UKC

Last week we published a review of the 4th Edition of Hard Rock. While putting together the review it occurred to us just how many memories we all had from climbing the routes within its pages and how many others would likely feel the same. As a result we decided to start Hard Rock Stories, whereby users can share their most memorable accounts on the Forums. We will then pick a few of the best and put them into an article, alongside a selection of photographs. To kick things off Rob Greenwood has shared his account of climbing Shibboleth (E2) back in 2016...

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In reply to UKC Articles:

Cool article Rob. Thanks.

Hard Rock has had quite an influence on my climbing. I remember reading (more likely looking at the pictures) my Dad’s copy being a catalyst for getting into climbing, when I was twelve or thirteen. 

The first route I did in it was Preying Mantis with my Dad. We climbed it after school in about 2003 or 2004. Looking back it was a great lead from Dad, as E1 was his limit, and my teenage belaying was probably less than inspiring. 

Later that year, on the last day of the summer term, we climbed Kipling Groove together. I was well chuffed to lead the undercling. 

I’m a fairly obsessive ticker, and will often seek out the Hard Rock routes first, when I’m visiting a new area. 

I’ve now climbed 45 routes on the new list (46 if you count North Crag Eliminate, which I climbed after my GCSE biology exam, with my school friend Joe Dixon). I’m pleased that the new edition has given me some new climbs and crags to seek out, but I’m slightly saddened/relieved that I don’t have to aid Kilnsey Main Overhang and the Scoop. Secretly, however I’d still like to, any takers?

My most recent Hard Rock tick was the Northwest Girdle or Almscliff, climbed with Phil Evans of BackcountryUK after purchasing some ski boots from him. The crag was bathed in evening sunshine, and we raced across it as the sun dropped below the horizon. I seconded the last pitch, which down climbs into Western Front, before reversing the traverse on Great Western. It’s an outrageous situation to be in, and I was more than a little bit gripped. 

Thanks to Ken Wilson for having the vision in the first place, and to Ian Parnell for bringing it kicking and screaming into 2020. It’s definitely cheered me up during lockdown. 

Tom 

In reply to UKC Articles: Quick question....I'm originally from NZ, and when I arrived in the UK in the mid 80's I went to work on Hard Rock and have done all the original routes except two.  I now live in the US which has diminished progress on these two...I wrote some accounts of various Hard Rock routes for the New Zealand Alpine Journal and could post these here in response to your suggestion.  I'm unclear as to whether the text should be posted directly here or is there another thread/way to include these?  The accounts are in the form of word documents and describe ascents of Coronation St, Great Wall, The Bat amongst others...thanks

Simon

In reply to beagly77:

Hi Simon,

Post them up here on this thread.

I’d be really interested to hear more about The Bat, but by all means included whichever was most memorable to you.

Hope you manage to make it back over to do some more as/when the current state of affairs has passed by.

In reply to Rob Greenwood - UKClimbing:

thx Rob - will put them here shortly.  I've noted that the new edition has 13 additions/replacements, six of which I've already done so off to a head start!   I've already keyed up my UK climbing mates for a new campaign to start later this summer assuming I don't have to row across the atlantic first....

In reply to beagly77:

All except two is good going! Which two are they?

In reply to UKC Articles:

Hard Rock first came out when I was doing my probationary teaching year in Liverpool - I popped into the climbing shop after work to pick it up and it was an inspiration. Every Friday I would catch the ferry over to Birkenhead then get the bus to Capel - ticked most of the Welsh ones that year.

According to the list on here I have done 55 of them, plus North Crag Eliminate and Deer Bield Buttress - so many great memories,

Chris

In reply to beagly77:

Funnily enough the new edition worked out well for me too, I’d already done nine, bringing my total to 41 - a figure I’d like to improve on.

Two to go is very impressive!

In reply to UKC Articles:

My write up of The Grooves on Cyrn Las

http://tomclimbingpunterevans.blogspot.com/2016/09/the-grooves.html?m=1

An account of The Bat....originally written for the New Zealand Alpine Journal

_____________________________

The wind picked up as we descended the tourist path into the Allt a'Mhullin.  By the time we neared the CIC hut, the familiar grey clouds were racing past the North East buttress.  Late September, and we were probably the only climbers on Ben Nevis.  In winter, you need to take a number for Point Five and Zero.

We'd driven north to tick more of Hard Rock.  The campaign was not going well: two failures on YoYo and one on Carnivore in the face of bitter easterly winds.  Only success on Raven's Gully had partly neutralised the taste of defeat.

The Bat! The classic rock climb on the Ben, put up in 1959 by Robin Smith and Dougal Haston, the brightest talents of that period.  I'd wanted to do this route ever since reading The Bat and the Wicked, Smith's account of the first ascent.  For a while the Bat was the hardest route in Scotland and was still no pushover: strenuous, bold and the hardest E2 in the graded list...possibly not a prudent choice on a miserably cold day.

We threw our packs down below the foot of Centurion, the big corner that slices upwards through the protective overhangs that guard the foot of the 300m Carn Dearg buttress.  “Pity I’ve already done Centurion,” I said. ” At least it would be sheltered from the wind.  What about Route 2?”

“We can’t just go down again, not after walking for two hours to get here,” Steve said, his half smiling face visible behind his glasses.  I crammed more mint biscuits into my mouth, attempting to ward off the cold by calorific intake.  A few metres away, lukewarm sunshine intermittently illuminated the grass and rocks at the foot of the corner.  "Route 2 will be...very windy," I said. Steve nodded.  For once we were in agreement.

I drank more coffee, knowing that I would be peeing at every stance.  "Let’s try one pitch.  If we get to the Bat corner, we can aid it or abseil off," I said as I tied on to the ropes.  It might be years before I had another chance for this route.

Up the left wall of the corner, sharp edged andesite flakes and icy cracks leading into the base of the corner proper, easy climbing, but stiff robotic movements, cold and too many clothes on, the weight of gear dragging at my neck, ropes swooping down to Steve, the bastard was standing out in the sunshine, poor belaying technique...a move up, Friend runner, another move, a Rock 2 before the step across into the corner and the belay, wires in the cracks on the left wall, a sling around a large spike...yes, an inexpensive retreat when Steve backed down from the next pitch....

The Bat weaves through juxtaposed slabs and roofs, grooves and corners to climb the impressive wall between Centurion and Sassenach, the only real lines of weakness on the lower half of Carn Dearg.  It is a masterpiece of route-finding, with two pitches of traversing between bands of overhangs to gain the edge of the Sassenach chimney, which itself requires an aided entry.  From there the Bat breaks left up a line of corners.

It is the traversing pitches that give the route a certain commitment.  The early attempts by Smith and Haston reflected this inescapability; epic abseils, a number of big falls, some aid and substantial night climbing.  I had some vague recollection that it was difficult to abseil off, so we were probably committed to climbing something regardless.

Steve climbed the second pitch slowly, his red hat a spash of colour against the slate grey rock. Every move, every runner placement was tediously considered.  Even in the relative shelter of the corner, it was like standing in a refrigerator, and I willed him to move more quickly.  He traversed rightwards from the Centurion corner, and climbed delicately across a hanging slab of smooth rock that led under a grossly overhanging wall to the stance.

Gloves off, a leak before starting up the corner, trying to gain rhythm, trying not to drop gear from cold-deadened fingers.  Easy moves rightwards across the slabs to a diagonal ramp, up this past a large perched block to Steve’s hanging belay, nowhere to stand, on an enormous slab that seems suspended in space under the overhang, poised to slide off, the only anchors in the crack at the back, all useless if the slab goes...I traverse down and right into a bottomless corner and climb the far wall, powerful moves laybacking off small loose holds to pull onto another sloping slab, Friends in a crack in the overhanging wall above, a semilunge to a jug, and some contorted chimneying to get established in a groove that cuts through the bulge.  More runners, and a move right to the stance below the first of the hard pitches, the Hoodie Groove, a short 15m corner.

"Bombproof belay I see," Steve said when he arrived.  “Nasty place this and anyway I’m hanging on it”, I replied.

He clipped into an insitu peg for the ritual of sorting the gear.  I handed him the wires, put my gloves back on and slumped onto the anchors again in an attempt to hide from the chill fingers of wind licking round the edges of the buttress.

"Sassenach's just round the corner," I said. "Looks hideous.  There's a spike we could abseil from if we need to."

Steve was looking up at the Hoodie Groove and fiddling with his clothing again, probably to delay having to climb...entirely understandable behaviour.  He started up the groove, bridging awkwardly between the slabby right wall and the smooth left wall.  The moves were technical, neatly outlined in the chalk left by other tickers.  "I hate bridging," he moaned trying to place a wire behind a loose flake that was also the key to exiting the groove to reach the ledge on the left.  A layaway off the flake, a precise foot swap and he was up.  "Great belay" he called down.  "Nice ledge and three pegs".

The crux corner was a ‘smooth-walled alpine horror’ in the words of Hard Rock.  A vertical right-facing lichen-splattered corner shot up for 15m, starting at hand width but widening to fist size just below a square-cut roof.  Over the roof, the corner-crack continued upwards out of sight into a chimney.  The climbing difficulties stemmed from the paucity of holds at the overhang.  Fortunately there appeared to be various flakes jammed in the crack to reduce the amount of grovelling required.  "I might need these," I said substituting a wire for the large Friends Steve had placed to back up the belay.  There was no point in hanging around on the ledge as I would only get colder, so I tightened up my harness and set off.

Straightforward bridging and jamming reached a point 3m below the roof.  Here the crack widened, and the footholds on the left wall disappeared.  I threaded a sling round a chockstone and made a couple of moves up....tricky, so I reversed to a bridging position and put the  #4 Friend in next to the chockstone.  "I'll climb back down and get this if I need it," I said, feet scrabbling on the right wall as I stretched up to reach a chalked blade of rock jammed in the crack.

Once under the roof I could stuff my hands in the crack and stand across the corner, although it was tiring to remain there.  A Friend and wire under the roof to reduce the fear factor, and it was time to try the moves around the overhang.

After two forays I had another Friend in place above the roof, and had discovered the corner was slightly overhanging.  On the right wall was a ledge 5m higher.  I knew from The Bat and the Wicked that this was not really a ledge, and had been the site of Haston's monster plummet on the second attempt.....”for it grew like a wailing siren to a bloodcurdling scream as a black and bat-like shape came hurtling over the roof with legs splayed like webbed wings and hands hooked like a vampire...”

....commit this time, left foot out on the triangular edge, layback up on hand jams, reach into the base of the wide crack, hard to stay there, another move up, faded white sling on a peg, clip the sling....bugger the peg's loose.....left arm deep into the crack, right hand upside down palming the right edge, no footholds on the blank smooth undercut wall above the roof on the right; keep going, too wide for the gear I have left, strenuous but fortunately not technical...the ledge just above now, gear well below my feet, reach for the finger flake jammed in the back of the crack....wrong hand, need my left on it, can't bridge with my right shoulder in the way...strength ebbing quickly...insecure fist and arm jams to swap hands, left hand now on the flake, right foot out onto the ledge on the overhanging wall, and in front of my face, an example of earthly perfection nestled amongst the black lichen, a horizontal slot just made for a # 2.5 Friend...

I belayed 15m higher, at the top of the chimney, to bring Steve up.  He didn't fall off either, but at the top uttered those magic words "I couldn't have lead that”.  This was revised a day later to " It wasn't too bad really.”

One more easy pitch led to a terrace at the top of Sassenach.  There was supposed to be an abseil descent down Titan’s Wall, a 100m E4 that finished a few metres to the right.  The incentive to find the abseil slings was significant; above was another 150m of easier climbing, it was late afternoon, and from the colour of the sky rain seemed quite possible.  Belayed by Steve, I searched for the rap slings.  I found a loose sling lying on a ledge, but no sign of any fixed anchor.  I put the sling in my pocket to prevent any discussion about its significance.

Steve of course did not believe me; he assumed I was merely being incompetent.  So I brought him over and he looked unsuccessfully for the anchors, in exactly the same places I had tried.  In a moment of weakness I told him about the loose sling, so he immediately started to thump a spike nearby.  “This’ll do,” he said, or words to that effect.  I looked at him in amazement.  There was no way I was going off that down a potentially blank, unknown wall.  At least not until things were a bit more out of control.  I’d had enough near-death abseiling experiences already.

So we had an argument.  Arguments are...not unknown between us, although they are usually over route (or crag) choices.  Steve claims that I will only do two or three star ticks from “Best Of” guidebooks.  And he’s pretty well right.  And I am reluctant to agree to his choice of obscure routes, just because they are the ‘right grade’, when easier three star classics are available.  But in the end I won this argument, if it was a victory, because I declined to abseil in what I thought was the wrong place.  Furious, Steve refused to lead the next pitch, hoping I would give in.

Finishing the route took another couple of hours and five pitches, mostly straightforward climbing in an easing corner system.  Fortunately we were still somewhat sheltered from the freezing wind.  We reached the top of Carn Dearg buttress in the early evening, and dusk was falling when we got back to our packs at the foot of Centurion.  The remnants of the coffee were long cold.  But that didn’t matter, because for those few hours we had again slipped the surly bonds of earth, for a day that will surely remain as a memory of why we climb.

In reply to UKC Articles:

A length Mousetrap write up:

To some Mousetrap is a beloved play (the longest running show of any kind in the world!), to others a beloved childhood game (that I never understood how to play) however to climbers it is one of THOSE routes whose situation, reputation and history simultaneously attract and repel suitors.
For me it was a route on the ‘to have done’ list, yet to convince myself I was prepared to put it on the ‘to do’ list especially with only 1 Gogarth experience under my harness.  Anyway on the Thursday I was relaxing down the pub the York MC crew texting Jurgen about the upcoming weekend expecting to make a plan to do a HVS classic such as Dream of White Horses or Scavenger when Jurgen hit me with Mousetrap. I spat out my beer and spluttered f*cking hell. When asked what the problem was I muttered Mousetrap, some understood the reaction others were unaware of the route.
I spent Friday at work building the psyche, it’s not often I get to climb with someone of Jurgen’s calibre and get trumped in the route suggestion stakes so was willing to play ball and give it a crack. I had a nothing to complain about drive down Friday and pleasant night vanning it in the car park behind Joe Browns (though you do have to pay 20p to use the fancy new toilets). I met Jurgen in Llanberis for a quick gear faff and drink in Pete’s Eats hoping the climbing legend whiff would seep into us.
We were soon on the road driving through the rain into the perma sunshine of Anglesey. The omens were good as we managed to find a parking space I could get my van in even with my inept parking ability. We met another team with the same plan as us. Even though we set the abseil up we let them go down first as they reeked of climbing experience and we weren’t in a rush.
The guidebook says the abseil is 90m but 65m got us to steady ground being dwarfed by the cathedral of rock chaos that is Mousetrap zawn. It’s not so much as a cliff face as a surrealist interpretation of a cliff frozen in the process of falling down then randomly rotated.
It was good for the confidence watching the team ahead of us, showing us where to go and where to expect some protection (not a lot).
The Ground Up guide describes the first pitch as “An intimidating and audacious lead” and it looks it.  Jurgen plays the ‘Its your lead card’ as on our last year he lead us out of the top and crux pitch of Gogarth on main cliff. I don’t grumble as the card was well played and the pitch doesn’t look too bad, I do grumble when presented with his pot luck system of racking wires (4 crabs with a random and monochrome selection of wires, does kinda work but prefer my logical and more colourful array).
The team ahead make steady process and soon enough I have to start grappling with the weirdness. The climbing starts steady enough up a groove way to left of the eventual goal of the crazy quartz chimney system. The reason it starts here is it enables you place a crucial bomber wire which is the only decent gear for a good while. It wouldn’t however stop you slamming into the slabby groove you then descend after the placement.
The rock is of variable quality with bands of crumbly sandy rubbish interspersed with more solid offerings. I find a small cam placement in a pocket that would probably explode but better than nothing. After down climbing the groove you then start questing up and rightwards towards the quartz veins.

There is some gear to be had from a reasonably strenuous position. The placements are all a bit blind, especially for those of a diminutive stature such as myself. The wire that felt good turns out to be comically bad but I get my trusty alien in lower down the crack and jam in another average cam placement before stepping back into onto the slab for a brief depump.
The team ahead found no more gear until established in the chimneys 15 odd feet above the gear with the slab 5 feet below and neither did I. The climbing is reasonably technical and just a little bit steep. The crux is stepping round right to the solidity of the quartz seam. I had numerous little looks trying the move the way the first team tried it with the lactic acid slowly building before finding my own way to the sanctuary of rest and bomber gear.
Another 30 foot of outrageous rock to go. Mostly straightforward climbing except for another exciting step right into the next chimney system which this time has decent large hex protection. There is a surprisingly decent and spacious belay ledge with solid gear. I have to wait for the first team to vacate but soon start bringing Jurgen up with demanding ropework due to the traversing and descending the pitch requires.
With a decent belay and a top rope on the next pitch I relax a little too much. Only a small portion of the 46m pitch can seen from the belay. Naturally Jurgen dispatches this with a minimum of fuss and gear. He especially seemed to cruise a very poky crux surmounting a bulge. That took me quite a bit of huffing and puffing combined with crazy egyptianing. I was glad of the rope above.

After the crux the climbing eases with more spectacular rock architecture as you ascend another quartz seamed groove. Again  you need to be inventive and optimistic with the gear.
The next belay I didn’t pay too much attention too as it was a confusing mess of slings wrapped round fins of rock hopefully attached to the cliff.  The 3rd and final pitch fell to me and other than a tiny thread soon after the belay it was a while before more trustworthy gear was found. The last pitch had sustained interest over its 35m but had more conventional rock and better gear than the previous 100m. It still had crumbly cracks I’d go to put gear before realising there was no point.
Despite some woeful ropework in the middle of the pitch when pumping out a bit and slightly confused about the way to go I made it to the top f the climb, found some solid things to attach myself to and shouted safe as you do. Safe a word we climbers use so often we blur the meaning. I shouted safe earlier in the day but I couldn’t walk to the car park and buy an ice cream like I could now as I was a 3rd of the way up a large adventurous semi tidal sea cliff. Now I really was safe, and had a comfy belay watching the sun shimmer on the sea whilst bringing up a swiftly climbing Jurgen.  Since it had gone 5 we decided against abbing back down to do Death Trap Direct and had reasonably priced ice cream instead.
The overall experience had yet to sink in fully and the scariest thing about the day was how steady I found it all.
What next…
What happened next is that a South African made us salad for tea! Salad! Made by South African! No brai involved! He’s only been married a month! (Congrats by the way). At least he had to drink ale in the pub as they were out of cider. 
 

In reply to Michael Gordon:

The Scoop on Stone Ulladale, fortunately no longer in the new edition.  And Slanting Slab on Cloggy, unfortunately still included....have stood under that twice and left both times, repulsed by dripping wet apparently protection less rock....

In reply to UKC Articles:

Yep ace..

I think id have to say a great hard rock memory would be doing Bow Wall. Not that I owned a copy then, or even knew it was a hard rock tick. I probably did but cant remember. The simple fact remained... I really really enjoyed going climbing and it was a Brown route! 

I think the idea was to have plenty of time exploring North Wales and Lake District. However the weather was rubbish so we opted for the South West. 

We had climbed Suicide Wall, Visions of Johanna, Thin Wall special that day at Bosigran and were all having a blast. 

Chris and I decided to do Bow Wall. I knew it had a reputation so he lead first pitch. After cruising the first section he got to the roof and totally forgot where the route went. He tried to go the much harder direct way, jammed his hand into the roof crack then fell off with his hand still jammed in the crack.  Unfortunately he dislocated his arm so I had to take him to Penzance hospital.

I arrived back an hour later with all the gear to retrieve. So climbed it with my mate James who was psyched to second the crux and lead the last pitch. The crux was nails but I thought it was a really enjoyable climb. After wrestling with some jams and undercuts I made it to the belay and then brought James up. He then climbed the second pitch and I have great picture of him pulling a silly face as he started to enjoy the climbing and position after being a bit intimidated.

Feeling pretty dehydrated after having an eventful day we went for a few pints in St Just with a few friends we bumped into at the crag.

A great day.

I got the new Hard Rock for my birthday last week. The Ken Wilson books are totally brilliant and now I own them all apart from Wild Walks.. The stories are so inspiring and give me endless wide eyed energy.

On a sad note James Matthews died a few years later while attempting to ski the Whymper Couloir after enjoying a solo ascent of the Couturier Couloir. He was so young and becoming a really good Alpinst and skier. We did some great climbs together and still really miss him. The Bow wall memory I can look back at on with a smile! 

In reply to UKC Articles:

A shorter write up of Cenotaph Corner:

After a long weekend of heading to the coast finally a cloudless morning and we could take advantage of staying in the heart of Llanberis pass. The call was the Cromlech and with only 1 route on both our minds; the peerless classic of Cenotaph Corner. The slog up to the crag was easier than I remembered and we were first on the crag. I suggested we dump the sacks before scrambling up to the base of the corner, we didn’t, we should of. After a polite discussion as to who would go first Ben went on the basis he had been waiting to do the route longer. Too late I realised we forgot the peg hammer for Ben to drop on my head in homage to Joe Browns first attempt on the route. There was palpable nervous tension in the air, not due to danger but to the reputation and history of the route. Ben made steady progress and with a few huff and puffs at the crux  Ben had the route in the bag it and was soon abbing down stripping the paltry 17 pieces of gear he placed. We had more problems pulling ropes down and then it was my turn to attempt the fabled Cenotaph Corner. 
The reputation of the route weighed heavy and was achey from the previous 2 days but the sun was out and the line is perfect. The rock of the Cromlech is superbly featured and the 8m crux was soon despatched. I plugged in gear with wild abandon as I bridged/smeared and laybacked upwards to the upper crux. I don’t bother to clip the ancient peg from the niche below the crux, Decent micro wire and small cam encouraged some strenuous bridging upwards to more gear. I dilly dallied on the last moves trying to find some larger dimples to pull on but none were to be found I committed and scraped my way to the finishing jugs. Hurrah!
I extracted a less than paltry 26 pieces of gear abbing down possibly some kind of record.

An account of Great Wall on Cloggy, originally written for the New Zealand Alpine Journal

________________________________

For long centuries after the ice retreated, the cliff frowned down in isolation on the boulder-strewn hollow and on the sombre waters of the lake.  The passage of years was marked only by the accumulation of scree at its foot and the spreading of grass across moraine and ledge.  Then the Welsh came, and they gave the place a name: Arddu.  The cliff they called Clogwyn dur Arddu, the black cliff of the black height, a name scarcely translatable, but evoking the mood of those dark crags.

                                                                                      Crew/Soper/Wilson:  The Black Cliff

Hidden on the north west flank of Snowdon, Clogwyn dur Arddu is a cold, north-facing 500ft crag of volcanic rock, offering steep cracks, smooth slabs and intricate faces, where experience and control count for more than finger strength.  The magnificence of the routes is in no way diminished by the hundreds or thousands of ascents they have had.  The climbs remain testpieces for each new generation.  Cloggy epitomises the history and myth of British rock climbing:  it is a place of legends, of challenges, of destinies claimed and avoided.

Hard Rock: Ken Wilson's masterpiece, a collection of writings on some fifty or so famous and significant climbs throughout the British Isles.  As a dedicated ticker of such books, my choice of routes had often been determined long before I reached certain crags.  By September 91, only two routes, both on Cloggy, remained undone south of the Scottish border.  My friend Peter, also a determined collector of routes, suggested we try Great Wall mid-week.  I needed little convincing.  He'd do the driving.  I'd do the leading.  Four hours from London to Ynys Ettws, the Climbers Club hut in the Llanberis Pass.  A new record for Peter.  I kept my eyes closed most of the way.

I was climbing well that September.  An absence of formal employment was the reason.  If Great Wall was to be ticked, this was the moment of possibility as I was returning to NZ for a couple of years.

A fine September morning.  We parked at the end of the road and started the hour’s approach march, up the Snowdon railway track.  Although I'd been there half a dozen times previously, there was still that stomach-churning feeling looking up from the final steep track below the East Buttress.  Once the preserve of a small elite, on fine summer weekends there are usually 30 or 40 parties in situ.  Amazingly, we had Cloggy to ourselves that day.  Only the second time in five years I could remember being alone at a British crag.

It was hard to imagine climbing here in the 1950s.  The track would have been still unformed, the rock covered in green moss and loose flakes, and the limits of what was possible only just being questioned.  From the working class districts of Manchester came the Rock and Ice Club, Joe Brown and Don Whillans, to stamp their authority and skill in lines of quality and power.  The climbs they put up were both difficult and intimidating for the time, and went unrepeated for years, so unlike today when new routes may be repeated the same day.

As Peter uncoiled the ropes, I looked through the guidebook once more, to check the route description.  I could have repeated it verbatim, even down to some of the lines from the Hard Rock account.  In the latest guidebook the route had gone up to E4 - but soft touch.  My only E4s had been sieged sport climbs on French limestone.  Drummond, on his Hard Rock ascent, had carried a talisman rurp in his pocket, for in those days aid was still legitimate on Great Wall.  In conscious mimicry, I clipped two small TCUs to my harness, to be my talisman.

Great Wall follows an irregular crack splitting the left hand side of the central wall of the East Buttress.  The weight of legends seemed almost as heavy as my rack of gear as I balanced up the first 25ft.  No runners, off vertical face climbing on small sharp holds.  Drummond had put double carabiners on line slings on small spikes - definitely technology of the past.  I couldn't see anything I'd hang a sling on.  A move of 5b (19), looking at a groundfall before I reached the overhang at the start of the groove and the first gear, a wire and a Friend #1/2.

A decade later, it was the turn of Peter Crew and Bas Ingle, of the Alpha Club, pushing at the legends of Brown and Whillans.  They were drawn to the unclimbed central wall of the East Buttress, the route Brown had never finished.  After abseil inspections, route cleaning and preplacing pegs - radical ethics for the time - Crew led it one misty June day in 1962.  As much as anything it was Crew challenging the supremacy of Brown that was the key to this triumph, when Crew created his own legend.

I was not yet committed, but the next 30ft went too easily, bridging up the slight groove, placing small wires on both ropes.  Only the odd chalked hold showed that others had been before.  I looked down to Peter, to check that he was still with me.  I was heavily psyched.  I’d been to the foot of the route a year earlier, but that day it had been green and oozing water.

A route of legends...Joe Brown, stopped as much by his self-imposed ration of pegs per route as by the difficulty of the rock.  Crew, on the first ascent, climbing both pitches in one on 300ft alpine ropes.  Drummond, the 5th ascent in shorts, later to write an unsurpassable account for Hard Rock.  But these were yesterday's legends; today’s legend, The Indian Face, E9, unrepeated and unimaginable, ran straight up the middle of the shield of rock to parallel Great Wall.

The groove was blanking out, just small finger holds and slopes for the feet.  Drummond’s account mentioned a peg.  I clipped a rusty Lost Arrow, sticking out 2 inches and threaded with retreat slings.  In the continuation of the crack I could see rust stains 3ft higher, the location of Crew’s original peg.  The route had first been climbed with some aid - not possible now as the peg was too low.

Into overdrive ...smearing up the groove...high foothold for my left foot, sidepulls for the left hand...awkwardly, I could just reach an edge with my right hand.  Too precarious to transfer my weight; this was the crux.  Difficult moves - 6a English (23)- with the runners well below my feet.  No go.  I reversed back to the peg.

In 1975 another legend, John Allen, had freed the route.  At the time it was seen as a flawed ascent, because he had used chalk, a serious ethical consideration of the day.

I toyed with more runners, but nothing seemed to fit further up the crack..  Up again, to the same insecure position.  My fingers didn't seem to have enough purchase...I reversed once more to the comforting familiarity of the peg and the welcoming abseil slings.  Peter looked up attentively, prepared to stop any plummet.  Concentrate.  Forget the fear.  Forget that it's an hour down to  medical help.  Back again, but I moved my right foot higher up the groove. Committed now, with no way to reverse that move, I reached for the edge, adrenalin pumping.  It seemed much bigger as I pulled up, feet following, at the slow motion speed that marks hard moves.  A jug stared at me.  Hanging from this, feet on small holds, I fired in a Friend #1 to protect the easier moves to the belay.

The belay was small, a peg and wires in the crack and a poor foothold to stand on. I added my TCUs to back these up; they would not be needed now.  On early ascents the leaders had run both pitches together, but this was not a possibility.  I’d used up most of my small wires, and anyway I needed the reassurance of conversation again before starting the second pitch.  Not as hard, only 5c (22), but with a reputation for handing out big falls from the layaway sequence near the top.  I brought Peter up, the ropes hanging down the wall, the grass below falling away into Lynn Arddu, the lake below the cliff.  Across to the left I could see the ledge at the top of the first pitch of the Drainpipe Crack.  I'd been on that ledge five years earlier, my first visit to the Black Cliff, on Vember, another Hard Rock route.  Supposedly Brown had fallen from the crux of that route in a rainstorm, and 2/3 of the rope had been cut through.  At the time, awed by the Black Cliff, I’d found Vember well hard enough.  I’d photographed a party on Great Wall, to be my momento of that route.

Peter followed the first pitch efficiently, with just a little tension at the crux moves. We changed over the belay and I reracked my gear.  Needing to stay in control, but so much more confident now, I started up the remaining 70 ft.

More moves up the faint crack, sharp positive flakes, off vertical, nothing hard but requiring care.  A few poor wires, in horizontal breaks - adequate but not reassuring.  I’m a wimp and normally I won’t lead routes without good gear.  Not today though; amazing how obsessive ambition can overrule normal behaviour.  On both sides of the crack smooth slabs of rock swept upwards, the home of E5s and E6s.  Big runouts on those routes, definitely not routes to fall on.

The crack ended ten feet below a ledge.  Somehow Crew had aided this originally, with small chockstones inserted into the crack.  I couldn’t see how this could have been done - it was hard enough to get a Rock #2 in.  I moved up on the last big holds.  This was where tired leaders fell off.  With that clarity of total commitment I started the layaway moves up the flakes leading rightwards towards the finishing ledge, away from the runners.  Overdrive again, every move a positive action, consciously  placing my feet on small edges to take some weight as I reached from hold to hold.  Such a mixture of exhilaration and fear I felt that instant, to be climbing near my limit, on sight, on a route I had considered in my dreams but never thought I would lead.

The finishing holds were there, and a peg to be clipped ...it was done, Great Wall was ticked.  With exaggerated caution I placed another wire, conscious that my adrenalin-fuelled concentration was slackening.  The final chimney was easy climbing, but a struggle against the rope - I had to haul in slack before making any moves.  I reached the ledge and set up a belay in the corner, prepared to haul Peter if needed.  I sat down, cold and tired now, to take in the rope as Peter followed.  He fell off on the layaways.  But it didn’t matter.  He just  pulled up on the ropes.  And we drove back to London.  At a legal speed.

Postscript

There is a magic to climbing in England that I have never found in any other country.  It is partly the history and legends, but even more the diversity of crags and of rock types, the hundreds of quality routes at all grades, the possibility of adventure no matter what level you climb at.  On remote mountain crags such as Cloggy, or the sea cliffs of Gogarth, there are what I would regard as some of the best crag climbs in the world.  Success on traditional British climbs is not usually about how hard you climb.  It is about weighing up a route, a pitch, a move and knowing that you can do it, even when there is no one else on the crag, the tide is coming in, it is about to rain and the last runner is 20 ft away.  These routes contain the essence of climbing in a way that no bolted route, however hard, ever will.

In reply to beagly77:

A great couple of accounts! Many thanks

In reply to UKC Articles:

In these times of doom, recalling an ascent of Dwm seems apt...

Castell Cidwm is possibly the most underrated crag in North Wales. Basking in the morning sun above the scenic Llyn Cwellyn, about half way along the road from Caernarfon to Beddgelert, its tiered overhangs inspire awe but take no prisoners. All the classic routes have a reputation for being hard, although I'm not sure they actually have much of a reputation since most people don't seem to even know about this crag. I once told a 'young gun' about it and he looked at me blankly but was persuaded to go have a look and came back raving about it. The crag is so good I've been there... once. A situation I keep meaning to address but there always seems somewhere else to go: less of a drive, more classic, less steep, easier - the usual stuff, excuses rather than reasons. Anyway, I digress...

The summer of 2013 was a good one. By mid July, it had been dry and hot for about a month, so my friend Phil and I were racking our brains for 'usually wet' routes to go and do. Being a Hard Rock tick which is usually wet and on a crag neither of us had been to before, Dwm was an obvious choice.

A pleasant walk on a forest track along the llyn gave way to a steep but short scrabble through undergrowth and brambles. It was clear that this wasn't a crag which gets visited much and looking up at the angular overhands looming above it was fairly obvious why. Our secret weapon was the knowledge that the crux pitch could be legitimately (?) done on aid, or at least it used to be and probably still was when wet, though of course the whole point had been to go there when it was dry so we could free it. Still, good to have an excuse if we didn't manage it.

Dwm goes up a buttress on the right hand side of the crag, which is where you first get to after scrabbling up from the llyn - just as well, so you don't get too scared from venturing further where the routes generally get harder. After two pitches of about E1 5b to get you warmed up (don't be deceived by the guide book claiming the first pitch to be 5a), doom awaits you on the third pitch: a curving hanging groove underneath a severe overhang, with smooth rock for your feet, small holds for your hands and rusty pegs for your amusement. This crux pitch goes at E3 6a when dry but it can be aided at A-something-or-other (probably A-shamed).

Phil kicked off proceedings with the harder than advertised first pitch, taking a hanging belay which my log book notes was 'reminiscent of Dreadnought'. I don't recall this belay so it must have been traumatically erased from my memory. Taking over for the second pitch, I climbed up technical ground into increasingly exposed territory, glad not to be leading the crux as it looked wild. To our relief, or perhaps disappointment, the crux pitch was bone dry. Phil teetered up, clipping assorted OAP pegs and chucking in the odd piece of gear where possible. All seemed well and he seemed to be almost past the worst of it but then progress ground to a halt, as it often does. A bungled sequence led to a slump onto a peg, which held because it happened to be the only serviceable peg on the whole pitch. Sequence sorted, Phil resumed his steady progress and soon it was time for me to follow. Diagonal overhanging bottomless grooves are not high on my list of things to second, so I was pleased to just about get through the crux without peeling off.

Strangely, my most vivid memory of the day was sitting in the sun at the top of the crag, gorging on some of the sweetest bilberries I've ever tasted - a month of unbroken sunshine is good not just for drying out Hard Rock routes! Still, it was certainly one of those routes where it felt good to get through the day without too much excitement. Happy to have accomplished our mission for the day (quality over quantity!), we set out for a leisurely return to Ynys, the CC hut in the Pass, to figure out something else off the 'usually wet' list for the following day. We ended up doing Lung Fish, a somewhat esoteric route on Craig y Rhaeadr which more or less follows the line of Central Icefall Direct. This is usually a waterfall but on that day it was mostly dry and only a bit slimy - yes, it got that dry that summer!

In reply to beagly77:

'There is a magic to climbing in England' and also to climbing in Scotland and Wales. Nice writeups.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Moonraker (HVS 5a)

We decided not to abseil in. After all, when Rob and Vitoria had tried to abseil in the day before, they misjudged the point of final contact, and that left Rob swinging in space above the sea. Fortunately for him, a passing kayaker was able to drag him to the rock where he eventually managed to make a belay. 

Instead, we opted for the cave approach. Fortunately for us, the tides were low enough to allow this. Unfortunately for me - I'm not an early riser by nature - it meant a 6am start. Khalid banged on the side of van accordingly, telling me to get my arse in gear. A cup of coffee duly downed, we walked in to Berry Head from the campsite, a perfect August morning.

What I'd failed to appreciate about the cave approach was that we first had to get to the cave. That involved down-climbing terrain at about HS. A deepwater solo, technically, if you fell off in the right place. Not so enjoyable with the early morning sea grease still very much on the rock. But we both made it, and proceeded to try and pick our way around the back of the cave at the tide's lowest ebb. Alas, the tide wasn't as low as we had hoped, and we found ourselves doing the start of Magical Mystery Tour (6a+) - a veritable DWS, whilst covered in trad gear. I definitely got scared. The climbing was mostly easy, until it wasn't. Khalid put in a cam and aided through; I followed, and still managed to get my foot fully soaked. And then the other one.

"Belay at old pegs", said the guidebook. Not anymore; the sea had eaten those away long ago. Still, we seemed to be in roughly the right place. I hung around, waiting as Khalid built a belay. Decent ARC training this, if nothing else. Eventually, a good enough bunch of gear went in. We swapped positions, he took the first lead. Glorious, sweeping, 45 degree line away to my right, up the overhanging wall, all on jugs. I watched as he made good progress, the sun rising in the sky, a perfect summer morning.

Soon I was seconding, then leading pitch two. The view into the Great Cave from this angle, spectacular. Looking at the old tat on Dreadnought (E3 5c) and Caveman (E6 6b), thinking "how can mere people climb such things? (Maybe one day I will too)" Birds swooping; a belay ledge caked in guano. Maybe climbing this two days after the end of the bird ban wasn't such a hot idea. But no matter.

Easy on to the top. Coffee at the tourist cafe, then a DWS of Rainbow Bridge Diluted (6a+ S0), before swimming back to the start. Then the long drive back to London. Can you define happiness? Maybe.

In reply to UKC Articles:

I got Hard Rock as a Christmas present in 1974, as soon as it came out   -  OK, It was from me to me, but the only other folk who would have given me a present were my parents, who thought the whole thing was bonkers anyway!  I’d only done the odd one or two at that stage, but they were memorable, like Gimmer Crack, and it was a massive inspiration to me, the Scottish routes especially!  The weather being what it is, it was a few years before the opportunity cropped up, but in 1977 a mate and I had a trip which I can still scarcely believe.

July 1 – drove from Edinburgh to Poolewe and walked into Carnmore where we found the barn clean, dry & empty.  We were lucky to bump into the keeper in Poolewe, who said it would be OK to park at Kernsaray, knocking a few miles off the walk-in.  Also lucky he didn’t seem to notice the collapsible fishing rod on my mates rucksack!

July 2 – after breakfasting on fresh trout from the loch, we did Fionn Buttress, great climbing and a glorious evening finish in the sun.  Maybe worth noting that about 30 years later I went back to do it again and reckoned the crux was definitely the steep broken ground to reach the clean rock – we used to be a lot more used to that sort of stuff!

July 3 – a poor day!  Oh no, not used to that sort of thing in Scotland.  Settled for doing four Munros from the barn, after fresh trout for breakfast!

July 4  -  Gob (HR route 1)  -  after fresh trout (how many were there in there anyway?), we wandered up the right hand side of the crag and casually across the steep ground to the base of Gob.  Brilliant route in a great situation.  (Again, 30 years later, going for Dragon, we did an E1 on the lower tier, as being preferable to the steep broken approach, and still found the bit to the base of the route terrifying!).   Walked back out to Kernsaray, drove to Skye and camped up.

July 5  - Great Prow (HR route 2) -  Don’t actually remember much about the climbing, though the situation was superb.  My main recollection was the highly traditional effort of going to the summit (which just happens to be another Munro), in EBs from the top of the climb.  It’s quite a long way!   Drove round to Glenbrittle.

July 6 – a miserable day in the finest Skye tradition, with some spectacular thunder and lightning.

July 7 -  cleared up nicely, so Cioch Grooves, Arrow Route, Integrity and Crack of Doom, before another evening thunderstorm.

July 8 – drove round to Fort William in the rain, and camped in Glen Nevis.

July 9 – Centurion (HR route 3)  -  As fantastic as its reputation, just a great day out.  We did cop out by not heading to the summit, although we atoned slightly on –

July 10 – Minus One Direct  (which I have in my diary as VS, as was Centurion!  They all were in those days!) -  quite a long way from a tent in Glen Nevis.  Interesting getting across onto the base of the route, as there was still some snow.  Surprisingly, a bit weary by the end of the day.

July 11  - Drove round to Glen Etive for Swastika (HR route 4, and another VS!) – another glorious day, and those quartz bands with no gear stay long in the memory.  We did the final corner with a few nuts for aid, as was normal, but to be honest even now I think it’s a better route done like that than with a totally out of character short 6a pitch.

July 12  - Pause (guess what, it’s VS)  -  memorable mainly for an argument/discussion I had with my belayer about whether I’d fallen off or not!  I was padding steadily up, then realised it had steepened up a bit and I wasn’t actually going up, in fact (while still padding!) I was going slowly down!  “I’m off!  Watch the rope!”, “No you’re not – nothing’s happening!”, “I AM FALLING”, “No, you’re not!”, “YES, I F***ING AM!”. At that point the angle eased off just a fraction and I stopped.  “It’s OK, I’ve stopped falling!”, which is not a line you get to use often.  I went a few feet to the side and everything was fine.

July 13 -  Ravens Gully (HR route 5, and a fine traditional, in every sense of the word, VS!) – I think I’ve read recently that Ken W included it as he felt there needed to be a gully in there.  It’s fun, of whatever type you may decide afterwards in the safety of the pub!  As it was completely dry, we actually found it Type 1, and just enjoyed it.  It didn’t seem to take all day, so we followed it with Bludger’s/Revelation which is fantastic and the “easier” classic way up Slime Wall, at a mere VS!  Gives you an excellent view and feel for Shibboleth, but that’s another story.

So the sort of Scottish trip you can only dream off -  if you could predict a trip like that would you dream of going anywhere else.  And you know the most fantastic thing about it – July, and I don’t remember a single midge!

Cheers, Andy

When I did Dragon on Canmore, with John Cox, we soloed up to the start and this allowed us to experience what we named the  'Heather Mind-F*ck'.  For Gob, our second route of the day, we did some abseiling and belaying on a long traverse to get to the start....

In reply to UKC Articles:

I beg all climbreporters, please, to anchor their climbs in time by adding the date - if not DDMMYear, then of at least of century decade.

This gives me a more achieved vision of their accomplishment and zooms me in into a
climbing epoch.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Another Corner entry:

It was all down to the London Marathon. Having done it three times in five years I’d thought: ‘if I did half as much training for a climb, a Hard Rock climb, surely that would work?’ So I resolved that on the day of the next year’s London I would, I’d lead the Corner. So I did. Twenty five years ago.

Lots of sessions at Mile End and a long drive up to Penmachno during a decent spell of weather left me and Andy with no choice. The strange thing was that whilst flogging up to the crag I felt like I was being taken out to be shot, yet, once started up the route I was almost casual. Too casual. I fiddled in a thread where the crack closes, just for forms sake, set off on the first crux and promptly skidded off. Andy reckoned I’d slink back to the road, defeated, but I decided to climb this time and made it past, to find myself bridging on thin edges in rock shoes better suited to slab climbing. I blame this on them being my only pair. They’d been fine on the six or seven VS’s I’d led so far that year, but my calves began to burn the higher I progressed. Still, I was happy, it’s the perfect route for a married man, or in my case, an apprehensive leader, swallowing as much pro as you can carry. Just as well really, because it was also a bit shiny in places. In those days E1’s weren’t supposed to be polished. Even most VS’s weren’t. But it was lovely climbing, always something for hand or foot, so, totally absorbed I made it to the niche and a quick easing of the pain in my legs.

Everything I’d read said that this would be where I’d fall off. Again in my case. I vividly remember two Bristol lads I’d witnessed in the days of hawser ropes, whooping at having done it, almost, and then… so I fiddled in yet more pro, bridged up, reached around, held my breath and found to my surprise there was a hold at the top. Well, really. Thanks.

Sitting up there, breathless and still a-tremble, tied to a stout-ish sapling as I remember, hauling Andy up, I felt a sense of, what? Relief I suppose, and a little joy too. That was enough for the day, we abbed off, hurried down and had a pint in the sun at the Vaynol.

Now, what’s that route off to the left?

In reply to beagly77:

We had a look at it on a previous visit a few days earlier and came back with a long stick carried up from Llanberis. I used that that to clip a peg of unknown ancestry on the lip and prusiked up to it, clipped another peg, got a couple of nuts in, and once on the rock the rest was a formality,

Chris

In reply to Chris Craggs:

Hasn't there been some rockfall in these parts Chris? I know Carpet Slab has bit the dust so to speak. Still, always a tricky entry that will deter suitors.

In reply to Sean Kelly:

Not sure about that, but I also did Haemagoblin(?) in the same area with Nig Baker and that has definitely gone awol,

Chris

In reply to UKC Articles:

It's so long since I did any of the routes that I can't remember any of them in detail but I have some memories of parts of some of them.

White Slab on a bank holiday with stonefall constantly coming down from a party above us and never missing by much. A huge rockfall when someone pulled a large block off the belay below Bloody Slab that luckily missed everyone below the west buttress. Getting the lasso second try.

Vector - the moves up to the ochre slab impressed me - polished footholds already in 1971.

Bow Wall - my second falling off and swinging round the corner in a green cloud as the ropes swept the rock clean of the lichen.

Extol - we did the then big 3, Hiraeth, Extol, Dovedale Groove, on the same day to avoid having to walk back up.

Chee Tor Girdle - I don't remember the climb but I do remember my partner being a very nervous passenger on the drive there.

Great Wall - I used the peg on the first pitch to get back to a rest after I got the sequence wrong but then finished the pitch cleanly. After seconding the second pitch I was glad I led the first.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Dwm (E3 6a) was first mentioned to me when I was at University in the 1990s, I was up in Scotland winter walking at the time with a group of mainly retired soldiers. One of which was some kind of big deal in the military, having heard I was living in Wales he had recalled a story of a route called Dwm which was a HVS with a section of aid. Now whilst I am not a big 'ticker', having never owned a Classic, Hard or Extreme rock book, his account had sown a seed in my mind, and as they say from acorns, oak trees grow.

Like oak this was a slow burner, for years I kept on just ticking the more standard classics. Working up through the grades, but every now and again I would come across references to this route or others on Castell Cidwm. Yet it was not until one fine summers day some time around 2003 that I finally got round to climbing it. I can't remember whether it was Steve, Dave, Jez or somebody else I climb it with, but in near perfect conditions we set off up the route.

My partner headed up the initial pitch, moaning about the hollow nature of the rock. Something I dismissed until I was undercutting around a block the size of a lorry engine, that you could tap and the block would carry on vibrating with a low pitch hum like a tuning fork for way longer than made me feel happy. 

Above with my lead ahead, I racked up with a large rack of cams and even more hope. With the route being HVS/A1 or E3, I had decided that I need to go for the free version, which was near the top of my grade at the time. So I headed into and up the top corner. Stemming wide and jamming occasional up to the crux of the issue, a large roof that capped the corner. The impasse forces you to traverse right to its ends. 

A steady crescendo of moves leads to what many people find a stopper move. Now having spent too much time reading about George Smith kneebarring his way to victory across many roof projects. I get a kneebar in above my head and start arranging gear as I hang bat like from the roof of the cave. Maybe at this point if I had been an impartial onlooker, I would have asked if kneebarring was totally necessary on an E3. As it was with the gear in I reached the lip and started to bring my feet down out of the upside-down. 

Undercutting no matter how good the holds seemed whilst using smears for feet means only one thing, time was now more of the essence than ever before. Way down and right was a foot hold, but from my previous perspective it had seem out of range. So using what can only be described as a poor substitute I make a move to exit the roof, only to find myself exiting backwards through the gift shop of this particular attraction. 

Pulling back on from below I get to browse again, that distant foothold was now a lot closer, and with this I make my way through the move and onto the top.

That would be where most stories would end, but last year, during the long dry and hot spring, I met up with Big Tim, a man renowned for his love of the obscure. Surprised that he hadn't lead it before, I jumped at the chance to go there for a rematch. So out of the blue I got the opportunity to switch the pitches and sandbag Tim. Although with Tim wearing his jammy gloved, I reflect on how times have changed with the route first being aided, then freed and now climbed with the modern assistance. 

My memory as I handed out the beta, was that could have been an echo of that memory. Despite the belief I was recalling the route perfectly, I wondered whether human memory was that high fidelity. I might have utterly sandbagged him, however for some reasons it seems my superpower is often remembering crux sequence and crucial runner on what for other people would be long forgotten routes. Despite remembering the sequence from 15 years or more ago, I can't remember if Tim succeeded or failed on the route. I have a suspicion he fell in the same spot I had, the same spot Greg and Rich who I would met the following winter in Spain, had fallen off the previous summer.

If you do it, aid or free, succeed or fail it doesn't matter, this out of the way crag and even more esoteric route is a place you will likely only get to with people who want to climb it. The thing is those people will often be the wildcards and the players. Both times I was there craic was high, the route adventurous and the climbing memorable.

In reply to Mark Reeves:

Great write up. Knee bar on a traverse, will have to remember that one. Can barely believe I got to do Dwm a few years before Big Tim and even less that he might have fallen off! 

In reply to Sean Kelly:

The bit beneath the overlap on Slanting Slab is pretty organic. You have a chance of causing a very small rockfall by pulling on any given hold. So I wouldn't be surprised if it's changed. 

Peg was (gingerly) bounce tested last year, for what it's worth.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Here's my account of Central Pillar on Esk Buttress in 1990.  Stuck on 39 of the original selection and two of those have now fallen down! 

A Good Pitch to Second

“Ooh – that looks nice” I’d said to Ken Goodman last year as we waited in a queue for Red Edge.    We were looking across at teams grappling with Central Pillar in Esk Buttress high above and several miles up Eskdale in the Lake District.

 I trained solidly for a year.  Not only did I appear twice on sandstone but I also went to Spain for a week.  I was ready!

Our team members were Jim (Unwin), an honorary Maidstone club member, and Tim Skinner - specially seconded into the Cheltenham Mountaineering Club hasbeens.

In the pub, we studied the guidebook - Rock Climbing in the Lake District (Constable 1975). “Extremely Severe……….poor protection…………one of the most serious undertakings in the Lake District”.

Great!  Can’t wait to get on it.  A man’s climb.  None of this clip, clip business to get in the way of the climbing.  Three more pints of Threshwaites XXS please my man.

I didn’t sleep very well. It must have been that last quart of Bleakstone’s Very Peculiar.  Greasy bacon, fried egg and squidgy tomatoes didn’t seem to help much for some reason.

I read that route description again.  It hadn’t changed much except that it now had small exposed stances as well. I looked at the Fell and Rock club 1988 guide hoping for some words of comfort. Hell!   E2!!   I hadn’t done one of those for years.  Further on at least it said “protection reasonable”.  Pitch 4 - “ a good pitch to second” - gulp!. Pitch 5 - “…..steep wall…..doubtful holds…..”.    This was sounding wonderful.

We all set off betraying no signs of inner qualms and fortunately no outward signs of bacon, eggs or that last half pint of Crummock’s Blackwater ale.

 A long trudge up Eskdale and here we were.  Jim got us to draw straws.  I drew first and shortest and got pitch 4

A good pitch to second.

A taste of Birketts Cumbrian bitter came involuntarily to my lips.

All I had to do for a bit was to tremble up the pitches for the direct start behind Tim and Jim.  Then it was up to me. Of course they said it looked ok  - well they would, wouldn’t they!  But actually, close up, it did look alright. I made a move up and got a runner.  Steady, balance climbing.  A thin horizontal break.  No runner would go in there they thought.  But out came my trusty size 0 flexible friend and in it went.  Ecstacy!  Jeers from below for this unexpected security.  A move right and a peg.  Then a hard bit over an overlap and I galloped off to the stance.

A good pitch to second?   Pshaw.  A great pitch to lead!  I just wish the  others had had the decency at least to pretend to struggle a little following.

We were now perched near the right edge of the buttress “excellently placed to apprehend the leader’s fate” as Hard Rock puts it. Tim was our leader, and we sent him out to bat. That smooth performer on God’s own rock (and sandstone as well) now turned his attention to something completely different.

Most of the holds on that overhanging wall seemed semi-detached as did our leader for a moment or two. He made an enormous reach past several good holds from the loose spike to the shattered break and clawed his way out to the arête and safety.  This WAS a good pitch to second although Jim and I admitted to little difficulty apart from deciding which jugs to ignore.

Tim and I ritually accused Jim of fixing the draw and wimping out of the hard stuff.  We were still at it several pints of Bonington’s Old Firkin later.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Wrote this years ago for a club journal....Sirplum & Malbogies

Hard Rockin’

When Ken Wilson first published “ Hard Rock” in 1974, his collection of photo-essays of Britain’s best harder rock climbs became an instant classic. By the mid eighties, improvements in climbing standards, meant that the list of 60 climbs had now become accessible to the average mid-grade climber and had thus formed the basis of the quintessential British puerile rock tick list. Introduced to climbing as I was about this time, it became essential reading and no climbing year was allowed to go by, without getting a few more ticks from the list. However in recent years, having allowed my attention to be diverted from the good book, by easier virtues like sport climbing and bouldering, I’m afraid I had somewhat lost the plot. So it was with some surprise that during a period of good weather last summer, I managed to get back on track with a couple of routes in the same mould…steep, inspiring and with space-walking situations. But this time it turned out with a twist….two routes on the same day in different parts of the country.

You see I’d arranged a meeting down in the South West with work and thought to get the early dart, travel down, stay with my mate Nick and maybe get a route in the night before. Then the phone went…..”it’s Chris ….cracking weather at the moment….how about Sirplum?” Well if I played it right I could do a route in the morning, travel down and get another one in….sounded like a plan.

Sirplum (E1) on Cheedale’s spectacular Plum Buttress takes a devious line around and then along the enormous overhangs, which so readily attract the eye from the valley below. I’d avoided it for many years because of tales of desperate overhanging climbing and the necessity of possible rescue / prussicking should you fall and lose contact with the rock. In reality, although the situations are certainly very intimidating, as one not given to heroic deeds, I’m pleased to report that much of this appears to be hype. Perhaps therefore, if I may, just a few extra useful details for any club members who haven’t done it yet.

The first pitch is fairly well protected, with the odd loose hold and goes at about 5a. Chris led this chuntering on about loose rock and grass tufts and it’s certainly designed to make you wake up and take notice.  The second, as the guidebook describes, features a stiff, reachy pull (crux) straight from the belay ledge, with a peg for protection. This certainly feels ‘bouldery’, but the gear is good and once over the bulge you can stand in balance and rest. Jugs soon arrive, as does another peg. This may be the technical crux but the psychological one is yet to come. Good jugs lead left to a good rest on a sound ledge known as the pedestal. This allows you to suss out the next moves, which involve the rock becoming overhanging and undercut, as you move urgently across to the pillar, from which dangle (hoorah!!) several in-situ threads. Prior to our ascent there’d been much debate about whether the threads would be there, but I’m pleased to say they looked to be a permanent fixture and the purist in me is not afraid to say they were a welcome sight. Having clipped these, now increasingly pumped, I semi-hand traversed left quickly and pulled up into the exit groove. One more quick pull up this allows a bridge rest and it’s virtually over bar the shouting. I should also add that there is plenty of gear on all of this second pitch. An absolutely brilliant route and under normal circumstances I would have been happy to pack up and do the cream tea thing….not wishing to tarnish the Hard Rock experience by doing anything rash like another route you understand. But no the clock was ticking and it was back in the car and down the motorways to pick up Nick in Gloucester.

Given that I was arriving late afternoon I’d assumed that we’d be going somewhere local to Nick….maybe do a few clip ups, whilst I regaled him with tales of our glorious ascent of Sirplum…..especially gloating as it had been on his hit list for a while also. But Nick was having none of it and was keen on going to Avon Gorge.

I’ve never been that keen on Avon…..all that traffic noise and awkwardly placed quarried limestone holds, is not really my thing. But I’m glad I went back just one more time, because Nick had a cunning plan….he’d recently heard tales of Malbogies (HVS) and was enthusing over the apparent quality. And well… all of a sudden the pieces all fell into place.

Malbogies is another belting route. Assuming that you have scrambled up the easy start, then the first pitch is the crux and requires a degree of confidence to make upwards, then rightwards progress, on polished and yes, awkwardly placed holds. However there is generally good protection from pegs and wires. If you get the choice of pitches to lead, then pick the second. This allows you to watch your mate struggle on the crux first pitch, whilst you cruise it on a top rope. You then have the considerable pleasure of romping up the easier top pitch, which, with so many in-situ pegs is virtually a clip-up and all on good juggy holds.

Sometimes in climbing, whatever grade you climb, you just have one of those special days. And as I sat later in the beer garden of a pub looking over at the Clifton Bridge and watched the sun set, I knew this was one of them. For me there’s nothing better than good routes in good company and whilst I’d done two hard rock routes in a day before, they’d always been on the same crag… never in different areas.

For myself, I can’t recommend these routes too highly. But then maybe you have your own ideas…..3 Hard Rock routes in different areas in a day perhaps? But that would be just puerile ticking wouldn’t it?

Now let’s see….they’d need to be easily accessible….not too hard…..now there’s a plan!

In reply to Misha:

Excellent! Great line!

In reply to UKC Articles:

A Dream of White Horses (HVS 4c)

31st December, 2018. An unusually mild winter, we're up at the North London Mountaineering Club hut in Capel Curig to see in the New Year. The day before, Matt and I had managed a quick ascent of Rap (VS 4c) on Gogarth South Stack, before the rain dousing Snowdonia finally got us. But today the forecast is dry, and remarkably warm for the time of year. And I've persuaded Holly to get that big tick she's been dreaming of for a long time: A Dream of White Horses.

We set off from Capel at 8.30am and arrive at Gogarth by 9.30. No rush, plenty of the day left. We wander over to Wen Zawn. I ask Hollie if she wants to check out the route from the vantage point. Of course she does. Back to the gearing up spot, then time to rig an abseil. I'd only brought an old sport rope, and it's twisting horribly as I descend. An absolute battle sorting the tangles. Hollie eventually follows me down. Somehow, it's now mid-day. No matter, only 4 pitches, HVS. Plenty of time.

Except, I forgot that Holly hasn't led much trad. Or multi pitch. She's happiest on a grit jamming crack. Progress is a little slow; rope-work not what it might be. The traverse is more intimidating than you realise to a nervous second. On pitch 3, Holly gets lost. I try to shout out instructions - she's way too high, she needs to drop down. She does, I follow, with a rather unprotected downclimb now thrown into the mix. The wind's picked up; I eat a chocolate bar to raise core temperature. Christ, the sun is low in the sky. Oh my, it's nearly 4pm. I set off on the final pitch; speed is of the essence.

When Matt said "take plenty of slings, and extend everything", I thought I understood. But I didn't. It's called "A Dream of White Horses" because of the way the waves look at the bottom - but it could equally be for the horse-shoe shaped final traverse. People say it's 4c "for psychological and positional seriousness only, technically it's easy". Maybe so, in good conditions. But in December, everything under the great capping overhang is seeping. I pick out my way. I go wrong. I work my way back down. Eventually, I find the line, light fading. The drag is outrageous. I struggle against my own ropes. By the time I take the final grove, I've no quickdraws left for any gear I might place. But this is no time to hang about, I run it out to the top as the sun sets.

Holly can't hear me. Three sharp tugs. She has to climb. Now. Thank god we listed to John, and brought out head torches. Dusk rapidly envelops us. She is now climbing wet rock, traversing terrain she can only see when she points her head directly at it, with monumental fall potential, and a prussik self-rescue required should she come off. We still can't hear each other.

Inch by slow inch, I bring the ropes in. I scream at her to leave gear she can't easily retrieve. She screams back, inaudibly. I think I may need to give a little slack - cautiously, that's what she gets. Slowly, slowly, she works her way towards me. As the light of her lamp begins to peak out below the finishing grove, trepidation turns to elation. She's going to make it. We're going to make it.

New Year's Eve? New Year's Epic. Back at the car by 7.30pm. Get the scotch ready, tonight they're on me.

In reply to UKC Articles: Not sue if this is any use:

 

Hard Rock Days

Modified from the chapter Hard Rock Days in my autobiography, Quest into the Unknown, Vertebrate Publishing 2019.

Glancing through my guide books I see that John Smith, Mick Shaw, Di Taylor and I seemed to have a purge on the routes in Ken Wilson’s superb Hard Rock book in the early 1980s. I don’t think we went specially to climb them because they were in the book, certainly not the ones in England and Wales, it just happened that way as we were away most weekends climbing starred routes from Coronation Street in Cheddar Gorge to routes like Extol in the Lakes, The Needle in the Cairngorms and most of the Welsh ones, even if we briefly became what some called ‘puerile tickers’ of Hard Rock. 

In 1983, up in the Cairngorms, after a six mile walk-in, Mick, Di and I camped at the head of Loch Muick, enjoying the wildness of the place and climbing the 950 foot King Rat and its lesser neighbour, Goliath in perfect weather. Then north again to the giant, slender sea stack, or rather, tottering tower of the Old Man of Hoy. It wasn’t until 1819 that maps showed a stack separated from the mainland. Soon after that, a storm left it much as it is today. Nine years after we climbed it, a 130ft crack appeared in its south face leaving a large dodgy looking overhanging section which will inevitably collapse. It’s definitely a dramatic piece of rock and Di was already a bit worried about it as she had just finished reading Al Harris and Lucy Rees’s book, Take it to the Limit. In one of its gripping tales, two lads and a girl have an epic on the Old Man and we, Mick, me and Di, two lads and a girl, were about to climb it.

Once on the main island of Orkney,  we hired a local fisherman to ferry us over to the island of Hoy, then, as you must, we walked it over to the far coast where there’s a superbly located lonely bothy on an idyllic beach at Rackwick Bay. We went over to have a look at the Old Man that evening, which made Di even more concerned. We were off early the next day to climb the classic 460 feet E1 East Face Route which was the subject of the 1967 TV extravaganza. It’s described in Hard Rock by Chris Bonington who was on the first ascent as “Britain’s finest sea stack... and probably most rewarding summit”. 

Three years earlier, whilst out in the Dolomites in 1964, Stan Wroe and I had wondered about climbing it, but by the following year my plans had changed and I was in Norway - what a plum first ascent we missed on Hoy, but I guess the Troll Wall was some compensation. So it was 1983 when Mick, Di and I finally made it and all went well, remembering to leave the essential spare back-rope to facilitate a diagonal abseil down the overhangs. The final pitch involved climbing past a rusting steel cable that seemed to be holding the summit blocks in place - not very reassuring. Once up there, Mick took a photo of me and Di, but as he was unable to see anything other than us perched on the top, it looked like we were sat on the moors at home. With the spare rope in place for the overhanging last ab, the decent was easy-peasy and we had a leisurely evening at the bothy before walking and sailing back the next day, then off we went on our Hard Rock trip to Wester Ross and Carnmore Crag, “one of the remotest crags in mainland Britain”. 

On the seven mile walk in we surprised a couple of salmon poachers who were extremely relieved to see we were climbers and not gamekeepers, after which we walked round Fionn Loch to the bothy beneath the crag. The impressive looking routes of Dragon, “one of the finest routes in Scotland”, and Gob, “a mind-blower packed with gusto and excitement”, or so it said in Hard Rock, loomed above us amidst the overhangs and gave us something to look forward to or worry about until the morning. Once again, we cruised them. I say this with no sense of bravado, we were all three simply going well and in no hurry. The weather was good and we did a route each day for the next two days, simply enjoying being there, during which time as elsewhere on this Sottish trip, we saw no-one. Except for the poachers on the walk-in, and a ghillie on our way back. We had just set off when he arrived in a small 4 x 4 rough terrain vehicle. He offered us a lift out which we gladly accepted, surprised when he headed straight for the loch - and into it. It was an amphibious vehicle! Once across we soon reached the road where the gamekeeper was waiting for him. He gave the ghillie a right earfull, “What the hell are you doing giving those guys a lift?”, he shouted. “You can get out and walk the rest”, he said, pointing at us. Miserable sod. We felt really sorry for the ghillie and thanked him profusely whilst hoping the poachers had got away with their bags full of salmon.

Heading south for Ben Nevis, we discovered Ardverikie Wall was in our Classic Rock book, so diverted to climb this delightful 550 foot Severe. As the book says, “it’s the ideal place to break a journey in either direction between bigger and harder expeditions... four long pitches of delight over slabs, ribs, cracks and grooves with considerable exposure all the way”. The guide to Rock Climbing in Scotland even goes so far as to say it’s “one of the best routes in the country”. It was definitely well worth the stopover, proving once again that the grade isn’t relevant when considering the quality of a climb. The following day, as we walked up to The Ben the clouds came in and for the first time on the trip the weather was threatening. We camped on a small rise with the cliff of Carn Dearg glowering darkly above us, clouds gripping its top. We were hoping to climb Centurion the following day, but it wasn’t looking good. 

The storm hit in the middle of the night. With the three of us squashed into a small two man tent well past its sell by date, we were soon getting damp. Then a stream started to come in at the door. Mick being the youngest we volunteered him to go out into the dark and the deluge to see what was happening. He poked his head back in to say that the small rise we had camped on now had a stream on either side and our island was about to be flooded. Time to up sticks and go. We squelched down the three miles of the Alt a Mhuillin and headed for home. 

Frustrated at missing out on Centurion which, though no longer considered particularly hard at HVS 5a, was once described as “one of the most challenging climbs in Britain”. We came back the following summer with our old friend Alan Baker. We thoroughly enjoyed the day, climbing in two ropes of two, Alan and Mick, and Di and me. With the weather looking good we then went up to Scotland’s wild north west coast to climb The Old Man of Stoer, a 220 foot, three star Hard Severe sea stack. Once again, the grade was irrelevant, it’s not just the climb that’s three star, it’s the whole day. We were expecting to have to swim to reach the stack, so were more than happy to find an old rope fixed across to it a few feet above the sea. Mick got the short straw and went across first to test it, then Di went over, Alan and Mick taking great pleasure in getting the rope swinging so her feet were dunked in the sea. 

Once across, the route was problem free though Di gave us some more laughs when she became the target of an angry fulmar which pewked evil smelling half digested fish on her as she pulled round an overhang onto its ledge. The top was a great place to enjoy the wildness of the coast with sea birds wheeling around us and the sea crashing and sucking on the rocks below. A couple of abs took us back down: time to remember and pay our respects to Tom Patey who was on the first ascent in 1966, but was tragically killed in 1970 when abseiling from The Maiden, another sea stack further north on the Sutherland coast. Then it was back across the rope again and off back home. 

..................................

Author of Troll Wall https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/troll-wall.html 

Quest into the Unknown https://www.v-publishing.co.uk/books/narratives/quest-into-the-unknown.html and climbing and trekking guidebooks to UK, Norway, Jordan and Palestine.

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I've only climbed about 10 Hard Rock routes, and failed on at least one (due to a geography student who misread the tidetables for Moonraker).

But one that does stand out was on my only trip to Cornwall. I was very much the weakest member of a group of climbers from Glasgow & Stirling for a week at Easter, maybe 1981. The group included Ian Duckworth & Pete Bilsborough from Stirling, Cubby, Rob Kerr & Tom Prentice from Glasgow - there may have been others. For the first few days we mostly climbed at Bosigran & I climbed with Rob, Pete & Tom, mostly on classic VS & HVSs  with the odd harder route (I particularly remember strugling on Beowulf (E2 5c)).

Then midweek I somehow ended up climbing with Cubby who had ideas for harder routes and I found myself seconding, often on a fairly tight rope, Pump It Up (E3 6a) & Saddle Tramp (E4 6a), both much harder than my usual climbing. After that Cubby offered to do something easier so we set off for Bow Wall (E2 5b)l. All  I knew was that it was in 'The Book' and was a Joe Brown route. Cubby led the 1st pitch and made it look easy, although that didn't mean much so I set off a little apprehensive. But all went well, and after the earlier routes it almost seemed easy. Don't remember much about the 2nd pitch except that it started to rain just as we finished.

All seems very long ago.

PROPHECY

I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I had only been climbing regularly for a couple of years when I first went to Pabbay in 2009. The trip landed just before Gary Latter’s guidebook, so the islands were still word-of-mouth and known to relatively few people. My friend Malcolm had been out the previous year with some elder statesmen of Scottish climbing, and had taken the initiative this time around to organise his own trip, with a bigger tent and more alcohol.

Word was that you ought to be climbing at least E2 to make the most of the islands. I had sketched my way up a couple of E3s by this stage, and only taken a groundfall once, so I’d be fine. I trusted Malcolm’s judgement on this, because although he was still only 19, he’d climbed E5 and the North Face of the Eiger and stuff, and he’d expressed disapproval at me soloing safe routes near my technical limit in Northumberland, so it seemed he had a more informed estimation of my abilities than I had.

Pre-guidebook, all we had were print-outs of text documents and no topos, and we just went where Malcolm told us to go, bent uphill under hundred-metre statics. First we went to the Grey Wall. A golden eagle took flight from the clifftop as we approached the abseil niche, and floated away over the distant sea. The importance of rope protectors had been stressed repeatedly. I thought this was mostly a measure of caution to lengthen the life of the ropes, which were shared purchases from knotted purses, but by the time I was hanging freely and far away from the rock, 90 uninterrupted metres above the sea, I felt differently.

I had never used a prussik before and this one wasn’t working, so with bloodless knuckles I spent most of the descent contemplating the feasibility of survival if, at this given moment, the iron-hot device melted the rope or a carelessly placed piece of carpet rolled off a razor edge of gneiss. My partner, Ian, has no capacity to experience irrational fear, or if he does, he likes it, so he lapped up the first pitch of U-Ei with squawks of delight, while I waited the choppy sea inside to get calm.

A few showery days later when it came to the Great Arch abseil, I was old hand with rope protection and prussik wraps, as in I had done it before once. By this stage in the trip, my girlfriend Ferdia had been sidelined by a groundfall in the Bay Area, and was sitting by the beach with two broken heels stubbornly refusing to call a boat to get her off the island and into a hospital, so a shuffle of partners meant it was Andy and Andy for the evocatively titled and regally positioned classic-in-waiting, Prophecy of Drowning.

Looking back at the early years of my climbing, it seems curious that the things that kept me at it are not always the same things I appreciate now. These days challenging, committing routes in remote places represent pinnacles in my climbing. In some way they always did, but back then, appreciation was muddied by the fact I spent most of the time terrified. I was willing to push my boundaries dangerously far from the ground on small outcrops, where the inner chimp need only be aroused for a few brief moments before going to sleep on the grass again, but put in a position of sustained exposure and commitment, I couldn’t barely think for its screeching.

Below the Great Arch, the sea rolls around like a monster that’s been fed, smacking with careless satisfaction. Yesterday we witnessed the fury of its appetite, waves breaking clean over the Poop Deck and Allanish Walls, but even in this state its presence, teamed with the vast roofed cliff above, summons our smallness and twirls in its teeth a lazy threat of obliteration.

On the first pitch, the critical instruction is to ‘swing wildly around the overhanging right arete’. Even visualising this concept is frightening, and mis-identifying the correct point at which to do so, unthinkable. After some cautious upping and sidewaysing and prairie-dog peeks into the booming void right of the arete, I make the crucial swing into the hanging groove. Quickly, it becomes hard to move. I scream for slack - not that Andy can hear me now. The obvious fact that I have clipped my ropes badly does not stop me from getting very angry, and ripping my throat repeatedly for SLACK as I climb the groove, unbalanced by drag and simmering panic and with no pleasure whatsoever.

Andy’s lead on the second pitch gives me a chance to recuperate, but Andy’s a big fella so instead I convince myself that when he falls he’s going to rip all his gear out, and eyeball the constituents of my belay nervously. On the third pitch, at the crux steepening, the effects of emotional distress, already dictating the stagnant manner of my movements, make their move on the muscles of my forearms. Like a nitrous injection to the rising pump, panic makes me stab upwards awkwardly, get hopelessly crossed over, hold on grimly until it’s apparent I can’t do so indefinitely, and let go. It’s a pretty good whipper, and calms me down a tiny bit, though I still manage to fumble a quickdraw into the sea before finishing the pitch. I should really go back some time, emotionally equipped to enjoy this fine thing.

I guess if you squint between the lines, this story already hints an answer to the question of what kept me at it, through the years of self-inflicted dread. When I scanned the list of Hard Rock routes I’d climbed and wondered which I’d like to spend a couple of hours revisiting, for many of them I realised I hadn’t much to say - good climbs, enjoyable days, some strong in the memory, others just another route, a couple I’m actually surprised to see I’ve done, as I barely remember them. Enjoyment in the moment is only the struck match to kindling the value of an experience, its lasting effects still unknown, waiting to be teased out in memory and story and in the changing lights of new perspectives. But we all know that, right?

In reply to UKC Articles:

Honestly, I swear there is somebody out there who just dislikes everything I post on principle.

Upon reflection, I think I know who it might be.

In reply to Andy Moles:

Great writing. That brings up some strong memories. 

In reply to Paul Sagar (and everyone else who's contributed):

I've just given you a like to compensate

Just catching up on everyones stories and am totally blown away by the response. It's hard to know where to begin with dishing out the compliments, because each and every one of the stories has been great to read. 

That said, I think I've got a slight bias towards the Scottish stories, simply because as per my own account - when the sun is shining there really is no better place. Simon's account of The Bat was particularly brilliant and has made me want to re-visit Robin Smith's original article. Sam Simpson's account of Bow Wall reminded me less of the route, but the value of the people we share our time with. Paul Sagar's story of Moonraker reminded me of just how deep, dark and dank it is at the back of The Old Redoubt (I mean really, the approach is worth HVS in/of itself surely?!). Finally, Andy Cairns' account of his two week road trip and a reminder of some of the more sobering grades that the routes were originally issues with.

That's about as far as I've got, but suspect that as the afternoon goes on my desire to do any actual work will dwindle, and surely this is a kind of work - isn't it?!

In reply to Paul Sagar:

Turn them off, and free yourself from caring.

Honestly, there is no downside.

In reply to Andy Moles:

Did not know that was possible, shall do so immediately!

After reading the new additions this morning, I can contribute another NZ Alpine Journal article that was written in 2011 or 2012, for NZ climbers who would not necessarily be familiar with either the book or British climbing....I've had to post this in two bits as it's apparently too long and several attempts to shorten this have failed as I'm not sure what the word limit is....

Part 1

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                                                 Hard Rock: An Obsession

Hard Rock, first published in 1974 by Ken Wilson, is a collection of 59 rock routes from the British Isles, ranging in difficulty from VS – E4 (roughly 17-23). The routes included are iconic, ooze history, and many were testpieces of their day.  In size, they range from 50ft gritstone cracks in the Peak District to 1000ft remote mountain routes in Scotland.  There are sea cliff classics in Cornwall and North Wales, an imposing sea stack in the Orkney Islands and even several aid climbs, including one on Stone Ulladale, a 700ft cliff on Harris, a remote island off the west coast of Scotland. 

Hard Rock is organized into a series of chapters, with each chapter covering one or more routes, documented with photos and a short article, typically authored by well-known climbers. The route names echo that British economy of words…The Grooves , The Crack, Great Wall…sometimes they are more evocative….Right Unconquerable, Dwm …pronounced ‘Doom’, Welsh meaning steep…or provocative… Suicide Wall … there are two of those in the book.

Hard Rock became the template for many similar books, and Wilson later published Classic Rock and Extreme Rock, to a similar formula but with a different range of grades.  Fine books, but not quite the same: the routes in Classic Rock were too easy, and those in Extreme Rock a bit too hard. But Hard Rock….one could aspire to doing these routes, and to ticking the book…..

I don’t remember when I first encountered Hard Rock, but it was probably in the Christchurch Public Library. Before long I’d memorized the names, the stories, the legends; many of the climbs were put up in the 50s and 60s, the time of the Rock and Ice, Brown and Whillans, and the Creagh Dhu, Robin Smith and Dougal Haston. From 12,000 miles away in the comfort of the library chairs I could see my fingers curling over  those same holds, pursuing that same dream, admittedly not in the pouring rain, with nailed boots, line slings, and a few ex War-Department carabiners.

It is the history that permeates those cliffs that draws me back again and again to climb in Britain, even though I know the weather may be bad, the roads and crags crowded, the holds polished by thousands of grasping hands. When I open my copy of Hard Rock, the memories come flooding back of overnight drives from London to remote dales and isolated cliffs, fired up with the vision of those routes.

When I arrived in Britain in 1985, planning only to stay a few months, I really wanted to try myself against Hard Rock, and I headed for North Wales, to meet Dennis Kemp, a retired photographer who had spent some months in NZ and Australia. I camped in his house for a month; in between days of rain, we climbed on granite in Cornwall, on limestone in the Avon Gorge near Bristol, on gritstone in the Peak District, and in North Wales on volcanic rock.

With Dennis, I made my first visit to Dinas Cromlech, a proud cliff 500 ft above the road though the Llanberis pass in Snowdonia. I was in pursuit of Cenotaph Corner, the most famous climb in Britain, a vertical 150ft corner framed by imposing walls that offer intricate face climbing and big E grades. The central walls of Dinas Cromlech are a history of British climbing; Spiral Stairs on the left, a J M Edwards route, perhaps the best climber of the 30s, Cemetery Gates on the right arete, Don Whillans’ contribution, and Centotaph Corner itself, first climbed by Joe Brown.  And on the walls, another dozen E3 - E8 routes, including Right Wall, Pete Livesey’s 70’s masterpiece, and Left Wall, supposedly the most fallen off route in the Pass. 

We didn’t climb Cenotaph Corner that day; it was wet, or maybe occupied, I don’t remember.  We climbed Cemetery Gates, a steep well protected jamming crack; and I made several return visits to the foot of the Corner before finally succeeding, by dint of getting up at 5am one Saturday to beat everyone else… And after the Gates, we went down to Pete’s Eats, the climbing café in Llanberis, for tea and beans on toast, or maybe it was for a pint at the Pen-y-Gwryd, where the walls are signed and Hillary’s signature is near that of Mallory.

Near to Dinas Cromlech are the other cliffs of the Pass; Clogwyan Y Grochan, Dinas Mot, Cyrn Las. And above the pass is Snowdon itself and Clogwyn d’ur Arddu, the Black Cliff. ‘Cloggy’ has five Hard Rock routes, more than any other cliff, but they are justly deserved. Great Wall is the jewel, the route Joe Brown didn’t do, but left for Pete Crew, the best of the next generation. At E4 this is technically the most difficult Hard Rock route, too hard for the average  punter, who comes instead for White Slab, a series of intricate pitches up the 500ft West Buttress.  When first climbed, White Slab involved lassoing a spike and swinging across a blank slab, but with modern protection and sticky rubber it’s easier and less time-consuming to climb across, which is what I did in 1987. On a fine summer day there’s a steady stream of teams on White Slab, a route that was once seen as the ultimate. Several years later, climbing a different route, I arrived back at one of the stances, to meet Steve Hart with whom I’d climbed Mt Hopeless in Nelson Lakes a few years earlier.  

The wet weather alternative to Snowdonia is Craig Gogarth, that magical seacliff of steep quartzite on the island of Anglesey, just off the North Wales coast….but there’s a road bridge, so it’s easier than it sounds to get there.  If there’s one place to capture what British climbing offers, I’d suggest Gogarth….300 routes, 50  – 500ft dropping into the Irish Sea, VS to E8, often with sea level tidal access or scary abseils down forboding walls of grass and rock…you walk across this innocuous headland, amongst the heather and wild flowers, to some steep grass slope that falls away, all the time looking for an iron stake or spike of rock that is the abseil anchor. On my first visit with Dennis Kemp we climbed Dream of White Horses, that amazing four pitch sideways traverse that navigates the walls of a zawn 150ft above the sea….perhaps the second most famous route in Britain.

One of the Hard Rock routes is Gogarth, the original route of the cliff, a 5 pitch E1 5b [19] that climbs the highest part of the Main Cliff. In August 87 I climbed this with Petra, my then Dutch girlfriend. She led the first pitch and I led the next three. After several hours we were underneath the last pitch, perched on a small ledge about 300 ft above the sea. The last pitch, the crux, traverses across a steep wall and up a crack. I moved across the wall to the crack, which seemed to be overhanging. It didn’t look like E1, but I was sure it was the right place, so I placed a runner and climbed up a bit. It was tiring, not easy to place protection, so I kept going. And very soon I couldn’t stop, couldn’t put any more gear in, couldn’t down climb, and was a long way above the protection at the start of the crack. I kept climbing, totally gripped, and somehow reached the slopes above the cliff and constructed an anchor fit to moor the Titanic. Petra fell off following, pirouetting in space above the sea, there was crying and recrimination….and afterwards, we sat on the grass below the routes of the upper tier, and although there was time for a second route there wasn’t the will….we broke up soon after that and I’m sure it was all because of this route….maybe.

A few years later when I looked at the comprehensive guide, I understood what had happened. We’d accidentally climbed the last pitch of another route that was E2 5c,  several grades harder.

Five routes were climbed with Kiwis, part of that exodus of climbers in the late 80s; three routes with Carol Mcdermott, one with Simon Middlemass, one with Steve Moore. With Carol one weekend in 1990 in the Lake District I climbed Extol on Dow Crag on Saturday, and Central Pillar on Esk Buttress on Sunday, two crags 50 miles apart on opposite sides of Scafell.

Climbing in the Lake District is different than in North Wales. Although the rock is volcanic and similar...the valleys are more wooded, the lines of the hills less sharp, and there are many more little villages with stone cottages and slate roofs.  It’s probably my favorite area to climb in, and Scafell is the prime crag, sitting high on the north side of Scafell Pike.  It’s another crag steeped in history, and includes Central Buttress, first climbed in 1914 in the months before the First World War. It was the hardest route in Britain for many years…HVS 5a [18], now E3 5c [22] from the loss of a key chockstone. The ascent was led by Siegfried Herford; in one of those delicious ironies of history, he was deemed unfit to lead men and denied a commission by the War Office, to die two years later in the trenches in France.

One very British climbing tradition is the girdle traverse. Apart from Dream of White Horses, there are three more in Hard Rock; Chee Tor Girdle and Alcasan, five and seven pitches respectively sideways across limestone cliffs in the Peak District, and rather different, the North West Girdle of Almscliff  -“Arms Cliff” - a 200ft traverse across a gritstone edge near Leeds where most of the time you are no more than 40ft from the ground….200ft of strenuous horizontal jamming and hand traversing….

[part 2 to follow]

In reply to Rob Greenwood - UKClimbing:

We weren't entirely helpless, though. For example, on Ben Nevis, although Jimmy Marshall's superb guide also gave The Bat, Torro and King Kong "Very Severe", they *were* at the top of the graded list!  Obviously no technical pitch grades, or eg for Centurion, any indication which of the 8 pitches might be more interesting than the others.

Additionally, for extra detail, we could turn to Hamish MacInnes' selected Scottish Climbs, where, as he had opted to use UIAA grades for the rock climbs, we learn that Centurion is "-VI", whereas The Bat is "VI+".  If that didn't fry your brain cell, he also opted to use traditional British grades for the winter climbs, so we have both Zero Gully and Orion Face Direct at "Very Severe"!!!

Oh what fun we had!

Cheers, Andy

In terms of the last part of this article...after this was written I climbed the Great Prow and The Old Man of Hoy on further missions from the US, again with John Cox

Part 2 of Hard Rock: An Obsession

By the early 90’s I was about two thirds though the book, but it was getting harder. The remaining routes were in Scotland, on big crags needing big drives and good weather. I’d recruited some helpers though; most of the routes had been climbed with just three Brits as climbing partners.                  

In 1997 I moved to the U.S. and the campaign became more expensive. I made a number of trips back to climb with my friend John Cox, and we embarked upon a series of Scottish missions.  There were many memorable routes…Dragon and Gob, on Carnmore Crag in Torridon, a 16 hour day because of the four hour approach; Yo Yo on the North Face of Aonach Dubh, a route that took three attempts, the first two failing in howling winds and freezing temperatures...and this was summer.  And of course Shibboleth, climbed in 2002. Great Wall may be E4, but it’s not the stopper that Shibboleth is.

Scotland…is different.  It’s empty compared to England and Wales. Lots of hills…in fact 283 over 3000ft – the Munros.  But it does rain, and the high crags can stay wet all summer.  And there are the midges…nearly invisible except they travel in packs and their bite isn’t invisible.  A rock climbing guide published in the early 90s introduced a new grading for each crag, the one to three midge symbol - and more certainly wasn’t better.

Shibboleth [E2 5c/21], located on the unappealingly named Slime Wall high on Buachaille Etive Mor,  is a Robin Smith route, perhaps the greatest legacy of his short life, which ended in the Pamirs in 1962. Robin Smith was Scotland’s Joe Brown, and his routes have that same status. 

John and I parked just off the road on the Rannoch Moor, near Glencoe, and headed up for an hour or so, passing by the start of Raven’s Gully, another Hard Rock tick I’d done a few years earlier.  Raven’s Gully appears in two Wilson books…it’s there in Hard Rock and as a Grade V ice route in Cold Climbs, a compendium of British winter routes. Once past Raven’s Gully, we were soon underneath an imposing, damp wall that seemed devoid of lines…so we headed up the easy looking ground on the right. The ‘approach’ gully soon turned into the sort of thing I use a rope on….so after soloing up this, the complete absence of abseil anchors at the top of the gully led to plan B, called ‘failure’.

Attempt #2 the next day went better, aided by the unintentional reconnaissance. The route did apparently go up the imposing, damp wall devoid of lines…. 

Slime Wall is actually good rock, but does not get the sun so is gloomy, intimidating and often streaked with wet seeps that dry slowly if at all. The rock is compact rhyolite, and the routes typically offer sparse protection and difficult routefinding.

I took the first pitch, moderate climbing up angular shelves and blocks, good rock but lacking in runners.

The second pitch, the crux, starts up an awkward crack that blanks out at a ledge after 20ft.  John traversed along this, getting further and further from protection, to a diagonal slanting crack that weeped water. He started up this carefully, tricky climbing on wet and sloping holds. The crack was not very positive and offered little protection.  

“…it was with a sense of shock that I found myself, after only a couple of moves, committed, unprotected and hanging uneasily from greasy and sloping holds. I swung up awkwardly, out of balance, and reached a wet mossy crack. After a few insecure jams and a layback, I gained the comparative safety of an old and twisted peg. Was I fit enough? I felt the nagging fear. The crack continued, still hard but drier, until at last a small stance appeared”

Martin Boysen, Hard Rock

Following, I was very glad I hadn’t led that pitch.

The third pitch was a steep corner that finished with a 20ft traverse to a belay. The traverse was yet again unprotected, and I made several forays out and back until I could complete the sequence to the belay.

Pitch 4 is steep wall climbing, not technically as hard as Pitch 2…John’s pitch again.

“A huge wall rears up steeply, unrelieved by cracks or other features. The description is vague, ominously singling out a halfway jug as the only feature worth mentioning. I have seldom felt so nervous before setting off on a pitch. The process of climbing is mercifully totally absorbing, but I felt fearful; lost on the wall with nothing to go for. No runners relieved the tension of the climbing. Each move is hard, although no move is harder than the next, but as the rope runs out in a single sweep the sense of exposure increases terrifyingly. The hands begin to tire, and I felt an urgent need to hurry to obtain rest; but the climbing is precarious and steep and allows no rushed, unconsidered moves. A traverse right, then left and up, until at last holds appear. A ledge, and the pitch is done. Relief follows, then admiration; such a pitch will never, thank God, be made easy by nuts or wires; it will always remain a test of nerve”

Martin Boysen, Hard Rock

I was very glad I hadn’t led that pitch either.

We had intended to add the direct finish, two more pitches of 5c [21], but the scary climbing was getting to us so we opted for the easier and shorter original finish, a steep groove and a wall.  And just as well; as we reached the car at 7.30 pm it began to rain. 

Amusingly, we were booked on a ferry to Lundy, an island in the Bristol Channel with superb seacliff climbing, at 10am the next morning. Those familiar with the geography of the British Isles will appreciate the number of miles between Glencoe and Bideford in North Devon.

Shibboleth was my last completed tick…so what’s left?

Just three routes, excluding The Scoop, the aid route on Strone Ulladale in the Outer Hebrides, supposedly put in to stop ‘puerile ticking’. Obsession does have some limits; I can climb aid routes on El Capitan with less trouble and better weather.

The three routes are Slanting Slab on Cloggy, another Whillans route, wet both times I’ve stood underneath; The Great Prow on Blaven in Skye, needing just a couple of fine days; and the Old Man of Hoy, a 500 ft seastack off the island of Hoy in the Orkney Islands….needing several ferries, and lots of luck with the weather.  My attempts so far have never made it past the forecast.

There’s a post card of the Old Man on the fridge, sent by a different ex-girlfriend just a few weeks ago. 

I have in mind that will be the last tick. 

Thank you UKC, great stories.   My route tally is 48 of the original list, 55 of the latest list.

Here's my contribution (from before your time?).  OLD MAN OF HOY original route.         

Stromness, August 1, 1987 – decision time.  Torrential rain and no prospect of improvement.  The Hoy ferry won’t be going tomorrow, because it’s Sunday.  Should we visit Skara Brae instead? 

But just suppose it clears in the morning and we're somewhere else, we'll be kicking ourselves.  So we reached a sufficiently positive frame of mind to jump into the little boat.  The boatman insisted that we advise the coastguard of our intentions, and wrote down the phone number.   

First priority was how not to walk the six miles across the island with our heavy sacks in the pouring rain.  Fortunately, the two local cars meet the boat and will take you from the landing stage to the remoteness of Rackwick Bay for £4. Money well spent, we thought, and better still, our driver pointed out the farthest building from the road end - "There's a bothy, if you'd prefer not to camp". We squelched towards the long, low building in a walled enclosure. "Burnmouth Cottage," said the plaque. "You are welcome to stay free of charge". It is a fine bothy in its own right: clean, dry and spacious. But the situation! At Rackwick the surf breaks on golden sand. Only the highest tides reach the storm beach of pebbles and boulders that screens the sheep pastures. The burn, now a peaty torrent, meanders down the glen to break through, and the cottage stands on its bank, as near as could safely be to the sea. There are plenty of stepping stones across the burn to where dunes have built up behind the storm beach and salt-loving plants have taken hold. Very soon red sandstone cliffs, steep but loose, cut off the beach and you have to return to explore the other way. 

Gulls, not terns, woke us early. Squalls still arrived but the sky was bright so, more in hope than expectation, we set off up the muddy cliff path. The Old Man is a strange sight when he appears across undulating heather, only to reveal his full stature from the very edge of the cliffs. An on-shore gale threatened to blow us back to the bothy so we quickly slithered down to the base of the stack, thankful that the east face route takes the sheltered side. Never have I rock-climbed, in so many clothes - polar jacket, Goretex cag, the lot. So much for 1st August! Our only spectators were a puffin on the basalt base and a big seal swimming beneath it. 

The East Face of the Old Man is not a great climb because the rock behaves as you would expect of red sandstone, especially on the second pitch. Instead of climbing naturally you have to be very careful, trying always to press instead of pull on the holds. There was some gear in situ, including a thick fixed rope to retrieve yourself from the free abseil; it was all new and looked American. Not only our tent but also our spare rope and most of our rack was superfluous: we could have brought binoculars and a bottle of wine instead! Only one late-developer of a fulmar chick still occupied a nest and no bird came near us. Are we the only team not to have been attacked by skuas? The last pitch was the most enjoyable, a steep, clean corner crack on better rock, with the wind whistling through it. We stood on the summit, swaying in the gale like loose chimney pots, and Cynthia, a connoisseur of sea stacks, said she was glad we'd done it but she wouldn't bother again.  

It turned out later that some walkers had watched us and been amazed that we climbed the Old Man while they couldn’t stand up on the cliffs. We could hardly believe that our luck had held and we had done the climb. The wind eased but the sea stayed lively. I wandered about at dusk looking for otters in the burn but only saw a baby seal trapped in a rock pool until the tide came in. The terns again put on the main show of the evening. We watched it for a while then settled down with the bothy door open as the oyster-catchers took over the stage. 

In reply to Misha:

You should watch UpsideDown Britian with George Smith to see how to kneeler across roof traverses!

Hope you weathering the storm well Misha!

In reply to UKC Articles:

A fairly recent ascent of South Ridge Direct

https://scottishoutdoorstuff.weebly.com/blog/archives/06-2017

In reply to UKC Articles:

The Old Man of Hoy.

Went up to do it years ago in an old VW camper van (borrowed from a now famous Ed) - so it took ages to get there from Buxton. Mind you the quantity of recreational pharmacuticals may have slowed time down - and made us cough. 1st night was spent at the Kings House camping in the bog. Spectacular lock in. Next night we got to Helmsdale on the NE coast. camped again and went out for a meal in a strange Resteraunt run by a Barbara Cartland lookalike, then to a local pub. So on to Scrabster for the ferry and time to get scared when we saw the thing on the way. On the way up the VW starter motor had packed in so had to be bump started every time we moved off. The crew on the ferry thought this was hilarious and were very helpful.

In those days it was an open wooded boat across to Hoy and having abandoned the camper van on the mainland we caught the local Taxi across to Rackwick Bay bothy. Much nicer then than it is now and we met Peter Maxwell Davies the famous composer who looked after the bothy (listen to the lovely "Farewell to Stromness") Wakeing up there and going onto the beach for a shit in the morning was amazing. Seals and every boulder a work of art.

Gill ( 5 months pregnant) and Greg climbed the old man the first day and then we all went to the now defunct pub for a session. The Taxi man was quite amused to take us back to the bothy. The next day Greg led myself and Duncan up the Old Man, after the very tricky descent to the base of it. Hard communication was aided by Gill from the shore. Got to the top OK and was scared rigid it would fall down whilst we were on it. So time to come down and Greg went first and I was to come last. Duncan at this point said - "how do you abseil"?  - so I gave him brief instructions and off he went. All covered in Fulmar puke we arrived at the bottom, having managed to not have to do the diagonal abseil and got to the beach from the threads at the end of the travese. On the beach the puffins came out of their  burrows and asked us what the hell we were doing.

The climb out is much easier than the descent and we made it back to the pub for a monster session. The others went on to explore the Orkney mainland, but I had to catch the ferry back to Scotland and hitch back to Glossop to earn money from the CAN of worms. Got as far as Killin Junction the first day and had to sleep in a shed at the Garage with the worst ever midges.

A fine trip out.

I've been back to Hoy since and sat and looked out at The Old Man amongst a bunch of gawpers, but didn't breath a word.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Cenotaph Corner: ambition, illness and loss.

1975. The year Hard Rock came out and the first drought summer of the 70s - what a time for an aspiring 20-year old to be living in Capel Curig! The Syrett/Livesey/Allen training revolution was transforming climbing; nothing was off-limits and everywhere hard classics of the 60s were being freed by the new generation. Cenotaph was the most iconic of these and many a climber's target for their first Extreme lead.

My employer that halcyon summer was Joe Brown himself, with free accommodation in a cottage near his Capel shop thrown in, and a long slate wall to train on at lunchtimes - perfect! Every day dawned bright and clear and every day I clock-watched the hours away until I could nip over to the Pass and tick off some mega-classic HVS like Plexus or Brant Direct. It was always Cenotaph, though, that loomed largest in my mind: a rite of passage that beckoned to me like no other. Before Hard Rock it had been Joe's The Hard Years and John Cleare's brilliant Rock Climbers in Action in Snowdonia, two books that inspired an entire generation and elevated Cenotaph to the place it occupied in our collective consciousness. Little wonder then that every night I tore up the road to the Pass, itching to climb in the footsteps of my schoolboy heroes: Brown, Whillans, Boysen and Crew!

When the time felt right I arranged for two climbing pals from the Leicester Uni club to come over one morning, idle the day away while I was in the shop, then make a team ascent of the Corner in the evening. This was my moment; my whole summer had led to this. In fact, in my mind, my whole life had led to this!

There was something not quite right from the moment we set off up the hill to the Cromlech; the clouds were gathering for the first time in weeks and an oppressive humidity and gloom descended around us as we flogged up that evil approach from The Boulders. Within minutes, we all felt wretched: our breathing was laboured, our legs felt heavy and every step upwards was purgatory. At the gearing-up spot we'd developed headaches and queasiness too; things weren't looking good! Sometimes, though, burning desire overrides everything - I just had to give it a go!

Terry threw up before we'd even started the initial scramble and promptly threw in the towel. "Count me out, lads, I'll sit this one out if you don't mind." So, Andy and I pressed on and I was soon roped up below the route of my dreams, the route of my life! I couldn't back out now! And then, as we often experience in climbing, something remarkable happened; the fearful tension of the lead but also the joyful and complete absorption of placing gear safely, of finding and using the best handholds and of making sure utterly that your feet never slip: these things just took over and nothing else in the whole universe mattered one jot! Every leader who has ever pushed themselves to the limit will know and recognise that incredible feeling when time is suspended and you move for a few priceless minutes in a rarefied bubble of your own making.

Things went well, almost too well, and I was approaching the niche which I'd heard was hard to get into and even harder to leave. I psyched myself for the crux, quick rest wedged across that rocky coffin, ten deep breaths, go, go, go! Hard pulls out of the niche, clip Joe's old aid peg, mean-looking laybacking with shiny footholds to the top - shit, this is hard, don't blow it now! No more gear, too pumped, go again, give it everything! Phew, made it! My first extreme, what a buzz!

I'm belayed tightly across the top of the corner ready to bring Andy up. Without warning, my body convulses violently in protest over the stress I've just put it through - blurgghh! Oh no, my stomach contents are now coating the finishing holds of the most revered route in British climbing history!! Andy was feeling even worse by now but he still managed to second the route, skilfully avoiding the greasier-than-normal finish to the Corner. Gross!

Having purged myself at the top of the best climb of my career, I understandably felt great on the way down. Unfortunately, Andy didn't, but was sporting enough to join me in a celebration drink at the Vaynol afterwards. Half way down his first pint though, he suddenly clutched his stomach, ran across the beer garden and vomited behind a large tree. That made it three out of three - there had to be an explanation! The small reservoir that served Capel Curig it seems had shrunk in the drought to not much more than a muddy puddle, bacteria had multiplied and most of the village was going down sick.

The footnote to this tale is infinitely sadder as my two companions that amazing day are no longer with us. "Terry" was Terry Storry who went on to write superb and influential white water canoeing guides to the UK and Europe and who was known to many. He died in a freak climbing accident not many years ago. "Andy" was Andy Burnham, well-known and much-loved member of the Bristol scene in the 80s before he moved out to British Columbia. He died tragically, rigging ropes at the top of one of Yosemite's smaller cliffs. There is a memorial plaque to Andy high on Squamish Chief, a reminder to us all to seize the moment and live life to the full before it's too late. 

Write up of an “in a day” push attempt to climb all the The Lake District ‘Hard Rock’ Routes and run in-between them in a single, unsupported 24 hr push in September 2018.

PART 1 -

* - Deer beild buttress (E1 5a***) was replaced by Totalitarian (E1 5c***). North Crag Eliminate (E1 5b***) was replaced by Thirlmere Eliminate (E1 5b ***). - As this was a few years ago we based this on the previous edition of the book. 

It was 5pm on a Tuesday in mid September. A month ago it would have been broad daylight but now there was already a gloom rising up from the valley below. We had both been at work in the morning. Finishing at lunch time we had met up and driven to the car park underneath Castle Rock where we threw gear, clothing, and food into a pile on the floor and started to reduce the pile to as small as possible. We decided that everything including the ropes would have to fit inside the two rucksacks that I had managed to beg/borrow/steal from the lakes based outdoor company ‘Aiguille Alpine Equipment’ where I work. The ‘Eiger' and ‘Petit Capucin' are both 33ltrs. With a rope, harness, helmet and and half a rack in each there wasn’t much room left for anything else. That made packing easier!

We left Joe’s van and drove round to the bottom of Kirstone pass. Setting off at about 3pm we wandered up to Dove crag, trying to conserve our energy. Our plan was to set off on Extol (E2 5b**) a couple of hours before darkness. We would then be able to climb in the light and start our run in the cool of the night.

We had decided that we should play to our strengths and lead the routes/pitches that we had climbed before. I had climbed nearly all of the Hard Rock routes in the Lakes before with the exception of Ghormenghast (E1 5a***) and Engineers Slabs (VS 4c***). Luckily Joe had climbed Ghormenghast and we had both climbed many of the routes surrounding Engineers Slabs and knew the line, abseil point etc.

I set off up Extol. The first pitch was, as I recalled – a mossy choss-fest, finishing up an awkward dripping crack. Pitch 2  at E2 5b** transpires to be more like fairly hard and full on E3 5c, particularly in its current dirty and neglected state. Brilliant climbing up the top groove was marred only by the urgency of the climb and the dripping wet rock. Joe ran up the pitch behind me, unfortunately slipping in the final few meters of the groove – it was to be the first and last fall on the round.

Minutes later we were off, running up to the top of Fairfield. It felt good to be going, we were moving fast, it was still light and we were feeling psyched.

“Slow down mate, I can’t keep this up” – 5 minutes up the hill and we were both breathing out of our arses. We had set off too fast, we slowed our pace to something reasonable and headed down towards Grasmere in the fading light.

Crossing through Grasmere, we headed up to Easdale tarn and over the back towards Pavey Ark. This was a bit of a slog, our 8kg sacks felt pretty heavy. We got a little bit lost and disorientated meaning we lost about 20 mins running back down to join the path up to Pavey summit. Following a quick jog across to Harrison Sickle and down to Loft Crag and after a few minutes of searching we found the top of Gimmer. 5hrs in and we felt…..KNACKERED! It was by now about 10.30pm and our body clocks were telling us it was time to stop. Keen to be back on rock, we abbed down and Joe flew up The Crack (VS 4c***) in 1 long pitch, and I followed in fast pursuit. Both of us up in about 15 mins,  we abbed back down. Kipling Groove (HVS 5a***) followed in a similar fashion, some fast climbing and 2 or 3 runners later we were back at the top and setting off again.

3.5 hrs later we neared the head of Eskdale. We had run from Gimmer over to Ore Gap and all the way down to Eskdale and Heron Crag. Arriving at the foot of Ghormenghast (E1 5a***) Joe racked up for the climb as I gulped down some Ibuprofen. My knee was giving me grief, having pounded too fast and hard down the side of Great Rigg into Grasmere my kneecap now felt like every movement was causing some small sadistic being to poke it with a handful of needles. The same demon seemed to be simultaneously giving Joe a pretty unpleasant bout of Diarrhoea. We were a mess. Already exhausted having been awake for 20 odd hrs or so and with only 3/11 climbs done. We chatted it through. There was only one realistic option. Stop whingeing and get on with it.

Joe led Ghormenghast in 1 big long pitch. He was carrying a sack and it’s steep. Properly steep. For E1 it’s fair at the grade but for that you get some run-out climbing on positive holds on a vertical wall. Feeling stupidly pumped he managed to hold on and get to the top. “I was nearly off that” he admitted at the top. Feeling like he had some sort of perma-pump, Joe followed me across the boggy land above Heron crag as we headed back up the valley towards Esk Buttress and Central Pillar (E2 5b***).

At 6.30 am I was sat on a pinnacle belay at the bottom of Central Pillar, halfway up Bridges Route. Ddespite all the difficulties…the sun was coming up. The morale boost was immense. Suddenly we were smiling again, life was good. It was a glorious morning and I was sat in my favourite place in the world, halfway up Esk Buttress. Joe lead the first pitch of Central Pillar fluidly, I followed and lead swiftly through to the top. We had a mouthful of food and water as we packed up. We were doing it!

By now we had realised that we were not really on track for our 24hr aim. No worries, we would only be a few hours over. We made fast progress across to Ichabod (E2 5c***). A beautiful route. With the morning sun shining down on us, the route was surprisingly dry and I led it fast, feeling confident and thoroughly enjoying the climbing. It was by far the most enjoyable climb we did on the round. Joe followed, loudly vocalising his enjoyment of the route (which he hadn’t climbed before) in his broad Yorkshire accent. His earlier worries of perma-pump seemed to be out of the window as he romped strongly up the steep groove.

After abbing down and quickly dumping our bags at the bottom of Broad Stand we descended the climbers trod to the foot of Central Buttress (E1 5b***). We climbed in 3 big pitches and within an hour we were jogging back down to our bags. Central Buttress is a magnificent route, with rich history and a brilliant situation. However, it had been cold, slightly damp and not overly inspiring. We were glad to be back in the sun, fast-walking up the short slope to the summit of Scafell Pike. By now it was nearly midday and the flocks of people making their way to the top of England’s most littered mountain could barely hide their surprise as two sweaty, limping, lycra clad lads shuffled past them.

Joe and I are not fell runners, we are not professional climbers – reasonably good at most. I came up with the idea for doing the round at the start of the summer after a few lads I know did the well documented Classic Rock round. I approached a few of my climbing partners with the idea. Most flatly refused, suggesting I was sadistic, it was stupid and I would never do it in 24hrs (they were right about that!). When I asked Joe he was immediately keen. It was sod’s law that after one of the best summers on record, as soon as we started looking at dates for attempting it, the skies opened! Then suddenly we had a few days free, the weather was due to be ok and it hadn’t rained in at least 12 hrs. It was now or never (for this year at least). We went for it.

PART 2 -

The little bugger who had been giving Joe the shits and sticking needles in my kneecap was back. By now he had decided that needles were child’s play and that knives were better, and that Joe wasn’t to be allowed to keep any food or drink inside for very long. Coming down the lovely, picturesque corridor route saw me limping at an ever decreasing rate. Joe who would otherwise have had to wait for me was working hard to keep up, having to go and find a rock to squat behind at regular intervals. In the heat of the midday sun we started the unforgiving slog up to windy gap on Great Gable. This wasn’t fun anymore. Blisters on our feet stung. Rucksacks weighed down our morale as well as our backs. Speed dropped, pace slowed and we trudged to the top of the col.

“Wow, this is hard…but awesome!  We are 7 down, only 4 to go”. It was still on. I asked Joe what he thought. His sarcastic remark that we should “give up, stop right now” showed he too was determined to finish!

We skirted around the corner and into the shade below Engineers Slabs (VS 4c***). Thankful that Joe was leading this pitch, I crammed in some food and garbled some nonsense into the camera as Joe set off up the one route neither of us had done.  1 long pitch later I joined Joe at the top. I don’t know whether it’s under-graded for VS or if we were both just knackered but it felt hard. I’m inclined to think it’s probably the latter, as feeling that every route was nails and hugely under-graded was a theme for the final 3 routes on the round.

We abbed down to our sacks and headed across the lower slopes of Green Gable and Brandreth to Honister pass. We arrived at Honister at 5pm. Exactly 24hrs after we had started Extol. 34hrs after we had woken up. We had in one sense failed. In another sense we had done 8/11 routes and only had (in our mind) an easy little bit left. This called for a consolation/celebration snack. Joe found his credit card and bought two sausage rolls and cans of coke. Our dishevelled looks attracted attention and upon revealing to the inquisitive staff what we were doing we got an extra sausage roll for free – this probably helped more than they knew!

A long shuffle down the valley followed but my knee was feeling slightly better and Joe seemed to have stopped crapping every 5 minutes (the wonders of a few sausage rolls) and we were nearly at Praying Mantis (E1 5b ***). Just this route, a quick hop over to the next valley, then 2 more routes and we were done.

At the foot of Praying Mantis, we took a while to rack up. All sense of urgency seemed to have gone. Joe chatted to his mum, I texted my girlfriend to let her know we might be “a few hours later than expected” and that we were doing well. I led the first pitch. It was steep and unfriendly. The harshness of it seemed to kick me back into reality. I realised that we needed to buck up, to keep moving. We still had a way to go and our sleep deprived bodies and minds were going to struggle.

Joe led the next few meandering pitches as one long one. By the time we had abbed back down to the base it was going dark…again. Like the morale boost when the sun had come up that morning, the darkness of the night felt like a slap in the face.

We descended steeply from the crag, waded across the River Derwent – shorter than the detour to the bridge - and set off up the long slog towards Watendlath. At some public toilets, the Diarrhoea seemed to have caught up with Joe, and in a big way. All I can say is that I was outside the toilet block and I could hear everything. I feel very sorry for whoever had to clean those loos.

The last climb up to High Tove didn’t seem too bad for me, I was ahead of Joe, spurring him on, and feeling fairly strong. I later realised this was the rather surprisingly large energy boost provided by an energy gel. From the top of High Tove, we headed NNE on a compass bearing. It was pitch black, the ground was boggy, hillocky and unpleasant and to top it all off it started raining. Stumbling across this unpleasant no-mans-land, we eventually hit a fence, which we followed to a forestry track, leading down to the bottom of Raven Crag, Thirlmere.

The rain hadn’t stopped and as I racked up, tied in and was about to set off up the first pitch of Totalitarian (E1 5c ***) it got even harder. I set off apprehensivley but to our joy the rain eased a little. I brought Joe up and he scampered across the traverse shared with Communist Convert. This traverse is graded VS but is notoriously run out and greasy when wet. Just as left the belay it chucked it down. Tiny rivers flowed down the grooves in the rock as I inched my way across the traverse. Eyeing up the 30ft+ swing I was pretty sure I was about to take was probably the scariest moment on the round. Yet somehow I made it across to Joe and the rain eased once again, and then, to our great relief, stopped all together.  There was a lovely bit of shiny tat and a maillon around the belay block. The temptation to rap off there and then was nearly overwhelming. “I’ll just go and have a look Joe, I can always lower off the peg”. I set off up the short last pitch, not at all confident that I could climb it, in the dark, feeling exhausted, and in dripping wet conditions. The last pitch is graded 5c. Luckily that’s because there is one hard move below a steep overhang. As I reached up underneath the overlap, the rock was dry. “Phew!”. In a few minutes I was on the top, sat in the bracken, belaying Joe. “1 more route" I shouted at Joe “Yeahhhhh buddy” was his enthusiastic reply.

At 4.30am we were down on the road, walking (slowly) towards Joe’s van in the car park below Castle Rock. Joe was convinced that we needed to stop for a minute and grab some food and drink.  I have little recollection of the next 15 minutes other than lying on the ground next to the van, trying to drink Lucosade and not throw up. I fell asleep. I jolted myself awake. I looked across at Joe, slumped against the van, eyes closed. I walked over to Joe and shook him “we have to go now or we will fall asleep here”. We got up and began what is one of the shortest walk ins in the Lakes and what felt like the hardest mountain I’ve ever walked up.

Here the energy gels and sugar I’d been feeding on for the last 12 hrs caught up with me. I curled up on the ground and vomited for a good 5 minutes. After a while, some water and a singular raisin, I sat up. Joe pulled out the camera and mumbled some near indiscernible rubbish. We wandered over to the foot of Thirlmere Eliminate (E1 5b ***). “You’re going to have to lead the crux pitch” I told Joe. I climbed the first pitch very slowly. I was very deliberate. Thinking carefully about moves. Constantly reminding myself that I needed to place gear. Well aware that I could make a mistake and that the consequences could be severe.

I got up to the sloping ledge below the final groove and belayed Joe up to me, his constant shouts of “TAKE” keeping me awake. It started to get light. We turned our torches off and grimly congratulated each other on the return of daylight…again. The last pitch of Thirlmere Eliminate is not easy. An awkward move leads into a burly corner. A few steep pulls later and you’re onto easy ground to the belay. The main issue is that this hard move low down is not protected and you’re going to land on a big ledge. It’s an ankle breaker. Joe must have used up every ounce of strength on that last pitch, hanging on for dear life as he tried to figure out the moves – onsight! I was fairly sure he was off a few times but somehow, with momentous amounts of Elvis leg and lots of grunts, he hung on through the crux and made it up  to the belay. I followed glad only of two things, firstly that I hadn’t had to lead it and secondly that we had finally FINISHED!

65.1km, over 5000m of ascent, 37.5 hrs after we started Extol, nearly 48hrs since we had slept, we abbed back down to the foot of Castle Rock. All that was left to do was to hobble down to the car park and drive home! By 9am both of us were snoring on our respective sofas neither of us having made it as far as our beds.

In reply to UKC Articles:

A longer version of something I posted on here a couple of years ago after doing the Peak District Hard Rock routes in a day with TonyM.

(Part 1 - part 2 in next reply)

Who doesn’t love a good arbitrary challenge? Many of the top climbers clearly do. From Steve McClure climbing an 8a+ on each of the Yorkshire big 3, to Pete Whittaker rope soloing El Cap in a day to Dave Macleod’s 5 8’s in a day it seems everyone is at it. The problem with these challenges is that they are a bit beyond what most of us could ever achieve – let alone in a day. In late 2017 I read a UKC thread about doing the Derbyshire Hard Rock routes in a day and I was instantly hooked on the idea. All I needed was someone to join me. “Tony, how about doing this next summer?” “Sounds great.” Ok, we’re on.

Spring took forever to arrive, but when it did May was a perfect month for climbing and we got out loads to get fit. Because none of our sessions were very long we did a lot of sport climbing to maximise mileage. It’s all transferrable, after all.

Weather forecasts were checked, spouses were consulted and the date was set for June 6th. UKC user Dominic O had written a useful account of when he did it some years ago and we decided to follow his route which was Debauchery, Suicide Wall, Sirplum, Chee Tor Girdle, Alcasan, Elder Crack, Valkyrie and Right Unconquerable. He started at 6 but we decided sleep was more important so agreed to meet in Hathersage at 6.30 so we could start climbing at 7.

8 routes in a day isn’t that many. We’ve both climbed more than that often enough. E2 is within both of our abilities. Tony had climbed all of the routes before. I had climbed them all apart from Sirplum and Chee Tor Girdle. How hard could this be?

6.40am

Meet in Hathersage, put Tony’s gear in my car and off we go.

7.15am

Where’s the Debauchery tree? Tony’s gone ahead to set up the ab. Have I gone too far? Think so. There’s a path to the edge. It’s all broken down there. I must have gone too far. Just try a bit further. There he is. Ok, we’ve got the mistake out of the way first. That’s no bad thing. Change shoes and down we go. “Don’t you just love arbitrary challenges like this?” I said as I set off up the first pitch with a big grin on my face.

Tony joins me at the belay. We swap gear and off he goes again. The rope goes out smoothly and steadily. “Climb when ready.” “Climbing.”

I don’t remember the crux feeling this hard. What did I do last time? I didn’t notice those pockets. They’re a bit shallow but I guess they’ll do. Why am I feeling pumped? It’s ok, this is just warming up. Don’t worry about it.

8.55

Back in the car and heading off to Cratcliffe.

9.15

Finally leave Matlock. I guess everywhere has rush hour traffic.

9.30

At the base of Suicide Wall. Feels very hot in the sun. Won’t be needing any extra layers. Tony goes up first and dispatches it smoothly enough. My turn. Haven’t climbed much grit this year. This is so slippery. How do you jam again? Hands are so sweaty, but the climbing is so good. It’s years since I last climbed this (on a very different day – it was about -3 then) but it’s still the best HVS in the Peak. 2 down and time for some limestone.

10.30

At the base of Sirplum. Tony’s given me the main pitch as I haven’t done it before. He gets up to the belay and I join him. “So it’s basically pull up, jug, repeat?” “Pretty much“, he replies. How does an E1 get into a position like this? At the plinth I have to make myself stop to take it all in. The exposure is amazing. The holds and gear are perfect. Sorry, Debauchery, but you’re no longer my second favourite E1. This is just unbelievably good. I’m still on such a high that I’m not even bothered by the 40m free hanging abseil.

11.45ish

At the start of Chee Tor Girdle. I’ve been told that if you’ve nothing good to say then say nothing. So I’ll try to find something good to say…It’s not as polished as the VSs at Stoney. That’ll have to do. Next.

15.30

Back at the car. 4 routes done. 10 pitches done out of 17. Have we been climbing really slowly? It doesn’t feel like it. I thought we’d have got through more by now. And there’s all the hard climbing to come. Hmm, this is quite a big day really.

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Part 2

15.45

At Stoney. “Why don’t we gear up at the car so we don’t have to take bags in?” I suggest. “Good idea.” A few minutes later and Tony is starting up Alcasan. We reccied this a few weeks ago as Tony hadn’t done it for years and I had never done it. It took us 2 hours and we were going to try to go quicker. After all, we knew the route and we were taking the same pitches. He’s 2 moves up when I realise something’s not on my harness. Where’s my chalk bag? In the car. Shit. He finished the pitch and calls me up. Maybe the sun will go in. Maybe we’ll get a breeze. Nope. I’m glad these are big holds. At the belay I grab a bit of chalk and put it down my T shirt thinking it might act like a chalk ball. It didn’t. It’s not far to the first gear but there’s something about traverses that makes it feel further to me. And when you get a bit stressed and it’s hot your hands start sweating more. “Watch me.” Gear in. Phew. This is so slippery. How am I going to make it to the cave?  Just keep moving steadily. Careful. Second crack. If I just move past it I can use the far side of it as a good hold to place gear off. Done. Back on the traverse. Can barely hold these shiny holds. That was close. I thought I was off there. Blow on hands. That’ll dry them. It does, for about the time it takes to dry the other one anyway. Just keep moving. Thread. Clipped. Right, last few tricky moves and then it eases off. Have these holds shrunk? Shit I’m off. No, just held it. Breathe. Feet. Don’t rush. Gently. Balance across. Jug. Rest. Phew. Thank God it’s good holds all the way to Windhover.

Tony sets off on the crux pitch. The rope goes out smoothly and steadily. He’s out of site. Must be at the Flakes belay by now. Crux to go. Bit more rope. Then nothing. The rope didn’t move for what felt like an eternity. What’s going on? He hasn’t fallen off. What’s that? He shouted something but there’s too much traffic to hear it. Bit more rope. And again. Something else shouted. Was that “Safe”? Rope’s being taken in as fast as I can pay out. “Are you safe?” “Yes, safe.” Ok, my turn. I had taken some more chalk and this time I put it in my trouser pockets. It was better than nothing, but not much. Have you ever tried to get something out of your pocket while driving? Chalking up was a bit like that. Drop down. Over to the Flakes belay. Get as much chalk on my fingers as I can because I know I won’t be trying again on those holds. Near the end of the traverse and it starts to feel wrong. I thought had to bridge across from here but there’s no way I can reach. Must have to move my hand again. That feels terrible. It’ll have to do. Need my right where my left just was so I’m going to have to rely on it. Pull hard. Got it. Sort feet and I’m bridged and feeling much happier about things. “I thought I was off there,” Tony said. “I couldn’t see the handholds in the sun.” “I’m very glad we kept the pitches we did last time,” I reply.

The final pitch is pretty straightforward. Sorting ropes afterwards we know that we took longer than 2 hours, but the hardest route is now behind us.

18.45

At Curbar. There are a few people bouldering at Trackside but as we walk up it’s clear there’s no one else on the edge. Why not? Because it’s a still, warm, evening in June. The moment we stop they descend on us. Every visible bit of skin is covered with the infuriating, biting dots. “Oh no, I’ve left some repellent in the car,” Tony says. For once I’m relieved to be leading Elder Crack as it will give me some respite from them. Gear up and off I go. The first gear is quite high. There’s a jug. No it’s a bit slopey and how does rock get to be that slippery? I’m not getting into the crack from the left then. There’s a good hold. It’s wet. How? No rain for weeks and this hold is actually wet. Right, have to just wedge myself in. Is this right? Where’s the gear. Bugger, it’s behind me. I should have been facing the other way. Feels like about a Friend 1. In it goes. Tug, but not too hard. Feels ok. Now where’s the rope? Down below me somewhere. I grope around like I’m trying to give myself an enema. There it is. Now all I have to do is clip. Ow, I’m not meant to twist like that. That feels like a crab. And clip. No. Dropped the rope. Bollocks. Breathe. Don’t rush. Ok, got the rope again. There’s the crab and clipped. Right, time to move up. Thrutch, udge, finally got my foot on something and I can face the other way. In goes the big cam and a couple more swimming moves bring the jug into reach. Leg in, haul up, rockover and I’m standing on the jug. Gear and keep moving. Fortunately the top arrives soon. As soon as I stand on top I remember what I was climbing away from and the bitey bastards are back. “Climb when ready.” I’m sure he’ll be quick. “No, you’ve done the crux, you don’t need to rest. Just shove your leg in and thrutch”. “Safe.” Right, let’s get out of here.

On the way back to car I say how much better I feel now that one’s over. “I was feeling really tired before I started that but I’m ok now. Reckon it was my mind trying to give me excuses.” Only 2 HVSs to go. We’re nearly there.

19.35

Walking up to Froggatt. Has this hill grown? Why haven’t we reached the gate yet? Why do my legs feel so dead? Are we still not there? It was never this far last time.

We’ve got midge repellent on now so they’re not bothering us as much. It’s got deet in. Unfortunate but needs must. Try as I might I can’t seem to get my hands to stop feeling greasy. Tony’s pitch. He seems to be struggling a bit on the crack. Get some gear in. He does. Top of the crack, more gear, step across and he’s on the arête. Up the crack and he gets to the ledge, takes a moment and then steps up. Moments later, “Safe.”

My turn. Jams in. Step up. Foot slip. Just held it. That was close. Step up. Next jam. Hand slips. Just held it again. I’m not enjoying this but there is no way I’m falling off. Not when we’ve come this far. Top of the crack. Gear out. Greasy. Don’t fall here. I really don’t want to swing out to the arête. Hold. Step across. Step up. And breathe. In the right conditions this is such a good route, but today it all feels like a wet eel. I can barely hold anything. Somehow I got to the ledge and stood up feeling like I had nothing left in the tank. That seemed like an appropriate moment to swear at Tony because he had no more leading to do and I still had Right Unconquerable.

20.30

I’ve driven the road past Northlees camp site up to the Plantation often enough. Going down through the trees I said to Tony, “I’m so tired. I’m sure I’ve never driven this slowly down here but it feels like I’m going way too fast.”

20.35

Plantation Car Park. “Have you got any of those biscuits left?” I ask. 8 chocolate biscuits and half a cup of cold coffee is as good as it’s going to get. Off we go. Tony kindly carries the bag. The midges are pretty bad again but at least they’re not biting. They do seem hell bent on getting into our eyes and ears though. Just as I’m about to set off the sun comes out from behind a cloud and bathes everything in a beautiful orange light. Sometimes everything is perfect. Let’s get this finished. Through the crux, place some gear and keep moving. Step right into the vertical crack near the end. Not far to go. Pumped. Damn, thought I was going to make it. No. Fight it. Breathe. Quickly place another cam and move on. At the semi rest before the top out. Gear in and extended – I’m not getting caught by rope drag here. Chalk up and move. Where are the edges on top. I thought one was over there. Can’t hold on for long. There it is. Got it. And the other. Feet up. Too tired. Use your knee. Don’t be so stupid. Try again. Got it. Rock over. “Safe.” Yes! Never in doubt. There’s a breeze up here and no midges. And check out that sunset. “Climb when ready.” “Climbing.” “You safe?” “Yes.” Fantastic. Double fist bump.

21.50

Back at the car. “Pint?” “No. I won’t make it home if I do.” Homewards it is then.

03.00 (ish)

What’s that stabbing pain. It’s cramp. It’s in my inner thigh. Now I’m properly awake. Get out of bed. Damn, now I’ve got it in my other leg as well. How can anything hurt that much. How are you supposed to stretch cramp out of your inner thigh?

Next day

I am a total vegetable.

But I am very content at what we have achieved. It’s up there with the best days I’ve had in the Peak. We saw so much amazing and varied scenery and did so much great climbing (and Chee Tor Girdle). Individually none of the routes are particularly hard, but when you add together the volume of climbing and walking it makes for a very big day. We may not have big mountains here but you can still have a big adventure. Thanks to Tony for agreeing to do it.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Moonraker (HVS 5a)

225 year old team ascent of Moonraker at Berry Head

August 2019

I had a phone call in August last year from my very old friend and climbing partner, Al Hubbard, 83.  Was I free that weekend to go down to Devon, because he’d had a call from his old partner, Martin Boysen, 78, who wanted to do Moonraker at Berry Head which he’d never done despite going down there about a thousand years ago.  Why not come along with us and you could maybe take some photos and the weather forecast looks good and by the way can you pick Martin up on your way? I live in Sheffield so I don’t know in what world Hale is on the way to Devon but I was free and it sounded like a good idea - how naive can you be?  I looked the route up in Hard Rock and found a couple of videos on Youtube which made it look exciting but do-able and in a beautiful spot. So it came to pass that I found myself driving down to sunny Devon with a load of borrowed camping gear and the good beer guide as I’d looked up the campsite and found it was near the village of Ashburton which has one of the many claimants to be the oldest pub in England, The Old Exeter Inn where Sir Walter Raleigh was arrested for treason in 1603 and subsequently hanged. The conversation flowed easily as we chatted about who’d had which joint replacement operation, recent funerals we’d been to and what type of cancer our mutual friends and acquaintances were suffering from at the moment.

We set up the tents and after a meal went down to the village to sample the charms of the 400+ year old pub only to find it was closed for renovation, I began to get less positive feelings about this trip, the pub had been open since Henry VIII was on the throne but not tonight!  Overnight rain didn’t help and a cool, damp and windy morning didn’t make a sea cliff an attractive prospect so we  went instead to the Dewerstone and did a few routes including the classic Central Groove  which as it was still damp in places was exciting enough climbing and gave the (replacement) joints an opportunity to loosen up after the drive down.  Driving back to Ashburton in the evening the weather was improving steadily and all the talk was about Berry Head the next day. Low tide was around 3 pm giving plenty of time to shuffle along there on zimmer frames and still be on the first belay in time to get off in daylight if everything went according to plan.  The National Trust carpark at the Old Redoubt has been sold to private enterprise so we had to pay and set off in hope towards the south-west coast path. Both Al and Martin had been down to the start before, in about 1900 and both remembered it was an easy walk down a grassy slope, which was mentioned in the guide book, so I took them at their word and set off - how naive can you be?

I should have realised when the gate leading from the coast path had a warning notice, I can’t remember the exact wording but the gist of it is very similar to the description of the entrance to hell in Dante’s Inferno, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here”.  Passing through the gate indeed leads to a grassy slope but that does not take you to the bottom of the route where I’d hoped to sunbathe and take photos while Statler and Waldorf did the climbing.  Instead it leads to a terrifying solo down a face which overhangs just enough to prevent you seeing what’s underneath you as you descend. After a few heart-stopping moves you reach some fixed ropes tied through natural threads in the rock, presumably long before the discovery of fire and lashed by Atlantic gales ever since. This ends on a sea-level ledge and gives an opportunity to look across at the route and wish that you hadn’t.  From here you traverse for about ten miles at sea level into the back of a dark, dank slippy cave where the occasional wave laps up just over your feet making seaweed covered footholds just that little bit more interesting.  As the situation deteriorated I looked back to Al and suggested we give up but he pointed to where Martin had disappeared out of the cave and so was unable to hear us, leaving us not much choice but to continue.  A rising traverse out of the cave ends in a small niche comfortably above sea-level and arriving there I found Martin already belayed and offering me the leading end of the rope!  Al joined us and having tied on, confirmed just how naive I had been by offering me the leading end of the other rope.

“Even to the most hardened eye it is an imposing place:” is Al Alvarez’s opening line in his Hard Rock description of Moonraker, what he doesn’t say is how it looks to a wimp who was hoping the rope would be above him all the way.  I set off up and right onto a wall that overhangs so far the top is probably above French territorial waters, praying that the rock would be better than it  looks and fantasising about the peg mentioned in the guide despite the “cluster of pitons” which were entirely absent from the starting belay.  The pegs were put in about 50 years before and usually last about five minutes in salt spray so I knew better than to hope for salvation there.  Good holds seduce you onwards and upwards against your better judgement to a slight rib where there is indeed the remains of a peg ….which can be crumbled up in the fingers.  At this point you are totally committed and conscious that rock this steep is not a place to hang about so keep moving always trusting in Hubbard’s mantra, “something will turn up”.  It does, every time it seems to need a hand or foothold there is something and runners appear with reassuring frequency, though of course always suitable for the gear you put in 20 feet ago!  More steep laybacking and a tricky traverse left lead to a comfortable stance, a good belay, a chance to relax, look out to sea and wish you hadn’t given up smoking 35 years ago. As Martin and then Al came up I began to enjoy having done my bit and wondered who would do the remaining two pitches, one for each of them I assumed, but who would go first?

A brief chat with the three of us together on the stance ended with the mutual (except for me) decision that I might as well lead the remaining two pitches and as we had 60 metre ropes it would be better to do it all in one 50 metre pitch……how naive can you be?  By now it was sweltering on the face, we were in full sunlight and I was dressed for adversity as it had been cold overnight and windy sea cliffs in the shade can be freezing on the best of summer days.  I flogged up the cracks and corners above getting hotter and hotter and putting in far too much gear until I realised there was some way to go and very little left on my harness, then after another 20 feet or more of not putting anything in, did the classic stopping in the middle of the crux move to fiddle in gear when another move up would have left me in relative comfort. The climbing on this upper section and indeed on the whole route is delightful, always steep and interesting but never desperate, lots of good jams, laybacking, bridging to take the weight of sweaty fingers and lots of lovely runners.  Having said that it doesn’t really ease off until the last few moves leave you topping out to stand and pour sweat on the grass ledge.  An astonished tourist walking the coast path looked at me in disbelief and said, “where have you come from?”  Down there I said, to which she replied but there’s nothing but sea, which is exactly what you can see from where we were.

The old men were soon up, all thoughts of creaking joints and chemotherapy gone at least for one day.  We stood for some time chatting about the route and taking photos then drove to Torquay for fish and chips.  Sitting in a back street leaning against a house wall scoffing the fish supper I began to think how well it all turned out after all, great weather, calm sea, well timed tides an unforgettable route and now this, it couldn’t get any better.

Wrong again, as we drove back through the village just after dark I noticed lights on in the world’s oldest pub and on timidly entering through the open door it turned out to have reopened that day so had only fresh beer and what would we like….lots I thought, lots.  Back at home I told a climbing friend about the 225 old team ascent, oh just the two of you was it, came the reply.

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Horsey's Lightning Tours of The Lakes - July 1983

Leaving Manchester on Saturday morning John drove up to The Lakes for his lightning tour. First up to Dove Crag for Extol (E2 5c). After a drink at Brotherswater it was then over to Eskdale for Gormenghast (E1 5b) followed by a swim in the river and a night at Wasdale Head. Up to Scafell in the morning for Central Buttress (E1 5b) (still with the chockstone then) after which John at last relinquished the lead and I did Moss Ghyll Grooves (VS 4c). It started to rain just as we got back to the car and after chips in Staveley we were back in Manchester in time for the pub.

In reply to UKC Articles:

This is the best thread on UKC, ever! So inspiring, and funny, and exciting, just so... climbery... 

... and an exquisite torture during this period of enforced non-climbing!

Thanks, and best wishes to all,

Lex

A final contribution from me....Coronation Street, 1987.  The Shield was still in place then.  This was actually the first of the articles I wrote for the NZ Alpine Journal.  It's been great reading these [and the other contributions]...I'm looking forward to my next visit back, in pursuit of those new ticks...

________________________________________

Coronation Street, in Cheddar Gorge; a famous climb, one of those where the line, the history, and the legends have become far more than the sum of the moves. This route had long been on the list, from the first time I read Perrin’s mystical description in Hard Rock and stared at the photos of Bonington on the first ascent.

Coronation Street remains off limits for most of the climbing season because of the danger from falling rocks to the sightseers below. Only from October till Easter is the climb legally accessible, cold grey months more suited to reading climbing books than to wrestling with steep limestone in a dark narrow gorge.

It was on such a day in October ’86 that I first stood at the bottom of High Rock, below the line of corners that defines Coronation Street. The route looked impregnable, much harder than the El 5b (19) grade suggested. Above the initial grooves, the fourth pitch traverses left for 10 metres under a roof before soaring up the overhanging crux corner. Even from 100 metres below, this corner seemed to loom outwards, creating in the mind’s eye the vision of a climber tumbling, tumbling into space: a vision shared, I am sure, by many who have looked up at this line. And so I walked away because of irrational, internal fears. My public excuses of “too cold” and “too many other parties” may have fooled my companions, but did little for my self respect.

Cheddar, April ’87. In two weeks, the ban will again be active. Mark and I have driven down for the day. The village is crowded with sightseers in pursuit of cream teas and genuine Olde English Cheddar. 

We reach the parking lot under High Rock at 10.30. Amazingly, no one is on the route. There are not even any other cars. My first thought is that we are too late, and the dates of the ban have been changed. But almost as if to order, another car coasts to a stop, beards and pile jackets betraying a similarity of purpose. I sprint to the foot of Coronation Street to claim first place, and quickly we gear up. It is miserably cold, so I put on almost as many clothes as I was wearing on Ben Nevis two months earlier. The other team is also ready, but my piece of gamesmanship with the ropes was unnecessary — they are after Crow, a much harder E3 5c (22), also on High Rock.

The initial two pitches are easy. I take the first, and start bridging up the steep, blocky vegetated corner that is shared with Sceptre. The polished rock seems loose in places, so I move up with conscious caution, placing runners frequently to the first belay. Mark follows rapidly and continues up a similar loose groove. The belay ledge vibrates as I stomp around to keep warm.

The third pitch is the start of the real stuff. A shattered groove out to the left is guarded by an overhang, and the exposure starts to bite as I move up and out on polished holds and cold hands, away from the comforting walls of the corner. A couple of solid runners lessen my apprehension, and a series of strenuous pulls around the overhang take me into the shattered groove. Surprisingly, there is no peg there, so I have to climb another four metres to reach the next wire placement. The groove continues up to just below the next belay, where it narrows and steepens into a chimney. Predictably, I try to stay in the chimney, but my feet can find no holds and the crack is distinctly unfriendly. I retreat to a small ledge to assess the options . . . the only obvious alternative is to climb the right wall. I step up, right arm clutching around the arete. Of course there is a polished jug just waiting, and more shattered and slippery holds lead to the belay, a couple of rusty pegs tied with orange tape. The tape seems luminously bright against the dull sky and white rock.

I can't sit on the ledge as it is too small, and have to stand as Mark climbs up to join me. I am still cold, in spite of three layers of clothes, a balaclava and gloves. The sky seems greyer, hinting of rain or worse. We exchange the camera and the rack, and Mark rapidly moves up to the roof. This is the start of the famous hand traverse, leftwards across the Shield, an apparently detached flake of rock. A faded white sling hangs down from the Shield, and moves limply in the breeze. It has clearly been used to stand in, but this looks a more frightening manoeuvre than any free climbing alternative. The tape is the first genuine bit of climbing debris we have seen — I had expected far more, especially pegs.

It is easy to see why this route originally had lots of aid, for guidebooks and hundreds of ascents bring a confidence that would not have been there in 1965. Once again I am impressed by the boldness of Bonington and his contemporaries.

Mark clips the pegs and moves out in a preliminary foray to arrange a couple of nut runners before retiring for a rest. This is the first time we have climbed together, but already I like his style — plenty of runners for the second! Out again, hands on the top of the Shield, feet sliding on the undercut but still polished rock below and then he is across. I follow quickly but awkwardly because of the cold and my apprehension at the crux pitch to follow.

It is difficult to imagine Perrin alone on this route, and even more difficult to imagine him unclipping from this belay to set off again, rope and companion-less, up that leaning groove. My lead, and it would be so easy to defer it to Mark who has led this pitch before. I have climbed little this year, only a few cold and brutal gritstone VS routes climbed on last year’s strength rather than technique. But the desire and the obsession remain, sharpened by my dubious performance six months earlier. Partly I want to reassure Mark, to build up something of a partnership for the future, so I commit myself by taking the gear.

Finger locks and bridging take me 10 metres up Perrin’s “funnel of air” to an overhang. Out on the right, one metre above, the groove continues. Just a slight misalignment , but this provides the crux moves. I clip a bent peg, and looking down the groove I can see Mark huddling on the ledge, just a white face Iooking up.

Time to get moving, and as an encouragement a few flakes of snow drift lazily down. The peg is not really sufficient protection, so I expend considerable energy placing an equally ineffectual wire. My imagination tries to ignore that vision of a cIimber falling, the gear ripping out in slow motion…I bridge up, but the crack in the groove and the large holds are tantalizingly out of reach. I feel my fingers weakening, and a small edge has to suffice as I bridge and lay back to get my feet into the groove. My left hand thrusts deeply into the crack, muscles tensing to hold me as I fumble to place runners. The rope seems impossibly heavy as I pull it up to clip the gear…relief, and I can relax that hand a little, and even chalk up.

My hands feel tired, cold, but the crack above, though steep, is easier. I jam past another peg to the belay, a ledge on the edge of nothing, smaller and more awkward than those below. lt seems so far from those first routes, Hawk and Eagle Cleft on Castle Rock in the hills above Christchurch, but that fundamental — almost sexual — pattern of desire, consummation, and release remains the same. 

I shiver from both the cold and post-coital relief as Mark climbs up, hardly stopping anywhere. There is no real need for words, and he passes by upwards with just a fleeting stop to warm his hands. The last pitch is easy, but still not trivial. He places runners to guard against a miscalculation of man or rock. The rope comes tight and I disconnect the belay to follow, searching with cold fingers for the little edges that lead to bigger holds, and then to flat grass.

Chilled, we coil the ropes, exchanging the inanities that seem to follow the completion of a route. It is too windy to remain on top, so we stumble back down the grassy slopes and through the bushes to the descent gully. Below waits the horizontal world of sightseers, middle-aged matrons and crying children; a normality of existence we have escaped for a few memorable hours.

In reply to UKC Articles:

What an incredible thread. Having received my copy of the new Hard Rock, I thought the desire could not burn brighter. How wrong was I, this thread has more than fanned the flames........

Thank you to all who have contributed.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Another entry for Coronation Street:

- - -

I have no idea how we ended up starting the route so late. Traffic on the M4? Did our usual relaxed approach get the better of us?

The date was 14th March 2017, one of those typically dreary and dull, late winter (definitely not early spring) days, where the heavens make almost audible murmurs; threats of opening. My friend Tom Hudson and I pulled into the car park on the south side of Cheddar Gorge, our objective to climb the premier route of the crag, Coronation Street (WW) (E1 5b). Probably the highest quality traditional route thereabouts, with other contenders having high vertical gardening (Crow (WW) (E3 5c)) and snail slaughtering (Heaven And Earth Show (WW) (E3 5c)) potential, Coronation Street had been high up on my list for a number of years. It would be hard for it not to be with such a magnificent, natural line for this part of the UK.

When pulling in to the car park, we spied another party relatively low on the climb, nearing the end of the first pitch. No problem, we can probably assume that on a sub-optimal day like today they will have a grade or two in hand and won’t take forever. Being the lesser seasoned trad climber (but much stronger on the sport), Tom geared up to lead the easier first pitch, and I took the backpack with some water and snacks. To continue with the theme of good preparation, we each packed a headtorch containing batteries of unknown reserve, and I chose to wear a pair of half-a-size-too-big Evolv slip-ons I had bought in Moab a few months earlier. Perfect, I thought. I’ve climbed 5.11 crack in these. Nothing can go wrong. We checked our phones, and ignored the fact that we should have started before 3pm.

Tom cruised up the first big 45m pitch with no visible signs of doubt, though the rock certainly had a slightly slick, damp feel to it. We swapped gear on the belay, Tom taking the bag, and I re-racking the gear. We were already at what felt like a considerable height. I recall thinking how much nicer it was to be climbing in the gorge in winter, without the constant drone of boy racers and Harley Davidson riders parading up and down the windy road, the backdrop to all of my previous visits.

I led off, transporting Tom to the base of his pitch, the famous leftward hand traverse, which picks it’s way across the remnants of the ’Shield’. By this point, we had almost caught up with the party before us, who were starting up the crux pitch. Hmmm, we might end up a bit cramped on this next stance if they don’t get a move on. We soon found out that this would not be an issue. Tom took his time, carefully going up and down, forwards and back to get some good gear, before what looked like some slightly stressful and precarious moves to make it to the stance. I soon found out what all the fuss was about. Rising pump in my arms, looking down to see my floppy plimsole-like shoes flexing and slipping against the slick rock, I had to resort to a high left kick, mounting the edge of the shield to complete the traverse and avoid blowing the coveted onsight. Nice lead, Tom.

Aside from the climbing, one of the biggest pleasures of climbing Coronation Street is seeing the view unfold as you gain height. Pausing to enjoy this at the belay, we became acutely aware of two things. First of all, although not obvious due to the overcast skies, the light was beginning to fade. Secondly, the Mendip mist that had been lingering all day was definitely starting to condense. Time to get a move on. I led off, and what followed was beautiful technical climbing, up a steep runnel-like feature, with most of Somerset beneath my feet. To top it off, there was some hand jamming to be had towards the top of the pitch, my favourite! Limestone certainly lends itself to variety, if not aesthetics or solidity. Bringing up Tom, I was soon informed that this pitch wasn’t as much of a joy to climb with a backpack on, with his alter ego ’Tommy Tourettes’ floating a few expletives up to me in the fading light. Naturally, I took a photo to commemorate his expression of intense appreciation at the stance.

So, crux over, and only a 15m VS pitch to go. It must be in the bag now.

The great thing about starting long-ish routes in iffy conditions, or too late in the day is that something normally well within your comfort zone can become way less trivial. The Mendip mist was now a drizzle, and the fading light had now faded. Tom had seconded the previous pitch with his headtorch on, and now I pulled my headtorch out of my pocket to find out that it’s best setting was glimmer mode. The sense of peril that makes such experiences so much more memorable, and perversely, cherished, had been rising fast.

Tom led off, and as many of us do in nervous situations, vocalised the moves and the gear as he went. Leaning in to the cliff a little too much, I knocked my bulky headtorch off, catching it with my free hand just before it fell. Phew. That was close. Wouldn’t want to be climbing in the dark without that. Tom carried on making slow, but steady progress up the wet rock, keeping his head together as best he could, while he found adequate protection. A few minutes or eternity later, I heard a call of ’safe’, and took Tom off belay. A final piece of excitement came in the form of me knocking off my headtorch properly, while seconding shortly after. I felt my way up the remainder of the pitch, fortunate that no gear was welded in. United with Tom at the top, a wave of relief washed over us. Time to celebrate with dinner and a beer.

Addendum

The next day was a glorious spring day. I looked for my headtorch at the base of the route, and found it, sans-strap. With the ‘rat’ satisfied from yesterday’s banquet, we opted for some more casual bolt clipping on the north side of the gorge. At one point, Tom and I struck up a conversation with a passer-by who used to climb when he was younger. Upon telling him that we had climbed Coronation Street the previous day, he made mention of a solo ascent of the route many years ago by a guy that was ‘on something exotic’. He sure wasn't lying: https://www.amazon.com/Climbing-Essays-Jim-Perrin-ebook/dp/B00796E0QI . A great day out, and a great story to take home. I even had the pleasure of meeting Sir Chris Bonnington a few months later. Star struck!

In reply to Mark Reeves:

Dwm (E3 6a) Great route and a great afternoon out. Nobody fell off, not even you!

I’d done the route at least twice before with a bit of aid in the wet and we went during a heatwave hoping that it would be dry this time. Obviously it was. Certainly the hardest route in the Wales section of the book.

I remember you falling thigh deep in a load of boggy ground during the approach walk...

Cheers, Tim

In reply to UKC Articles:

Vember Back in the Day

Before Hard Rock there were two sources of inspiration for North Wales based climbers – Rock Climbers in Action in Snowdonia, and Rock Climbing in Wales by Ron James. A guidebook with action photos – whoever heard of such a thing! Even if they were all black and white and mostly poor.

In the early 70s I ‘d started ticking a few of the XS’s from each, usually given some initial impetus by beta, gleaned around cups of tea in the Williams café in Tremadog. (They were saints; there should be a blue plaque to them, as there should to Eric Jones except thankfully he’s still with us.)

White  Slab – tick. LLithrig – tick. Cloggy Corner – tick. It was coming time to up the ante. And the pointer came from a well known source. A couple of years earlier I’d hitched a ride part of the way home with Dave Pearce and his wife in their Morris 1000; I think he pointed me at Dream though I may have already done it by then.  We talked about our respective weekends and he said he’d just done Vember, which he admitted to finding harder than expected – a bit of an admission for a respected member of the Alpha, who were still busy debunking the Brown mythology. ’It was surprisingly technical’… he mused. I should have taken note.

Well, a couple of years later it was time for another visit to the Black Cliff, but I was happy to downplay Dave’s comments. After all, hadn’t Tony Smythe done it, and written about in Rock Climbers in Action? And that was ages ago! And Ron James described the 2nd crucial pitch in 4 dismissive lines, ending with ‘Above L. an open chimney, and cracks lead up to a large grass terrace.’ It doesn’t sound much, does it? That line nearly killed me.

Easter 74 – just emerging for a winter of total inactivity, (hard to imagine these days) a trip was arranged to North Wales by a medical student of our acquaintance. Being a medic, he was accompanied by a bevy of student nurses, who cooked wonderful meals for us – it was, I think, the first time I’d had ‘proper’ spaghetti Bolognese, (or even found out that such things were possible!) The weather was set; Cloggy was calling; Vember had my name on it.

To his credit, my partner, Dave Jones, volunteered to lead the Drainpipe crack without demur. He was after all our gritstone/crack expert. It has a reputation this pitch, which I think is totally undeserved, but then I have always managed to avoid leading it! But then it was my turn… the BIG pitch.

One last glance at Ron James, then off I went, fully psyched up for the ‘groove which overhangs (crux)’… I still had strong fingers despite the winter, and despite the spaghetti I was the original anorexic weirdo; so with my Clog Hex firmly placed in the crack I took that step of commitment that used to clearly define the XS grade – that step into the unknown, with retreat unthinkable, wondering where – if – your next pro would be found,  and  racing against time before your untrained muscles gave way! And I did it! Got my fingers round a hold – better than I was expecting, to be honest, and well-illustrated in Hard Rock – heaved and I’d done it! ‘’Cracked it Dave, whoopee!’ After all, it was just an up an open chimney to finish…

Er, not quite. Once I’d recovered, I had to make start moving up again – and it was thin. ‘Quite technical’ in fact, but surely there could only be a couple of moves like this, otherwise James would have said something, wouldn’t he?  ‘Watch me Dave…’ – udge up a bit … ‘Yeah - cracked it!’ Only I hadn’t; there was another 90 feet of this stuff, I must have repeated that mantra 4 or 5 times and it took my entire stock of gear – which isn’t saying much – before frantically, desperately scrabbling on to the Lawn, absolutely wasted. Thanks, Ron. HVS+ my bottom. I was still so wasted when I came to lead the final pitch that I carelessly stepped on a loose hold which gave way, I can still see it arcing into the gloom below and me just hanging on by the skin of my teeth. Great days.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Some great stories, thanks folks.  I'm even inspired to actually contribute something to UKC for once.

Extol (E2 5c)

Extol.  September 2016.  I’ve had a few good days climbing with Nigel over the last couple of years, and he’s keen to get Hard Rock finished soon.  He's found it hard to find anyone enthused by Extol, and I am up for a challenge after a summer of not much climbing, so it seems like a good target.

E2+ in my red lakes select book, which is as hard as I can climb, so I look online for some beta. Some complaints about loose and dirty rock, but I have been brought up climbing in Scotland so I don’t mind a bit of moss as long as it’s dry.  Lakeland old timers rave about the quality, and mention foot-placed slings at the roof, and corks or rags to stuff in the roof crack to stop the rope getting stuck. I add a cork to one pocket and an old sock to the other, and feel better prepared.

It’s been a dry-ish couple of weeks, but now it’s into “heavy thundery showers” so I sit at work watching the rain radar and the Ullswater webcam – except the webcam brightness is turned up too much to tell if that’s a dark cloud over Helvellyn or not.  Try phoning the Brotherswater Inn – “hasn’t rained all day” – OK let’s give it a go then Nigel, meet you in the car park at 9.

A nice sunny morning but the puddles in the car park are full, hmm, the pub barman must have missed that shower then.  A steady walk up to the crag, catching up with Nigel’s news.  He’s looking tanned and fit from an active summer on the bike and crags, and he’s had a good run of Hard Rock routes -  The Big Groove, Dwm, White Slab, Moonraker, Bow Wall.  I’ve spent the summer on family beach holidays, and my last proper route was Ithuriel’s Wall on the Cobbler back in June – but that was mossy E2 so hopefully good preparation for Extol.

From a distance the crag looks wet, ah well there is always Westmorland’s Route again and back to Shepherd’s for the afternoon.  Closer up it’s looking drier, are those black streaks moss or water? Both, it turns out, Dovedale Grooves is streaked with water but the moss on Extol looks dry.  In my memory, and on the topo, Extol follows the easy line up the middle of the crag, but it is apparent now how steep and intimidating it looks.

The original chimney start is choked with brambles so we take the first pitch of Hangover (do we get the tick? The latest FRCC guidebook describes it this way, and doesn’t even mention the original start). I’ve done Hangover before so I point Nigel up the first pitch.  It looks easier and grassier than I remember, until Nigel is on it when the steepness is more obvious, but he levitates past the grass and even gets a few runners in before going over the bulge and up to the belay.

Starting the main pitch, I am weighed down with gear – double set of cams,  2 ½ sets of wires and plenty of extenders. Delicious ripe raspberries on the initial traverse to the ramp  – I don’t mind this sort of vegetated. Then the pleasant ramp – OK it is grassy at the back, but the holds are clean and there are slots for gear if you look under the ferns. As the ramp steepens into a groove, I am pleased to find a reasonable way round on the right which leads back left to the small grass ledge -  I briefly consider belaying, but I’m enjoying this and I want to keep going.  The wall up to the roof looks steep, but it doesn’t look far, and there are helpful-looking cracks. Six metres and a few minutes later I am pumped, in a cramped rest under the left side of the roof, huffing and puffing and filling all available slots with cams.  Right foot wedged in that crack is going numb, best get going again, out to the right, looks exposed! Somehow I get into balance standing on a small spike under the right hand side of the roof.  The foot-placed-sling beta now makes sense, but I already have a good cam under the roof and I get a wire into the slot in the roof.  The cork and sock stay forgotten in my pockets. A nice high-stepping bouldery move over the roof into the groove and I’m starting to think I must be above the hard bit by now and I might actually do this! Some damp streaks in the groove, take it easy now, and a couple of goes getting out right onto the arete – the best holds are not obvious. Now the top is in sight, just a short mossy slab to go – but rope drag is horrendous with about 20 runners placed, and I don’t want to blow it now. My last cam is the right size for a slot within reach, which gives me the confidence for the last couple of steps.  Then I’m up – Safe, Nigel! – flat grass, sun on the face, brilliant route.  Nigel comes up grinning, clumps of plants and moss flying behind him as he cleans (maybe it was quite vegetated then) and landing far out from the crag base (maybe is it quite steep then). If he asked me now I would say that was the best pitch I’ve ever done, and tonight I’ll re-read Bonington’s essay in Hard Rock and echo his feeling of being “full of the wild elation of having stretched myself to the limit; of having climbed one of the most beautiful pitches I have ever encountered”.

In reply to jeremy:

A good account on Extol. The bit I especially remember was trying to make progress on the steep wall below the peg/overhang. Then a mate on Hireath shouted across to chimney it. It worked  but really outrageous climbing!

In reply to jeremy:

Brilliant Jeremy, bed time reading for Misha

In reply to UKC Articles:

I have also enjoyed this thread about this fantastic book and others experiences and feel I ought to contribute.  Like some of the other posters here, most of my memories around the 30-odd routes I have done centre around the people or the run-up to the route, rather than details of the route itself,  most of these would come to a paragraph or two but a trip for the Old Man of Hoy gives a longer tale:

A fairly short notice four day trip was booked to try to get in the Old Men of Hoy and Stoer.  Four of us driving up from Sussex and Kent, and two others utilising a car conveniently left at Glasgow Airport.  I was the last to be picked up, from Orpington, and we left there just before 9pm on the Wednesday evening after a day at work with a ferry to Stromness booked for midday Thursday.  This was in the days before widespread cameras, albeit cruise control was in existence by then and (not to be condoned) was set at 99.  Overnight the roads were very empty and passing Perth at maybe 3-ish we realised we’d be rather early for the midday ferry and maybe we could get the 9 o’clock one.  A hasty review of the (paper) timetable revealed that there wasn’t actually a 9:00 am ferry, but there was a 6:00am one, which might be do-able, we had about 20 minutes to spare when we boarded.  The height of current technology, a text message, confirmed the other two would still be on a later ferry.

Despite having had a completely dry run up the weather had now clagged in with fine mizzle and limited visibility, the Old Man was just visible through the murk as we passed by on the ferry – oh well, probably won’t be climbing it today but we’ve still got two more days.  With no rush we docked in Stromness and decided to drive round to Houton and take the car onto Hoy, we had two or three hours to wait there for the ferry which enabled some catch up on missed sleep during the journey (for the driver who was driving and for the passengers who were too gripped to sleep).  By the time this small ferry arrived the sun had put in an appearance, which meant only one thing.  Drive up to the hostel, quickly sort the gear out and head round to the Old Man while it was actually dry.

We walked out past Rackwick Bay and onto the headland, at this point a ferry went past which we assumed included Andy and Ian. A brief shower at this point but the descent seemed straight-forward and we were soon gearing up. Martin somehow got the first pitch and quickly completed this. The first belay proved to have a rope in-situ for the descent, so saving us from having to set one up.  After a decade or two of southern sandstone apprenticeship (the Bulls Hollow routes may have been most relevant)  meant that the second pitch proved to be only mildly worrying as opposed to completely terrifying (as long as you trusted 1970s vintage woodwork) and I soon arrived at the belay ledge, opting to take the narrower spot at its right hand end, leaving the larger left hand end to the in-situ fulmar (and more to the point out of range). The next two pitches (as we climbed it) are easier and the second of these (and final one) a really lovely pitch, soon leading to the summit and several puffins, who obligingly hung around long enough to have their photos taken.  Martin joined me on the summit, quickly followed by Mark and Mike; by this time Andy and Ian were visible on the main path, having made it to Hoy but with insufficient time to climb that day.

For us it was now time for the abseil, the in-situ tat seemed reliable so we threw the ropes down and I set off on the first abseil, I halted above the ledge to pull up the pile of ropes from their landing point – on top of the fulmar, fortunately it did not appear to be too distressed by the experience. The next abseil utilised the in-situ rope for a horizontal pull along to the first belay, where one more abseil took us to the base and gearing up spot. Darkness would soon be with us so a quick slog up the descent path regained the main path back to Rackwick Bay.  By the path we spotted a bottle of Madeira and surmised it must have been left for us by the globe-trotting Andy, so toasted our success, prior to beer back at the hostel.

The following morning (Friday) dawned dry but rather grey.  Andy and Ian still had the classic route to climb, but more worryingly Mark and Mike had been discussing a second route last night. Fortunately Martin had also decided that the one route had been enough – with both of us worrying that the other might want to do a second (and harder) route.  We took a leisurely breakfast, wandered along the cliff-top path to see how the other four were getting on (all OK), before continuing to the pub for some liquid refreshment.

On Saturday we had an interesting hour or so in the Scarpa Flow museum whilst we waited for the ferry back to Mainland. Then a whistle-stop tour of Yesnaby, the Ring of Brodgar and the medieval site of Skara Brae before the ferry back to Thurso.   Next stop Stoer.  A very scenic drive along the north coast and down the west coast but unfortunately no time to stop except for a fine dinner at Kylesku, followed by a bivvy near the road-end for Stoer.

A complete blue sky greeted us on Sunday morning and once breakfast was done we were quickly down at the platform on the landward side of the Old Man.  Being the youngest of the party I was ‘volunteered’ to take the swim (or maybe just because I was the weakest swimmer)!  Fortunately the sea was dead calm and the tyrolean was rapidly set up, albeit by this time the RNLI had arrived on training manoeuvres and gave Ian and Andy a lift across the gap (aka queue-jumping), this set off a race for the first pitch, whereby different lines were taken to get to the first belay – Mike and Mark were having none of this and promptly set off to the other end for a harder route.  The narrow summit was soon gained by all and then the single abseil back to the base, by this time the tide was out sufficiently (and I believe very rarely) that we could walk back across the previously swum gap.  This just left the drive back to the south-east,  at a slightly slower pace than the outward journey, but still in time for work on Monday morning.

I do still need to go back for Am Buachaille though.

In reply to UKC Articles:

It was September 1985 and I was 21.

I’d been climbing for two years since starting at university and just returned from a memorable dirtbagging tour of North Wales with one of the club members (and later best man) Seb Grieve. My last route of the trip was Blue Peter on North Stack Wall.

After spending a few days with my girlfriend in Chester I hitched down to my parent’s hill farm in Devon. After 10 days without climbing I was starting to go demented and in desperation persuaded my younger brother Andrew to come climbing with me.

Andrew had never climbed before. However, he was a strapping farm worker with preternatural hand strength which enabled him to reduce his PE teacher to tears in a hand bending competition at the age of 13. I reckoned he would be OK. We hitched down to Torquay which was about 40 miles away. My plan was to do Dreadnought!

The amazing thing about Berry Head is that it is such a genteel tourist spot at the top. Yet descending the grass slopes and negotiating the slabs is a rapid descent into Hades. A trick move on a slab above a drop into the sea takes you onto a ledge that slopes to the water’s edge. The cliff towers above an ominous dripping cave with seabirds wheeling around. It’s an intimidating place even for the experienced.

To get to the base of Dreadnought you go the back of the cave and traverse back out just above the water. I went first and told Andrew to keep using the jugs. Part way out I looked back to see him waist deep in water. The undulating strata meant that he followed the jugs down into the water. Strong as he was maybe Dreadnought wasn’t such a good idea. We would do Moonraker instead.

Tethering Andrew to the rock I set off up the wall. Did I mention I only had a single 9mm rope? I did the crux and arranged some gear to protect Andrew and then ran it out to the belay scarcely registering how far I’d tracked to the left.

Andrew followed and got through the crux and took out the gear. He was out of sight and was sounding flummoxed and panicky. Then there was a scream and he didn’t stop screaming as he pendulumed forty feet there and back and there again screaming all the way. By the time he came to stop he’d totally lost it and I managed to coax him to the belay. I weighed up the options and thought I would be able to keep a closer eye on him if we pressed on. Two more pitches of cajoling and threatening got us to the top where Andrew collapsed with joy and relief. We were greeted by an elderly couple who asked if we were OK. It transpired that they had heard and seen Andrew’s fall and, bless them, waited to see that we were alright.

It might not surprise you to learn that Moonraker remains Andrew’s one and only route.            

In reply to UKC Articles:

Here goes folks, so many cool articles - a blast from the past . . . 

The enormity of my crime strikes home as we clamber up the gully towards the base of the curving corner running full height up the crag. Here we are below one of the great Lake District VS’s, Gimmer Crack; Ken Wilson, John Peck and me. Our quest? John and I will climb the Crack while Ken photographs the ascent. And my crime? Ken had handed me The Crack on a plate; an essay to write for Hard Rock. And I had let him down by not delivering on time. Ken shows his forgiving nature by arriving in Langdale still raring to depict the historic VS for posterity, despite having had to write the AWOL words himself. Does he give me the kind of blasting I deserve? Nah. He remains as inscrutable as the icon that first triggered his passion for rock climbing: Sphinx Rock - seen from the Gable Traverse with other Brummie Scouts in the early 50s. After donning white tops Ken produces from his sack to make us more visible, John leads off up the impending corner while spanning it with outstretched legs. “Do the splits,” calls Ken from across the gully. “That's it! Arrow image.” John eventually tip-toes out left away from the corner across a blank-looking wall to a pedestal stance. My turn; behind is the mantelshelf, touch and go. I dab a knee on it, within an ace of peeling off. “S'all adventure,” calls Ken. Teetering on the mantelshelf at last, I clamber on up, trending back into what is now the wider Crack and haul myself on to the postage stamp Bower. I'm joined by John who front-ends past and attacks the final pitch with its overhanging top. And there's a surprise. Ken's head pops up way overhead, his camera angled down. He's taken the climber's track that avoids the steep and horrendously loose Junipall Gully, the “easy” option on the north-west face. We follow Ken's choice of descent down the fellside to emerald- green Mickleden and follow his “secret” route back through the pastures beyond. John asks Ken to rate our day. “Oill give it foive,” he says in his Solihull twang.

In reply to UKC Articles:

Another for Dream. February 1969 was the coldest since 1962/3 with some great winter conditions in the hills. With high hopes of a good weekend I headed for Wales with Nigel Helliwell  to seek out some ice. On the Saturday we found plenty on Cloggy and followed a line on the Far East Buttress which gave some fine climbing. Sunday dawned clear and with sub zero temperatures and I presumed we would take go for more of the same. Nigel had other ideas however and  clearly had a plan for the day which only now did he see fit to inform me. There was a newish line on Gogarth that had been calling him since its first ascent and it just had to be done. On the sea cliffs it would be warmer he said, and it would be a good choice for the day. I wondered, but on reaching the top of Wen Zawn about 9.30 it was seriously cold and I wasnt happy. Nigel was on a mission and sped off down the ab so I had nothing to do but follow. Even with frozen hands we made good progress to the belay by Concrete Chimney but still hadnt generated enough heat to thaw out.

I watched Nigel make careful moves rounding the initial arete and then he stepped up a gear and moved quickly to a point just before the exit groove. Then, in an instant he was falling, the rope drew tight and in that moment I glimpsed the runners flicking out save the one that held him. He managed to climb up to the line and complete the pitch and quickly set up a belay. It now occurred to me that my situation could have been better. I had been on the stance long enough to get very cold, I now had to follow some 25m + unprotected along the traverse with a long pendulum if I messed up. Looking along the back wall of the zawn it curved around and a pendulum might not just be a big swing, I might smack myself against the wall? Anyway I didnt have much option, and did what I needed to do and joined Nigel at the top.  I didn't know then that the climbing was technically easy, and I still carry a memory of making those first awkward moves around the arete and making good use of my feet cos I couldnt feel my hands. Another memory of Nigel was some years later when he sand bagged me into leading the overhanging groove on The Rat Race saying i didn't need to take his rack as it was easy .He was right in a way but only because of the lack of pro. But that's another story

Companion.   Nigel Helliwell. Huddersfield Phoenix Climbing Club

In reply to UKC Articles:

Soul Sacrifice (E3 5c)

I first climbed Soul Sacrifice in 2012 by accident - I really didn't mean to!

Its bona fide classic Boulder Ruckle; an atmospheric and lonely spot, good gear, good rock until the top, and very full value for the grade. There is a brilliant picture of Geraldine Taylor on the headwall in the 2005 edition of the Dorset Rockfax. It looks steep, relentless and inspiring - if you're going well.

In 2012 i was going pretty well, so i thought, and i met my partner Will at Swanage on a hot day in late summer. My goal was to climb Ocean Boulevard, the better known Swanage E3 and a well protected juggy cruise if you're fit enough.

Will is fairly scornful of climbing warm up routes, and i got straight on OB and up it without too much trouble, albeit a slight flash pump. As i sat at the top of the route i belayed contentedly in the sun. I'd got my tick, 3 E points in the bag and could relax for the rest of the day. Will wanted to do Soul Sacrifice, which he'd cruise because he's good, and i could enjoy the ride, lead an HVS or E1, then retire with honour to the Square and Compass for pints of cider, pork scratchings and a pastie.

We took the free hanging abseil into the Behemoth area and, feeling very relaxed as i contemplated the steepness of the route i remember sitting at the bottom and thinking'glad its his lead'. I didn't pay too much attention as he started up the route, just as i hadn't paid much attention when he said he hadn't done much training due to the birth of his daughter. He had always been stronger, fitter and bolder, and it felt like the natural order of things that he would take the initiative when we went climbing.

I wasn't too concerned when he started to mutter and grunt about halfway, and when at 2/3 height he abrubtly shouted to me to take i wasn't worried. His problem / ego, not mine. 

Mild concern started when he seemed to be struggling after a rest, but then Will always pulled it out of the bag, didn't he? Apparently not this time, and apparently he was too pumped to continue which apparently meant he'd have to come down, and i would have to take over the lead.

This deeply satisfactory turn of events shattered my bubble of contentment and i spent a good while contemplating climbing Behemoth to the left, abbing down for the gear in Soul Sacrifice, then back up Behemoth. After all i'd got my E3 tick, all i was thinking about was the pub. A combination of laziness (lots of faff), Will's scorn of the idea, and the stirrings of ambition just for once to out climb him saw me taking the remaining gear and starting up SS.

The first few moves are up the Behemoth corner; easy with good pro. There is then a confusing traverse out right, before you sketch up a thin and insecure feeling crack to a horizontal fault. This was damp, but ok, a move back left and then into a short chimney via a move that looked hard but was also ok. i was clipping Will's 'bolts' at this point, and managed all of this fine, however i was spooked and the chimney felt insecure. i scuttled upward onto the headwall, where i thought there looked like a half rest to compose myself. It suddenly felt very lonely on the headwall, no rest and i went from 0 to pumped stupid in a nano second. i shoved a tri cam into my only decent handhold and somehow worked my way up the wall. Matters did not improve and i continued up in a blind panic, elbows out, claw after claw, not daring to stop to place gear until eventually, about 5m above my last piece, i was able to scuttle out to a ledge on the route to the right with a full body terror pump by this point, only experienced once before or since (Barbarian, Tremadog - standard). After about 10 minutes of retching, shaking and sweating i finally mustered the minerals to limp up and out.

In 2017, fitter and wiser, i went back with the intention of doing it properly. This time i nearly fell off the low traverse, and then again climbing into the chimney. The headwall was more controlled and climbed more safely.

I'm really happy this route is on the Hard Rock list. Its one i would climb again and again, and i would strongly recommend it to anybody with the proviso not to take it lightly or it might have your soul!

In reply to Mark Warnett:

Hi Mark,

My ascent of Mars wasn't quite as unplanned as your ascent of Soul Sacrifice, but was a bit unexpected when a friend of mine who was trying his hand out at filming suggested that I ought to do it so that he could film me. He had chosen for us a hot summers day, so the route was bone dry, which certainly made the traverse in to the corner much easier than I believe it often is. This meant I could climb that with just one runner and hence no drag heading into the main corner (and no need to split the pitch).  The jamming and bridging up the corner is quite superb and quite sustained, such that I remember nearing the top and needing to hang from my arms for a while in order to give my legs a rest.  I did however get a film (VHS) out of it for my efforts - one highlight was the sequence of my baseball cap floating off into the sea - what were we thinking of in those days, climbing at Swanage with no helmet.   Mind you my second, who'd also been co-opted for the occasion by the camera-man, had quite a hard time and spent much of the rest of the day recovering.  The camera-man then suggested a wander down to Fishermans for The Ritz, fortunately with himself in the lead and the camera handed over to the original second, whilst this was my turn on the blunt end.  And luckily so, it was bl**dy desperate and I was soon swinging off under the roof - I'm sure I've seconded easier E5s! And led easier E4s.

Back to Soul Sacrifice another brilliant route but pumpy as hell. It and Ocean Boulevard occupy the opposite ends of the E3 grade. Ocean Boulevard is also great and pumpy (and maybe a bit steeper) but does have bigger holds and a rest or two, Soul Sacrifice is certainly a step up.  

I do wonder about the choice of Soul Sacrifice for the new Hard Rock though, a superb route and properly 'hard' but it does have a seasonal bird restriction, albeit not the only route to have one, Mousetrap for example.  Mousetrap, though, is such a classic of its type that it couldn't be missed out.  I agree that a Boulder Ruckle route is a must but maybe the unrestricted Ocean Boulevard might have been the better choice.  Unfortunately they're all restricted now

PS if you're down Soul Sacrifice way again, and haven't yet done it, I can thoroughly recommend White Horse with the full on back of the zawn start (if dry).  

In reply to UKC Articles:

Here's one of the new climbs on the list. My account of Rock Idol written for the Aylesbury Climbing Club newsletter.

"Postcard from Pembroke"

20th April 2015

Dear ACC

The weather is here and wish you were beautiful! My good friend Steve and I are treating ourselves to an extra days climbing at the seaside. The weekends’ chilly easterly wind has abated, the sun’s come out and it promises to be a great day. So why am I still on edge? Maybe it’s to do with the seagull staring at me from high up on the cliff. It’s right on our route, not budging, just glaring at us as though to say “this is my rock, go find another!” Can you get psyched out by a beaky thing with feathers – well I guess so.

After much procrastinating we’ve abbed in to do Rock Idol, E15b, at Mother (S)Careys Kitchen. All the old delaying tactics were used, “tides not out, so let’s have some lunch”, “just checking the route” (despite it being hidden from view from both sides of the top of the cliff), “Ab landing looks a bit jagged”. Finally we braved the 40m abseil down Brazen Buttress – it’s not overhanging but feels mighty steep. At the bottom if you look behind the buttress you realise it’s virtually fully detached from the main cliff – like a thick wall with a 10ft cap spanning between it and the headland, and forming a massive vertical archway. Impressive scenery, more so when you realise there is a route running up inside of the arch.

Hopping across the jumble of large boulders we can now see the route and that pesky bird and its partner. My conservationists voice says it could be nesting (drat!), my climbing voice says the route’s clean and dry (tempting!) and Steve, the voice of reason, says “it’s just a herring gull and they’re not rare”. I’ve been found out. It’s not the bird that’s psyching me out it’s the thought of my first E1 lead in 15 years and at a full 5b – a grade I’ve not led before. “In my day it was HVS 5b” says Steve the voice of reason. Great there go my bragging rights!

No more dithering now as I chunter my way up the first awkward layback corner. A few “what am I doing here’s?” later I reach a sloping ledge. A short pause and then on up a steep pocketed 30ft wall, with plenty of arm-aching and talking to myself. A thank-god leaning semi-rest below one crux – a blocky overhang. Now that UKC article about mindsets and controlled breathing comes into its own.....”WATCH ME HERE”!!!, I entreat of my ever-so patient partner below. Traversing right on underclings and delicate footwork allow a chance to carefully reach (i.e. fairly desperate lunge) over the bulge and heave up onto a half decent rest on a shallow cave. A bit more mind control (“bloody, bloody hell”) before committing to the next crux: a bulge split by a crack with some thuggy moves to gain another exposed rightwards traverse across a sloping wall, (“C’mon, c’mon, doing ok”). Then the strain eases and a final blocky section leads to....the gull.

“Oh give over” - I’m almost there and almost spent of energy. I squawk agitatedly in my best gull-speak that he’s in the way and would he mind terribly clearing off. He gets my drift and flies away with a disgruntled look. A semi-mantleshelf (aka flop) sees me on the small square gulls ledge – there’s no nest, there’s no eggs, there’s no more gull, only a weary climber satisfied with his days work. We top out and like all good climbers put the world to rights while packing away. Behind us the gull settles back on its ledge wondering what on earth that weird thing with the undecipherable seagull accent was on about........."see boyo I’m a Welsh bird".

“Oh I do like to be beside the seaside” – roll on Bosigran in October!

In reply to UKC Articles:

Good to read the entries above, bringing memories back. Here's another......

They say that you never forget your first. The very lovely Valerie. I was punching above my weight there, but that is not for this tale. For me, my first in a very different world was the magnificent Cenotaph Corner.

It was late spring, the time when a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love, and I was a young man, a young man falling in love with the idea of climbing hard, of climbing something of the then, to me, almost mythical grade of ‘Extremely Severe.’ There was no E1, E2 etc. back then, just the one all-encompassing grade for anything above HVS. For me, the choice for my first wander into the grade had to be Cenotaph, it being such an obvious line, not supposed to be at the desperate end of the grade and a corner too, so the option of resting every now and again would surely be there. Surely!

In his Booker Prize winning book, ‘The Sense of an Ending,’ Julian Barnes talks of the vagueness of memory over time, the potential for what one remembers to be not necessarily what truly happened. This is my recollection of that wandering which, despite the passage of some time, seems as clear to me now as it was on the day. I hope the others there or thereabouts find my version resembles their own truths.

The university’s climbing club had a Wales meet booked. The weather was set fair so my climbing partner (a properly, what is now called, ‘ripped,’ individual) and I, left Lancaster for the weekend after lunch on Friday. Perhaps we were a four in the car. Or van. That memory thing…… Parking in the pass, we two raced up to the Cromlech inside the 20 minutes given in the original ‘Hard Rock.’  As I prepared, looking up at the line, the butterflies of fear were fluttering. Had I bitten off more than I was able to chew? Would I find I was, again, attempting to punch above my weight, and less successfully, perhaps, this time? Would this be my only foray into that mythical grade? Would it be embarrassing?

Only one way to find out. Off I set. But on I remained. I took my time, rested when able to stand comfortably, placed bomb proof gear on the way, and found myself looking at the crux in what seemed like no time. And no time later it was over; I was through the crux and sitting on top. Mission accomplished. No falls, no submissions and, despite all those rests, the ascent had taken very little time. Perhaps the grade was going to be possible! My partner had the good grace to find the route much harder than me, taking the option of a tight rope throughout, and taking some considerable time to make his ascent.  When the athlete finally arrived at the belay, his forearms were massive and solid, with the look of a post-spinach, well-pumped, Popeye! All very gratifying.

There only remained the stroll back to the transport and the, then normal, post-climb rehydration. In the pub, we were congratulated by the hard boys (yes, in those days, they were indeed almost all boys), one of whom pointed out that we had already “had a good weekend.” So true. Although I have ventured onto, and successfully wandered up, many more, and much harder ‘Extremes,’  (some also in and some not in the original of the fabulous ‘big books’, I have a fond memory of that late spring afternoon/evening in 1974 and this amazing, never to be forgotten, first of many.     

JGL

In reply to UKC Articles:

Another write up of Dream of White Horses:

Butterfly Collector

“On white horses let me ride away, to my world of dreams so far away...”

Sometimes your plan all falls into place and you have a truly great climbing day...

 “A Dream of White Horses” at Gogarth had been beckoning for a while but I always seemed to get sidetracked by the mountains. Finally with the forecast of yet another claggy mountain day, Barry and I took a chance and headed off to Anglesey. Showery rainclouds had long since gone and it was brightening nicely by the time we got to the car park. The approach romp across the rocky coastal heathland was not overly taxing. As you descend down grassy slopes to its lip Wen Zawn gives nothing away of what’s in store. Dumping sacks at the top we scrambled down a seaward promontory to gain a vantage point looking back to the main cliff. Whooahhh!!! At first glance the quartzite Wen slab, shimmering in the sunlight, appears huge and holdless - one of those common optical illusions when looking at a route from a distance but worrying nonetheless. (The first butterflies appear).

We scrambled over to the top to the far side and the abseil station. You can access the route at high tide from here and do it in three instead of four pitches but why spoil the fun. Disconcertingly you can’t see the bottom of the cliff as there is a lip hiding the low tide stance (butterflies multiplying). You could reach the bottom in one go with 60m ropes. Possessing 50m ropes we did it in two sections, setting up a stance at the three-quarter point and leaving a bit of gear here to clip into on the way back up.

Its only then when you are sitting on a large block at the bottom ten feet above the sea with both ropes pulled through that you realise how committed you are. There’s no walk out, swimming would unimaginably cold and hazardous, and climbing back out entails a route of at least HVS 4C. Gulp!! Tucked into a corner you can’t see the main cliff due to that slight overhang at 40ft (Gulp again, butterflies swirling). The high speed ferry to Ireland nudges waves in your direction but luckily the swell and wind are both low. The sun was now out and things looked promising (butterflies settling).

Barry led off up a short slab, round an arête, over the original lip and out of sight. There’s initially a choice of awkward moves to be made; either getting off the ground and established on the arête direct, or follow the slab and then a reachy step left to gain the arête shortly below the lip. Following on behind my confidence improved once past the lip as juggy holds sprung up all around These led to a rounded spike and semi-hanging belay. From here you get your first view of the whole of the slab; a massive and seemingly very steep expanse of rock.   

The second pitch entails an increasingly delicate traverse out into the centre of the slab and towards the wide crack of “Wen”. The gear gets sparser, the footholds become matchbox sized, and the drop to the sea lengthens. The last 20ft is unprotectable with thin 5a moves. I’m aware of the pendulum potential and yet tantalisingly the chimney crack entices with the promise of a gear placement or two (isn’t there? there must be! there’d better be!!). Do you turn back, do you lob off, do you carry on? You’re committed and reversing the traverse moves isn’t a great option (butterflies flocking). Keep going and reward! Another hanging belay, feet cramped but gear solid so no complaints. The long view back past Barry, anchored to his ledge, out to a wide panorama of sea and distant coast is stunning. The outlook above apparently leads to the overhanging top of the cliff (we are going the right way aren’t we?)

Barry competently led the third pitch, a rising flake line with good gear. Then just before the slab steepens into the overhanging ground one or two awkward moves left lead round some bulges and drop down in to the second wide crack of “Concrete Chimney”. 4c moves but nothing desperate so hopes rise fleetingly.

Wedged in the chimney, a bit above Barry, I cower as I peek over his shoulder to gasp at the sheer drop down to the sea and the arch over the mouth of the zawn. Surveying the improbable –looking final pitch my mind imagines it’s heading into “E” territory; the way it crosses the top of this arch and runs below an overhanging wall over a series of corners and arêtes. It seems to lean right back, and there’s got to be a sting in the tail (butterflies swarming). I don’t really want to set off but retreating would be no easier either.

The first few moves are a delicate traverse using an undercling, (early gear, remember, early gear!). Steady, steady. I made it to the security of the first corner and the way ahead started to be revealed. There are in fact plenty of dividing cracks, giving reassuring protection and also footholds to bridge the corners and handholds to ease round the arêtes. Extra long extenders are essential to prevent drag, and gaining and losing a bit of height helps to weave across the broken ground. All at once the butterflies take to the air and I’m back relishing the movement and the challenge. What seemed impossible turns out to be the easiest pitch on the climb, mostly 4B but with added exposure!! A short jaggy groove to finish and you’re there!

I almost got psyched out by its serious reputation and given a poor forecast or heavy seas I wouldn’t “dream” of it (check out the photo of first ascent by Ed Drummond to see what it can be like).  However it felt great to have overcome the difficulties and what’s more with virtually nobody else there, no queuing, and warm in the sunshine. A pint in the pub and a banquet of a meal back in the hut care of Sue Barnes, and it’s been quite a dream...    

In reply to UKC Articles:

"A smoke and a drink will make you think but a drink and a smoke will make you boak" - Glaswegian proverb.

Sometimes you should listen to the wisdom of elders. "Thinking" would certainly have demolished less of our host’s caravan home than I did during my clumsy, drunken stagger outside to "boke". Next morning, he is taking the damage in his stride though. But I don’t think we will be calling in on our way back to the Lakes from Harris. He does have some responsibility for the destruction. He offered the doss and if he had turned up at the pub at 5 o'clock instead of closing time we wouldn’t have drunk seven pints on empty stomachs. Yes and who suggested "skinning up". No, that would be me.  After all, I had been nominated to score as part of the expedition preparations and the scoop on Sron Ulladale needed some strong medicine.

Our team consisted of "Bergy" the Berg-Fuhrer, "Physic" an aid climbing virgin and me as the "Ballast". I suspect Bergy was looking to generate a new income stream by signing up punters for a "Hard Rock holiday". So he needed a cross section of the climbing public to market test the package. So here we were.  

Dry heaving would best describe our progress across Skye next day bound for Uig to catch the Tarbet ferry. Before boarding we had to divide the kit into three piles which then had to go into rucksacks capable of being carried. For those who haven’t indulged in the dark arts of aid climbing, the extra kit involved is both esoteric and heavy. Add to that the dossing gear, food for four days and ropes; it was a good job CALMAC didn’t have an excess baggage charge. We tottered under hernia inducing loads up the gang plank and into the ferry's bar for a wee refresher. A wee-free assembly on the mainland must have just finished as the bar was crowded with dog-collared black "fheannags" all supping away on half ‘n half's. This meant the usual CALMAC bar flies were nowhere to be seen (check out the “The Stornoway Way” by Kevin MacNeil for a taxonomy of Hebridean bar flies).

Our game plan took us as far as Tarbet. From there we would have to wing it. After consulting the OS map, a taxi or maybe two would be required for us and the kit to reach the start of the track over the hill to the crag. Unfortunately, on disembarkation, no taxis could be found. The assorted "fheannags" we had encountered on the ferry had grabbed them all to return to their respective parishes. We staggered up to the Tarbet Hotel and approached the receptionist to ask about the availability of a taxi. She took the OS map on which we had pointed out where we wanted to go and vanished into the bar. She had misunderstood our request and returned with someone who taught us how to correctly pronounce "Abhainn Suihde" in the Gaelic. We explained our predicament to our new translator friend and it was then that highland hospitality kicked in. He took us into the bar and shouted a stream of Gaelic that ended in "Abhainn Suihde". A wee fella detached himself from the bar and joined us. He was going back to Hushinish later that day but would curtail his bevvying early and drop us off.

Now we were three big lads with huge rucksacks and when we saw our onward transport, we had our doubts about fitting into it. Our driver would have none of it and somehow we and the kit were rammed in. As we travelled along the single track road, each time we pulled over to let on-coming traffic past, a ten minute Gaelic conversation ensued between our driver and the other motorists, explaining the absurdity of our quest. Later, looking up at the crag after the five mile walk in, I too was having my doubts. Even inside the boulder howf that was our base camp, you could feel the crags overbearing, oppressive bulk; add to this its remoteness and isolation and success seemed unlikely.

We had chosen early June for our trip to avoid the worst of the midges (some hope) and maximise the available daylight. Early next morning, with heavy hearts and loads, we scrambled up the grassy slabs leading to the start of the route. “Bergy” was nominated as leader as most of the kit belonged to him together with the knowledge of how to use it. “Ballast” and “Physic” settled down like a couple of sproggs in an eyrie as our brave leader made slow but steady progress, tempted on by in-situ pieces of tat. The further he progressed, the more disorientating it became. The haul rope just couldn’t be hanging so far out from the crag. Looking up meant looking out. The angular overhanging rock created optical illusions. Bergy’s “O’f*cks” and “watch me here” petered out when he announced “just moving off a rurp onto a sky hook”, a serious place indeed. Finally, the first belay was reached and secured. It was time for “Physic” to lose his virginity. Explanation is no substitute for experience.  Tooled up with a set of etriers and cows tails, he swung off the ledge and started up the iron men. Close up aid climbing is terrifyingly noisy; karabiners click against each, things jangle and bang. Poor placements must be used carefully and from the right direction. “Physic” was learning all this and more as he climbed. This saved me a lot of toil when it came to my turn, as I had to clean the pitch.      

We stashed the gear and abseiled off down a single 9 mm rope, carefully protected from the sharp edges of the belay ledge with pieces of hose pipe cut lengthwise and duct tape (an essential part of any serious aid kit). It was a terrifying free abseil into space. With the end of the abseil rope secured to the belay at the start of the route, we ended up hanging free in a rope V, then had to hand over hand up the rope to get back to safety.

Back at the base camp (our Air-Bothy-n-Boulder), we had been visited my some “timorous wee beasties” who had tried to steal what little food we had. At least they had cleaned the breakfast plates for us.

After a noisy kip in the company of vermin, the terror continued with a twangy jumar back up the 9 mm abseil rope going over all those sharp edges. “Bergy” made slow but steady progress in the “whack and dangle” department, whilst “Physic” and I endured a long day of silences, wishing we were somewhere else and only interrupted by half hearted “this is just amazing” utterances.

On the following day, the top was in sight but as we were unsure as to the state of the fixed gear (guide mentioned 20 year old knife blades) on the final roof, I was dispatched up to belay on the most amazing lie down ledge carved out of the overhanging-ness. “Physic” was left by himself on the first stance to secure our retreat. “Bergy” did his stuff and he reached a position to mount a summit bid. With retreat no longer needed as an option, “Physic” had to tighten up those jumars on that old stretchy 9 mm rope, set his sphincter to closed and step off his perch. His swing down and out from the rock probably took him halfway across North Uist and his involuntary scream could be heard on Barra.     

We summitted at about midnight in that magical mid-summer gloaming you get in the far north. Our descent disturbed a wisp of Snipe whose ethereal alarm hoots made neck hairs prickle.  Safe at last, we returned to the Lakes in green clouds of euphoria. Ken Wilsons Hard Rock “stopper” route well and truly ticked!

Fheannag - Crow