Iain Peters writes about his favourite route: a treasured first ascent which has become a sea-cliff classic...

Discovering a potential classic new route can be down to luck, such as being in the right place at the right time, maybe due to prior knowledge of where the gaps in a particular crag might be, or even through eavesdropping unguarded conversations by rivals. Not many have been found while on the run from a severe beating or possible arrest, but that is exactly how I came to be looking down an impressive corner on the peninsula of Treryn Dinas, better known as The Gurnard's Head near Zennor in West Penwith at dusk one wild, late spring evening in 1966.

I had just turned 18 at the time and - like many of my generation - was a rebel without a cause apart from climbing, broke and living very unofficially at the Climbers' Club's Count House, with only one unlikely ambition, to make first ascents that would eclipse those made on the Cornish granite by the likes of the Biven brothers or the military climbers such as John 'Zeke' Deacon and Mike Banks. On that day any ascents let alone first ones lay buried by the massive waves thundering into Porthmoina Cove, making the pub at Gurnard's Head an attractive proposition even though the landlord was a miserable old bastard with a dislike of anyone who looked like a climber. By the time I'd walked through the storm I looked more drowned than crag rat, so he reluctantly accepted my last few coins for a half of bitter and a seat in the corner by the fire. 

There was only one other customer, a big guy feeding the one-armed bandit with coins, the only sounds in the room the dull thud as he pulled the handle down followed by a tinny whirring as the fruit symbols revolved, always fruitlessly! Eventually, after using all his change, he walked up to the bar, ordered a pint, and sat scowling at me. Realising that unless I ordered another drink I might well be asked to leave, I counted out the contents of my pocket. No joy there, a few coppers and a solitary threepenny bit, nowhere near enough for a refill so picked up my pint walked over to the machine, inserted the coin, pulled the handle and was walking back to my seat when there was a loud clatter as coins spewed out onto the floor. Three cherries no less, the jackpot! I scooped them up and with pockets bulging approached the bar and ordered not one but two pints of best and a whisky chaser to celebrate my good fortune before returning to my seat.

By the second pint I was feeling very mellow when the chair I was sitting on collapsed. The landlord roared at me to get out. At the same time the unlucky punter stood up, declared that by rights my winnings belonged to him and stepped towards me menacingly. He was extremely big and very unhappy. Instinctively I picked up a chair leg and hurled it at him in self defence. Unfortunately, the effect of the alcohol slightly spoiled my aim and the projectile flew straight towards the landlord who ducked so that my chair leg wiped out a row of optics on the wall behind him. It seemed a good time to make myself scarce, so rather than risk being caught on the road home I thought it wiser to lose any pursuers by running across the fields to the coastal path.

Some rocks on the neck of the headland provided a suitable hideout as I figured that no one would look for me in such an inhospitable place. Sure enough, no angry figures appeared. Out of curiosity, I glanced down and found myself staring pop-eyed at one of the most impressive corners I had ever seen, a steep groove that disappeared into the void above the surf crashing into a glistening, black cave-like zawn. Back at the hut, and recovered from the incident at the pub, I decided that I had accidentally found a line that would make the likes of Suicide Wall, Thin Wall Special or Green Cormorant Face seem like walks in the park, but I would need to find a companion prepared to venture into such hostile territory.

Soon after I got temporary work as a climbing instructor for Jim Smith, another fine, retired Royal Marine climber from St Ives, but he was now a guide so there was no opportunity to revisit the great corner until the end of August. Two brothers from London arrived at the hut. Neither had climbed anywhere except for the sandstone outcrops of Kent, so were suitably impressed by their first granite seacliffs, one of them so much so that after getting caught by a wave at the foot of Bosigran Ridge he decided he would prefer to explore the safer moors and coastal paths. John, who had got across without getting wet declared himself eager to experience further seacliff adventures. I had my companion for the big one.

On a sunny but breezy morning we walked swiftly and discreetly past the pub, out across the fields towards the Gurnard's Head. The corner, still in the shade, looked extremely impressive especially as I only had a very basic rack of machined nuts, thin slings and my secret weapons, two pitons 'borrowed' from the first stance of the classic Doorpost and a claw hammer from the hut toolbox. We scrambled down easy slabs beyond the corner to a comfortable hollow above the waves from where an obvious traverse line led back towards the cave.

I set off, relieved to discover that the line was plastered with excellent holds ensuring that the first pitch at least was eminently climbable. We gathered beside a horizontal roof that ended in an overhung niche below the main corner. I decided that the true line started from a tide-washed ledge near the entrance to the cave and set off down on steep but friendly rock to a tricky step across a groove to a small stance where I hammered in the first piton and called up for John to follow. Fortunately, he didn't seem too troubled by the unprotected down-climb although seemed a little bit nervous when a curious seal popped up just below his feet!

Now for the great corner. Easy up to the roof, a step up and there, at last in all its right-angled glory lies my yellowbrick road to fame and glory. Except it isn't, for the corner, so steep and intimidating from above is in reality, slabby and friendly with comforting holds and secure jams wherever needed. I place my last piton, not out of any real requirement for protection, more as a gesture to the situation, then top-out with no ecstatic cry of triumph, just a sense of real disappointment that my last great problem has succumbed far too easily. John comes up, seems delighted with his first ever new route, even offers to buy me a pint at The Gurnard's Head. I decline for obvious reasons.

Over half a century later, with so many having climbed and enjoyed the Right Angle, my initial, youthful disappointment has mellowed with age and countless repeats, including a memorable 50th anniversary ascent in August 2016 when it was climbed by myself along with fifty of my friends and my family. On that occasion, once the last pair had completed the route, we all gathered in the pub, nowadays a smart bistro style establishment with prices to match and no one-armed bandits. Needless to say, no chairs collapsed and the optics remained intact.

Whenever I return to West Penwith I am drawn to repeat the route, simply because it never fails to delight. I have climbed it alone, to savour the exposure on those big holds without the need for rope or gear, been near drowned on another occasion when huge waves engulfed us on the stance at the end of the alternative higher traverse into the corner. Luckily we were dropped a rope from above to climb out soaked and shivering. On another memorable occasion we were there with a bunch of young kids - some as young as 7 or 8 - and watched them scamper up my impossible corner without a care in the world.

I cannot think of it as my route. How can one own a lump of stone, the sea beneath or the sky above? Yes, I was lucky to find and climb it all those years ago, the first substantial route on the killas or greenstone, but happy now that it is at a grade that many can enjoy. Naturally, I'm still looking forward to making further ascents myself, if I'm spared!

Add it to your UKC Wishlist: Right Angle (HS 4b), Gurnard's Head

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