In reply to UKC Articles:
Last year, after the lovely Zylo introduced me to Nick, I went away with one thing on my mind: North Stack Wall. Almost a year later, towards the end of another 'expedition home', I found myself abbing into that very zawn, attached to some nuts wedged under a loose rock wall, the wind buffeting me, crapping my pants. There was that grey sail, floating on its back, looking up through his onyx eyes with an air of mild intrigue. What could he be thinking? Or she. Descending the line, I turned my head to the right. No. Way. There it was. The Bells peg! I wondered how Nick must have felt as he whipped onto it!
Pants filling up, I oggled gear options on my own chosen line, tested the holds and worked out where the route roughly lead. Jugging back over the edge, I found my prospective belayer who, naturally, I'd just met, lying in the grass being tossed about by the gusts. It was much nicer yesterday, I shouted. Maybe we should come back?
Indecision gripped me. I felt lost. Until I came up with a plan to trick myself. Resetting the ab rope several metres to the left I said, Lets just ab with the ropes and chill out down there, it's probably nicer at the bottom. If I don't feel good we can always jug out again.
As I touched down, another, invisible seal lounging on a rock nearby promptly belched at me. Too lazy to flop away, he made a rough inspection, then lay back down flat on his back with a slap and a deep, steamy, resentful sigh. That's the life.
My heart was fluttering. So I walked barefoot over the rocks, feeling their salt-sand clag and slimy dampness; the odd barnacle scratching my skin. Near the back of the zawn, where the tides don't quite reach, was a fat white lump of baby seal. It yapped, high pitched like a puppy, to its mum floating out on the waves. All life was down here. A functioning society. Simple, and effective. I thought about ours, waiting for me at the top of the cliff. Yikes.
It still didn't feel like the right time. But as I walked back to our pile of ropes and gear at the base of the climb I went into autopilot and simply racked up. I don't want to jug again. I'd rather just go climbing. That's all it came down to - a kind of dull, twisted laziness. After placing a low nut, I started into a layback, and ripped the first hold right out of the wall. Luckily I had most of my weight on the rail below and recovered, then simply tried again, this time reaching the first good cam.
Unconscious then. Loving the movement. The sea air. Feeling my way. Until the end. Blinking salty half-thoughts away, and gently rolling my eyes, I imagined looking up from the water's surface at this strange, two-toned creature scaling the cliff, with a mild intrigue. Then I pulled up over the top, chased by that belligerent wind.
As my trusted belayer and friend of 3 days followed me phocid-like onto the cliff top, he repeated the words, "I can't believe you just climbed that". But all I could think was “The Bells! The bloody Bells!”
To Nick (you nutter). You move on. You forget. But your story never stops. Thanks for the inspiration.
Post edited at 20:32
In this month's Crag Note Nick Bullock takes time to reacquaint himself with North Stack Gogarth, a crag he's shared an intimate connection with for over 20 years. 
