a fine time to finish something completely pointless — well, pointless apart from the memory, camaraderie, laughter and all of the great climbing.

"Pub?"