Curbar. 

A crag you always go to with big plans. 

Never a 'let's just see what we get on' crag; there is always a route in mind, whether you care to admit it or not… Elder Crack (E2 5b), L'Horla (E1 5b), Moon Walk (E4 6a), The End of the Affair (E8 6c) – famous, life-defining projects, stood alongside good, honest, gritstone days out. Routes that demand the sacrifice of every last scrap of skin you possess, and then some – whatever grade you are at.

The Peapod (HVS 5b) is no exception to those rules, and nor was I on a warm late September day back in 2022.

Walking into the crag with my partner Sam, we came up from the bottom through thick heather and somehow lost a rope in the undergrowth. Frustration bubbling over, the beginnings of a quarrel simmered… why? Because we had plans, both of us… and the thought of the routes ahead set our nerves a little off kilter, though there would be no climbing without the second rope.

Disaster was swiftly averted after Sam retraced our steps and ferreted around in the undergrowth, emerging triumphant a short while later. Rounding the next corner to meet our friends, we found Molly sitting on the floor, a flushed, beaming parcel of a human. 

'How's it going so far?' I enquired, knowing full well they would have been at the crag a couple hours already. Molly and Lewis are morning people, mine and Sam's efforts to leave the house efficiently are bemusing to any onlooker. 

'I've just onsighted Elder Crack!', the words tumbled out of Molly's mouth in breathless excitement and exhaustion.

Heck, it was going to be a good day. 

Late September sun playfully bathed the back of my shoulders. Discussing with Molly what we might do next, I suddenly remembered that I was not supposed to be in direct sunlight owing to the fact I was on a course of doxycycline for a possible Lyme's disease scare. The strappy climbing top I wore - my favourite - was doing little to protect me in this regard. 

Great friends are those that will sacrifice gritstone friction to the suncream gods, and Molly, ever prepared with the lotion I had forgotten, dutifully lathered up my exposed skin.

A steady start to the day (for me) saw us amble up P.M.C.1 (HS 4a) together, whilst the boys wandered round the corner to dispatch Left Eliminate (E1 5c).

We joined them a short while later, all too aware of the route on my mind. Chattering absentmindedly, we tried to distract ourselves from the towering wall above us.

I might be biased, but to me The Eliminates Wall is one of the most beautiful pieces of rock in the Peak. The delicate lichen patterns dappled across the weathered face, cut with soaring crack lines and outrageously blank faces between – it's a gritstone masterpiece.

Many of the lines are out of reach for us mere mortal climbers, but not The Peapod, at HVS 5b. A Joe Brown classic through and through, who else could have been the first ascensionist if not him? 

Racking up slowly, a myriad of thoughts zip through my mind. I count my cams methodically and add a few extra, because I can never bring myself to leave a good friend on the ground.

I'm apprehensive. The huge mouth of gritstone yawning above me beckons, yet its reputation precedes it. I've listened to countless stories of friends failing to make it out the pod's clutches.

Setting up the starting crack, I quickly gain a footing at the bottom of the pod. Squirrelling upwards a short distance, I bury a red offset in the back as high as I can manage and retreat down to the base of the pod, contemplating all life decisions that led me to this point.

I seconded the route two years prior, my memories mostly of cold fingers and being utterly overwhelmed by the experience on a blustery autumn day, with some significant rope assistance to exit the crack. Never before had I set eyes on such a compelling piece of grit, and the route had occupied a huge space in my mind ever since. Was I really going to try it on lead?

Efforts to push past experiences aside find me dithering… encouraged by Molly, Sam, and Lewis below, and flanked by gritstone either side, I steady a foot in front and press my hands into the rock behind me, allowing the tension to build in my body, slowly, quietly, until I can lift the second foot. 

Held in this great rock womb, I am utterly committed. 

Inching slowly upwards, I adjust each limb in precise, minuscule movements, careful not to disturb the delicate equilibrium I have created with my body. The pod presents an unusual juxtaposition. Whilst feeling simultaneously wedged and secure, the possibility of toppling out nonetheless hovers at the edges of my fingertips...

I go to chalk up and encounter another hurdle – I have inadvertently squashed my chalk bag flat behind me. A few nerve-wracking wriggles later it's clipped to the front of my harness hanging between my legs instead.

Chalk up, shuffle a little, do not lose the tension, even for a moment. Steady progress upwards towards the old cam rusting gracefully in the back of the pod, knowing I'll get my next bit of gear once I'm close enough to reach it, the red offset feeling a long way below…

Arm tentatively outstretched, cam in hand, I seat it in the seam splitting the gritstone and clip it neatly.

I pause, and let friction do the work for a moment, as I contemplate the next section. I know that exiting the pod is where the difficulties really begin.

A couple of deep breaths and I'm edging upwards again. Nearing the top, I turn my body in slightly and, suddenly, find myself committed. Releasing one hand, it dances over the gritstone, searching blindly around the top of the pod, desperate for something reassuring to grasp. 

'Higher, higher, you need to get the good jam!', the words float upwards between my ragged breaths and rapidly advancing full body pump.

There's nothing good, what's he talking about?! I encourage my protesting feet fractionally higher, and will my fingers to find anything I can use. 

There, a gap that might - might - take a jam. It's the only option I have. Thrusting my hand in, I beg my tendons to think strong thoughts, and yard off my hand with all the willpower I have left.

Up, up, the second hand comes through, frantic, and burrows into the crack. I've never felt more precarious and exhausted. The temptation to let go threatens to bubble over, it feels impossibly ridiculous.

'Feet up, quickly! You can't hang around there!'

'I know, I know!' I'm screaming internally, but what comes out is a garbled shout of fear, frustration, and sheer determination as I get the right foot onto the good hold and lever my shaking body up on to the ledge.

I'm a wobbly mess of nausea, pump, grazed hands and disbelief. I'm out of the pod; I can't believe it. I feel like I might topple off the ledge in shock and hastily stuff a cam into the crack.

Calming my breathing down to something resembling a functioning oxygen supply, I call down to Sam and ask him what the last section of crack is like, my memory of it lacking. The thought of dropping the route now heartbreaking…

'It's steady, but you still need to focus. Take a moment to rest'.

The final few metres pass in an over-gripping blur, and before I know it, I'm seated on the flat expanse of gritstone at the top. My shouts of elation and incredulity echo across the valley, a joy so exuberant that an old couple poke their heads around the rocks behind me, concerned I'm having a heart attack. 

I reassure them that I am ok, just pleased to have done the route. They look at me as if I am mad, give me a cheery wave, and carry on.

Sitting at the top, my thoughts gather themselves in a bundle of gratitude, gratitude that I get to live days like this.

Writing this article over two years later, I can recall everything perfectly, my memory vivid and dazzling with colour, emotion, friendship, and a connection to the rock under my tired hands. It makes me smile every time I think about it.

I recently looked back at my logbook entry on UKC, to see what I wrote at the time. The entry sums up the experience surprisingly accurately:

The woman that pulled onto the initial holds was not the same climber that hauled herself over the top. Leading The Peapod left more than just the scuffs of gritstone on the back of my hands, it imparted a deep sense of joy on me, and a changed perspective on my ability to throw myself at intimidating lines.

Whilst I don't always manage to recall that confidence, and sometimes the fire feels more like a collection of softly glowing embers; each time I go back to Curbar, I pop up to see her, place a hand by the starting crack, and say hello to a steadfast and beautiful friend.

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