I had expected mountains, not a sheep's rear end.

I have no intention of dwelling upon that age old cliché -the relationship between rural men and their sheep, however a great woolly butt was not the first sight I'd expected the  Ogwen valley to offer. The wretched beast had nestled down beside my tent mistaking it for some sort of crude wind shelter. Inside, I'd made the same error myself, guessing the fancy zips and goretex to be effective against the ceaseless rain.

 Now the thing would not budge more than a metre from my dwelling, and here I was, talking sternly to it and clapping my hands. This was the first sight beheld by one of the lads, as he now emerged from his grim abode.

"Its not what you think it is." I said.
 
Even with my young bones, camping seemed as good a preparation for climbing as being dragged up the A5 behind a car might be, or lying in a bog. And it certainly afforded the same combination of humiliation and dampness as those scenarios. I had survived a night of indefinable foetid grimness for which I felt somehow deserved of a medal.
 
These thoughts were interrupted by the sudden presence of a gentleman in agricultural clothing who was saying something about money for camping.

"Who pays?" I asked.
 
We were quite a merry band of pilgrims, the four of us bonded by the same passion for rock climbing and the same mixed ability-(we all had good days and bad.) We were all average, but in different ways. That shared "Dunkirk Spirit" was first generated by a chance meeting below a classic at the local crag, which had repulsed all who attempted it, one fine summer evening.

My partner for the weekend was "Ginge", whose greatest attribute was, I felt, his possession of a decent car.
 
Our time was never wasted. Over breakfast and a brew we dared each other to place bigger and bigger cams in our mouths whilst Ginge tried to persuade us that the nut extractor had been invented 12 years before the nut.

Off to Llanberis Pass.
 
Our objectives that day were each to affirm ourselves as unspoken leader of the pack, ascending routes on that great sweep of rock which is Dinas Mot. Like a true team, disasters would be shared whilst triumphs would be purely personal.
 
On our ponderous ascent to the widening cliff we happened upon a group of people crowded around a substantial boulder. They surrounded one of their number, hands outstretched as though warming themselves on a giant stove. Had they failed to find their way to the obvious cliff? Was their sense of perspective completely shot?
 
I was later to discover that this was the celebrated "Barrel" (It did have that sort of rounded profile, but also looked a lot like a slug).
And.. ..these were boulderers.
 
The wiry people all gathered around another earnest individual now. This person clung to a long horizontal crack, arms locked, hands snatching, feet glancing the ground, bottom protruding like someone performing a bizarre semaphore ritual whilst straining upon an imaginary toilet.
 
We edged closer. Never have I seen a group of people blessed with such physical prowess and yet devoid of as much as a glimmer of gaiety. They appeared to be trapped in some misplaced geophysical bus stop. Queuing for somewhere happier.

"What's the deal?" I enquired.

"No rules - Yeah." Quipped a curly haired youth with strap-on shoulders.

During a lull in their gymnastics I reached out and grabbed the sloping horizontal feature whilst trying to pop my shoes on the little footholds. I tried to reach for a more likely looking bit to the right, before expiring in a heap and rolling gracelessly downhill.
 
"You go left from there -not right" said the mutant guy.

"Oh-so there ARE rules!" I retorted, before retiring to my palls, who looked as though they were in the process of disowning me. We headed up to the higher moral ground beyond.
 
A glance toward our quest told us that there was only really one true feature dominating the Nose of the Mot. Direct Route takes the line that the harder routes avoid. (Its neighbour the so called "The Superdirect"E1 being a case in point) .I had been hoping this was a bit wet so that I would not have to summon the courage to tackle it.

No- Ginge and I would do "The Direct", the others would do "Western Slabs" although they hadn't a Stetson between them.
 
At the bottom of the cliff I was stopped in my tracks.... Two young women. I was careful not to look straight at them, but the one I noticed the most had wild unkempt red hair, a body-hugging sports vest and tanned midriff.
 
"What route you guys doing?" She smiled. For a second I was unable to recall the precise name of the route, or indeed my own.

"Err-the VS" I said. "And you?"

"We thought we'd do that "Superdirect." She said cheerily. The humiliation almost took the form of a shooting physical pain.

Racked-I set off, rope between my legs like a tail. The climb was worn by the endless caress of hands. I followed the route as it heaved and arched its way up in glaciated curves, occasionally the angelic silhouette of the redhead would appear round to the right-she was chatting merrily to her mate as she tip-toed upwards.
 
Ginge led a section. Mindful of safety I occasionally diverted my gaze from the movements of balletic inspiration back to those of my own climbing partner.
 
There is a ledge near the top of "The Nose" where people gather for social events such as belaying. It overlooks most of North Wales and cannot readily be abseiled from. It was here, despite the distractions, that I experienced something of an epiphany.
 
The first move off the ledge is a boulder problem....yes ...an elevated boulder problem. Now, I didn't experience physical elevation for some time -the required manoeuvre being one of those awful things where you are called upon to move more than one limb at a time.  
After a number of goes (that you could probably have counted on the fingers of three hands) I did experience elevation, not just physical but a kind of welling updraft of emotion as hands wandered into new territory. I had BOULDERED IT OUT!
 
Back on easier ground I remembered to regain my composure before glancing nonchalantly rightwards. The redhead was now chatting to her mate whilst hanging effortlessly from an adjacent overhang, her hair caught in the tumbling mountain air.
 
I thrust a cam into the deep crack and imposed myself upon the final steepening of the groove. After these euphoric final moments I rolled abruptly from my conquest and relaxed on the ledges above.
 
Now-I couldn't call down to my belayer as, despite the "camaraderie" which I keep emphasising-I only knew him as "Ginge". I couldn't shout that whilst sat alongside her! I just pulled like mad on the rope and shouted "OK"
 
"What are you doing next" I enquired as we shared the glorious isolation.

"Oh, I think we're going to go bouldering now - this is great, but it's such a faff with all the ropes and everything" she smiled contentedly.

"How did you get onto stuff like that?” I asked (hoping I didn't sound too much like a drugs councillor).

"Dunno - bit of training, bit of bouldering and stuff".

"Oh." I said, "I'd never train - I'm a gentleman." (This was not as funny as I thought it might have sounded).

Bouldering. It did make one wonder.
 
Later, when the others were enthusing about a brew in Llanberis I chose to loiter among the Cromlech Boulders. It seemed pretty quiet. Some contemplative sheep dawdled in a gap between the rocks. There was another in a cave. It was either in a deeper state of meditation-or it was dead.
 
I shambled round to the dark side of the largest boulder, happening upon some bits of rock that I thought I could climb....if...I was a boulderer.
 
The whole thing was so weird-grown men shuffling about in grotty little places, staring at chalky bits of rock.

It wasn't a climb - I couldn't.
 
Then I became a little mesmerised by the weathered shapes, the pockets, the hotch potch of textures, thousands of years-worth of exquisite erosion. How come the thing wasn't in a big glass case? I reached out to simply touch it.
 
As my fingers ran across its surface, they were like needles in some old record player, suddenly unlocking a pile of energy. I felt the volcanic activity, the folding and squeezing, the tearing of glaciers, the weathering of a million electric storms.....Crickey Ed!
Perhaps if...yes ...maybe if I tied the ropes on, it would feel alright. I was still wearing my harness, so I opened my sack and got out the ropes and a few bits of gear. Tied-on and chalked-up, I set off.
 
After a few moments I thought-Wow, I have the gift of weakness, and no-one can take that away from me!
I edged back down for a conflab with my imaginary belayer, who quite spurred me on. With renewed vigour I approached the top of the boulder spurred on by the increasingly unthinkable fall. A bad idea was coming to fruition-my fingers clawed at the wrong places on the top of the big rock. The arms and the chest added friction, the legs dangling splendidly as if awaiting further orders. (A technique as yet undiscovered by the narrow elite)
 
I summited like a manatee. And then noticed a fairly big crowd of boulderers relaxing on top. At first they did not give me much attention but then the ropes must have come into view.

"Wow-what are you doing?"- It was the curly muscle guy, chuckling.

"Metamorphosing" I gasped.

 

I had. I'd crossed the divide. From my humble beginnings as a climbing caterpillar I had developed into a butterfly. (This was partial explanation for the occasional flap on the last moves of problems) Yes-I'd actually "evolved"...Oh calm down Ed!
Unfortunately the ropes had become tangled among debris below and I was now too pumped to move in any direction until the small crowd of onlookers had untied me from the ropes and dusted me down.

To Llanberis for a bouldering mat.

I have no intention of dwelling upon that age old cliché-the presence of sheep on Llanberis high street, except to observe that they were there in greater force than normal. Half a dozen of them, posturing outside the Spar. Just as pets have probably agonised for years over the possibility of opening tin cans, these sheep had developed an obsession with the mysterious shop door.

Further down the street I approached what appeared to be a converted chapel. Or was the shop in question still in some way, a place of worship? Would the faithful be there, knelt among pews as the priest led a prayer devoted to sit-down-starts? - No.
 
Much of the shop was given over to matters of gravity. The greater part provided jackets that might at some expense, break the fall of rain. Then there were the familiar bits of climbing kit we normally came and obsessed over-all designed to reduce the consequences for our falling selves. But here they were in front of me now-these most honest items of climbing paraphernalia-mats.

"Have you got a mat for beginners?" I asked the smiling assistant. There was an overly long silence as we both wondered what particular properties such a thing might posses.

I got a modest one. The size I would say, of a double bed. Now I could go out and hurl myself onto it.
 
I would go among the wiry people.

 And so I did, quickly discovering why they had, from the outside, seemed a little uncommunicative. It was because the rock had drained them of the power of speech. That was the wonder of it. Now I'd joined the silent order.

Ever seen an argument break out between boulderers? Imagine it:

"Hey-I wanted a go on that problem!"

"OK - I'll spot you then."

"Alright and then I'll spot you."

It's not really going to be a blood bath is it.

One of the things I liked most of all about boulderers - was their girlfriends. I even grew to accept with ease the possibility that I would be beaten by problems upon which they warmed up. Sometimes they would even ask me to watch their backs on high problems. I took my duties seriously. A cautious spotter never takes their eye off the boulderer, not even when they have topped out (On one such occasion I think I may have breathed he word "pity" out loud as the redhead's mate mantled to victory high above me.).
 
And so it went on. The lead rack gathered dust as I continued my journey among the power crazy. Glued to problems or head in a book of them. The corners of my mat rattling in the wind like a faltering spinnaker as I stumbled from one "Sector" to another.

I still sometimes had what I called a bit of a "Wittgenstein" on the tops of some problems. The philosopher had, despite what must have been a limited knowledge of the sport, once said that - "the real miracle is that we're here at all". And that is how I often felt on rounded finishes and the like.

It was a good while until I made what was, in retrospect, a symbolic journey back up to the "Barrel", mat slung like a tortoise shell. I quickly lost myself among the sloping beauty of the holds and the glories of a random and contorted dance, dictated only by the vagaries of the weathered rock itself.

Some "Bumblies" wondered up the path, ropes draped over their shoulders - and paused a moment. One came over and tried his hand at the traverse. He dangled a moment, flailing helplessly with his right hand like some bird with a broken wing.

"You don't go right there," I said, "you go left."

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