UKC

This week's Friday Night Video is Eden by Land and Sky Media, a film focussing on the lakeland crag of Armathwaite in the Eden Valley. The area is steeped in history, with ancient poems and graffiti carved in to the cliffs, engraved faces staring from the rocks and some very significant climbing heritage to boot.

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In reply to UKC News:

Cracking little video.

In reply to UKC News:

Great film, really captures the atmosphere of Armathwaite (as did the Stonnis film of Black Rocks). Been a few times and enjoyed the intimate nature of the place. I couldn't tackle the routes shown, but I still had fun on the easier stuff. Good to get a perspective on Jeff Lamb and the other names in the Lakes guidebooks too. Well put together, neat visuals. Long live sandstone!
Dave

In reply to UKC News:

Great stuff. Nice to see some if the Carlisle legends on film.

In reply to UKC News:

A beautiful, beautiful film. Despite a misspent youth in the Lakes in the 70s, I never really encountered the Carlisle scene - too far south in Ambleside, maybe too much time spend in pubs rather than on the crags? But bloody hell, the tale went that they could climb! I suppose Pete Whillance emerged as the overall hero but Jeff Lamb seemed an unsung hero. Although all of them, Whillance, Lamb, their mates, just seemed to quietly get on with it. Unlike some Yorkshire/Peak contemporaries, they didn't seem to want any fuss. Perhaps it's the north Cumbrian way?

In the late 80s, I went to Armathwaite with a girlfriend. An act of homage really. There was a little chalk but generally there was an air of neglect to the place. Venues go in and out of fashion. Groups form, revolutionise climbing, dissolve.

So it's great to see this Pete dude, from another generation, going way too high above those pads, keeping it together, pushing on, resonating with those who went before.

A beautiful, beautiful film.

Mick

In reply to UKC News:

Great, really enjoyed that. One of those places I never quite got to, will have to rectify!

In reply to UKC News:

Brilliant wee film.

In reply to UKC News:

A very splendid film ,very informative too thank you to all involved excellent .

In reply to UKC News:

I climbed here the day before I got married and under strict instructions not to hurt myself! Will always have fond memories of the place.

In reply to Somerset swede basher:
Fond memories indeed! I ragged my first love on the beach there once, bivvying under the overhang... Climbed some routes too on other occasions

Lazonby Crag is just as magical in situation, though I've never had the fortune to climb there due to the ban. Maybe it's time to revive direct action and mass trespass...

In reply to UKC News:

Yes, a really good film, getting right to the heart of climbing.

In reply to UKC News:

Lovely film with some great local history and nice to see Pete getting in on the action; he's virtually lived there for the last few years and done a great job in keeping it alive as a climbing venue. If this film reignites more interest in the place please go easy on the rock; it's pretty fragile

In reply to Climbster:
I went to Kendal film festival and met up with some of my oldest friends to celebrate the life of a sorely missed friend, Jeff Lamb (Lambo) who died tragically 30 years ago.

I was prompted to write down my memories of these times and a short piece of it was read out at the premier. I have attached the full essay below. In 3 parts

"Where were you when you heard Jeff Lamb had died?" a common rhetorical question but usually relating JFK or John Lennon. The question itself implying the end of an era and the world being a darker, sadder place for their loss. In my case it was descending the arrivals escalator in Manchester airport. Stuarts partner Pam stood sobbing at its base then she broke the terrible news to us. We had just returned from Yosemite after ticking Salathe wall. Our joy turned to grief, that terrible shock of disbelief.

I knew Jeff had been mortally hurt in a hit and run accident after moving to Australia, We had been exchanging letters trying to patch together the dislocated memories that were emerging as his head injuries healed. His always untidy scrawl had become stronger and clearer as his indomitable strength reasserted itself. He was recovering, even better climbing again, Jeff was back.

With the usual caveat of "never let the truth get in the way of a good story". I will try to re-create the substance of those letters.

How did we meet?

My big gob got me into trouble. Not for the last time in my life aspiration charged off leaving ability in its wake. The "fell walker's bus" left the Carlisle bus station at 8 on a Sunday morning, its destination a Lakeland pub, before returning home that evening. I belonged to a group of boys who had grown up like you on Carlisle's council estates. You were van-less at the time having recently written off a 3 wheeler and narrowly avoided decapitation due to the DIY plate glass windscreen you had installed. Mooney as master of ceremonies controlled the buses back seat hierarchy. You together with others including Foxy, Gibby, Mel, Kewy, Robby and little Hughie! were "proper climbers". The bus seating arrangements were graded from front to back; bumblers, ramblers, walkers, wannabe's, proper climbers. As wannabe's we constantly vied to get on that back seat. As the bus would have to wait for the last bumblers to return and its driver to finish his last pint, we joined him in the pub. Our return bus journey filled with beer fueled banter, songs and slagging off.

"Slug" hovered between wannabe/aspirant and proper climber. If ever one of your gang was absent he would claim the vacated back seat. Being of the same age group as you, he was desperate for promotion into the upper division but even on easy routes was prone to epics. To improve, he encouraged us aspirants to take him up "VS's". These were the days of "2 number 2's hawser laid ropes, ex-wd krabs, shoulder belays, drilled out whitworth nuts and EB's". Setting out on even easy pitches could and unfortunately did end in disaster. A good friend of yours Mack was killed on Wodens Face when he slipped in the wet slithered down the crag was caught by a holly tree and catapulted head first into the rock face.

My first brush with mortality involved "slug". He pointed me up Communist Convert on Raven Crag in the wet. I retreated. He took over the lead, fell off and the 2 of us ended up hanging suspended by a boot lace thread belay half way up the crag. My hands, neck and wrists terribly burned by the rope. Now I had scars and a tale to tell so moved back a bus seat. This put me within earshot of Mooney who justifiably cast doubts on some of my more fanciful claims of glory. You decided to teach me a lesson so we arranged to climb together on a future weekend.

My parents were so relieved when you drove up in a battered mini-van, at last a responsible adult to save their son from an early grave. Little did they know eh! We went to Castle Rock. Our first climb together was Thirlmere Eliminate, you leading the damp top pitch, the only runner the wobbly peg 10 feet above the belay. Next up "Harlots Face", again I got the "easy" first pitch to lead. By the time I had to follow the crux my 14 year old's reserves were exhausted. I abandoned a runner and was duly lowered back down to retrieve it, a harbinger for the future. Next day I struggled on Illusion and the Niche on Lower Falcons.

It was a time when your peers had girl friends or wives, were starting families, doing up houses, etc. As aspirants we had time to spare, enthusiasm and pocket money, now earmarked as petrol money. So every Friday you would tour Carlisle picking up Beige, Eggy, Gurkha, Tangle-horne, Arthur, Phil and me. Then head off in all weathers to climb and doss out in the lakes, wales, peak and Scotland. All crammed into whatever dying van you had at the time.

In reply to Climbster:

Part 2

Vans

The “Lakeland Flyer” was a decrepit 3 gear “ford pop” ex-undertakers van. Its windscreen wipers were driven off the vacuum inlet manifold so when it went up hill the wipes got slower and slower until both they and the van ground to a halt. Like some malevolent black donkey it refused to move until it was pushed by its passengers to the top of the hill.
It once broke down in Glencoe and I was nominated to hitch back to “Ron Mortons Scrapyard” with the broken voltage regulator and bring back a spare. We had been in Scotland for 3 weeks in mixed weather living on your £5/week-all-in regime, dossing down in the “bendy” a corrugated tin box under one the road bridges. By the time I returned you had been befriended by the Creag Dhu and moved to dubious comforts of the “Vil(l)e”. Mobile again, the bright lights of Aviemore beckoned and we found an old shed in woods near Rothiemurchus. With a bit of your joinery skills it became our “luxurious” base, just when we got it really comfy a posh twot came and kicked us out. Returning after a day’s cragging on shelter stone, you discovered lots of abandoned army rations in one the bothies. These were incorporated into our meagre diet until you ate a dodgy tin of “london Grill” and regretted it.

The “flyer” ended its days as we made our escape from the police following a beer tsunami at “young Sids” stag-do in the back bar of the Scafell. That evening your trusty method of driving pish’d let you down (a piece of insulating tape wrapped around the top of the steering wheel, you placed your thumbs either side off it, then lined up the white lines through the gap). At the hair pins below Cat Bells on the back road around Derwent water. The “flyer” flew for the last time, it took to the air, rolled down the hillside and came to rest on its wheels at the bottom of the bends. It was only the packed humanity inside that prevented serious damage. A quick push to restart it then off to Carlisle club hut to lick our wounds. Some debris left at the crash site brought the police to your parent’s door but with no supporting evidence you were issued with an intention to prosecute which came to nothing. We crept out midweek and using your intimate knowledge of the North Cumbrian back lanes drove the “flyer” to its last resting place Ron Mortons.

There was also an ancient Sid and an old Sid (frae Maryport da’nos), you offered to build him a concrete replica of the hard bit of CB flake using your shuttering skills.

Scran

Cafes were a luxury used only for tea and craik. The rule was everyone had to bring a tin of food for each day we were away. Come an evening these were all emptied into the common pot, heated over a primus then we took turns to take a spoonful each. Complaints surfaced that I was getting more than my fair shares so I was relegated to a tea spoon with one hand behind my back but it didn’t stop the grumbling.
One Friday you were invited by an old school friend to a wedding reception that evening in the “Cumberland Tavern”. As we stepped across the pub threshold you told me to “fill yer pockets and we won’t go hungry this weekend”. We stripped the meagre buffet bare, when the extent of our larceny was discovered, made to put it all back and shown the door with menaces.

Across London road from the “Cumberland” was the “Cali” our spiritual home. When we were pioneering at Armathwaite, you climbed and named a fierce crack it its honour. We wanted you to call it “The Blue lugs” after that other well-known Caldew gate pub the “Joiners Arms” but your modesty prevented it. Two more of your school friends were permanent fixtures in the “Cali” bar, big Keith and Big Micky. They organised the “Caledonian Drinking and Mountaineering Club”. It cost a shilling a week membership. Members were also compelled to buy the spot the balls and raffle tickets. When sufficient funds were accumulated. A bus (vomitarium on wheels) hired, a meal bought, night club paid for, given a fiver and then let loose. These trips culminated in an excursion to the tow-bar club outside Egremont, the evening ended with an inevitable massive brawl with the West Cumbrian marra’s and no one would hire us buses after that.

Breakfast often included one of your “eggy-breads” you cunningly chewed the centre out of a slice of bread (more carb’s for you) shoved it into a frying man and broke an egg in the hole and cooked until burnt.

Another memorable feast was after a few days dossing in Tremadoc barn. We planned to do Vector very early one morning and drive home. As preparation we had bought a bag of sausages. Tea the previous night had been the last of the usual “mince” and “smash” (your mother appeared to have access to un-limited quantities of de-hydrated textured protein, powdered tatties and dried milk). I awoke early, drooling for proper scoff. Only to find an empty sausage bag and a well satisfied looking farm dog. We had one onion left, this was chopped up and duly blackened in the frying pan. Inevitably the stove was knocked over spilling the pans contents onto the barns disgusting slate table. Once re-united with the pan, a quick re-heat, slapped between two slices of bread and breakfast was served. All was well until I reached the Ochre slab and my nausea solidified. I arrived at the cave stance pleading to retreat. You lead the top pitch in your usual impressive style, I retched and whimpered following. After that success we went to castell Cidwm and did Curver and Vertigo before setting off for the lakes. You fell asleep at the wheel on the M6 nearly drifting into a bridge support and I got to drive the van properly for the first time.

In reply to Climbster:
Part 3

Gurls

Some of your early relationships left a bit to desire. A very early new year in the back bar of the Scafell pub, you announced we all had to get our gear out the van and find somewhere else to doss as you had "pulled". Next morning being a gentleman, you were very discrete about the details of the previous evening's assignation. As part of our hair-of-the-dog therapy the Scafell bar was nominated, you were somewhat reluctant over this decision. As we crowded round a corner table in the bar you did your best to hide, until a large lummox of a lass strode up and demanded "Where's me earing's Jeff? I lost them in the van last night", it was a true coyote moment. The whole pub went into uproar.

I always knew you were courting as you either missed an evening's cragging or more usually brought your latest beau to the crag, we finished climbing early and didn't go for a pint. One lass you met on the bus home to Currock one night. She was dead keen on you, sitting patiently at the base of some horrible quarry near crag lough whilst debris rained down as we first excavated then climbed some chossy new routes. She came with us to wales getting to sit in the vans front seat the whole trip. On the 2nd night we were crowded into the back of the van enjoying a wee rizla before bedtime (Munchies consisted of scratching then sniffing a strawberry "scratch n sniff" advertising leaflet). Her impatience was tangible she had plans for you. Next morning when you emerged from the van, you could hardly walk never mind lift your arms above your head. She had the look of a lass who had found her "keeper". I had to lead all the pitches that weekend.

When you met "Cynthia" we knew our era was coming to an end. She was gorgeous and a good climber, a very rare combination in those days. She even tolerated us hanging about like a bad smell (I did and allegedly still do). One glorious summer day when the bleaberries were ripe and prolific, a large jolly team of us went to do the Gable classics. We all ended up on top of napes needle and got the top block rocking alarmingly. We could tell she was impressed with us. Next I heard she had to use her nurse skills to save your life after you went for a clatter down that horrible scramble up the start of Fool's Paradise on Gowder.

Climbing

I always considered you a master craftsman at climbing, bringing the craft mentality developed through working with your hands and tools to the mountains. Thought and planning got you up climbs, finding neat and efficient movements between holds but more importantly an ability to reverse down anything you climbed up. Placing protection and safety always came first. I recall you developed a set of wooden nuts (moac-look-alikes) made out of some very hard wood. A complete bane of my seconding enjoyment. Hungry cracks gobbled them up. Retrieving them from the cruxes of Phoenix on East Buttress and Great corner on Lech Ddu particularly memorable. Just holding on was trial for me never mind extracting your pride and joy's. I tried to hide them when we climbed on Gritstone.

We shared so many great days; bivying up on Mickledoor below Scafells east buttress and doing Central Buttress with the setting sun casting our shadows across the crag. Getting up very early next morning and doing probably the second ascent of goldrush whilst the east buttress was bathed in sun shine just to check which of "your" gaps it had filled in. Then running down the corridor route carrying all the bivy and climbing gear, heading to Tophet Wall to try what became the Vikings. Only failing because you didn't trust your only chock stone runner and you reversed down the difficult, dirty wide crack without any protection above a horrific landing.

Climbing on Cloggy in shorts and vests in October, ticking the not so traveled routes. Dossing out under the crag by the light of both the harvest and hunters full moon's that year. We did the first pitch of great wall and I trailed a complete hairy caterpillar of a rope for Jack Frith who climbed it immaculately in a pair of double boots he was breaking in. You couldn't do the second pitch in the style you wanted too so as we prepared to abseil off, Jack warned us off using his rope "Tha knows tit's ok for secondin but nut reet ta abseil" in his broad Burnley.

Combing the Eden valley looking for a secret crag, after hearing the gossip from Stew Wilson that the Penrith lads had one - Armathwaite. When we eventually found it, the line of "The Exorcist" immediately grabbed your attention. You soloed up to the crux, re-sited a previous attempts retreat peg as protection, reversed, tied on then crushed it. "The Jelly Terror" was named after my woeful performance trying to lead the first ascent then my gibbering retreat. If we were rained off in the lakes we would go do circuits of the overhanging bay below the exorcist. You came to know it better than the back of your hand.

We last climbed together just before you emigrated to Australia; cleaning and doing first ascents of a few of the possibilities you had spotted around the lakes and recorded in your little notebook. I realized just how good you had become.

They say sculptors can look at a block of stone and see a finished statue. You could do that with crags and recognise beautiful new climbs. Preparing and executing first ascents in the best style possible (although there are a few swine amongst the pearls). Where others had maybe left flawed masterpieces you came along and showed how it should have been done. They nick named you "The jackal". I always thought that a poor analogy implying a mean scavenger of scraps, the top predators left overs. Your modesty and talent made you one of the truly great exponents of the climber;s craft. Many of your hardest new climbs you graded E4, as you didn't think you were as good as the magazine stars, Jeff you were better.

It is now 30 years since you died, my parents were right to put their faith in you. I survived with a few very near misses. You passed on life survival skills. Don't be satisfied with what is expected of you, having fun in mountains is just brilliant, strong bonds forged in adversity remain true. I was privileged to be a member of your "band of brothers".
2

In reply to rka:



What a (well-deserved) eulogy.

Mick

In reply to UKC News:

The people, the history and the beauty of Armathwaite, now all captured in this lovely historic film.
Thankyou Dom, without your love and dedication this beautiful film would not have happened.
A privilege to have been apart of it.
Pete

In reply to UKC News:

Nice film Dom! Nice to see different pockets of history from different areas of the UK. Also great to see Pete Whillance. Legend! Ed

In reply to petegunn:

A Beautiful film that brought tears to my eyes at the end!

In reply to UKC News:

What a wonderful film! Beautiful, moving and with some important material on the history of trad and origins of the E grade. 'E is for Everything' indeed. As film-making it was absolutely spot on in terms of pace, music, letting people reflect.

Top film, many thanks. You don't have to be a local to love this film.

In reply to UKC News:

Thank you all for your kind words. Really glad you all enjoyed the film.

Dom

In reply to Dom Bush:

Hi Dom

Great work

Any chance you could scan that original graded list of extremes and maybe write a wee UKC article about it?

In reply to Dom Bush:

Very enjoyable, thanks

In reply to rka:

Brilliant series of posts describing what sounds like great times, and as Mick says, beautiful eulogy to your friend.

OP: great wee film, really enjoyed it and getting some history of that scene and the people. I went to Armathwaite a couple of times when I was working in Carlisle a few years ago and after a couple of hairy moments I gave up trying to lead routes (I had no guidebook) and just bouldered and top-roped. Great climbing and such a peaceful and beautiful spot.

In reply to rka: I seem to have something in my eye !

In reply to rka:


She thinks he had to get a stitch!