1. Bruce and Robs Cornwall
weekend
2. Over the top - alpine
exploits
3. Birthday Corner
4. Life in the Gorge
5. Great Slab 2,
Great Slobs 0
6. Barbie does Brimham,
does Granite
Bruce and Robs Cornwall Weekend (Oct 5th - 7th 2002)
We started from East Grinstead at 5.30am on Saturday morning with the forecast warm and sunny for the whole weekend. By the speed of light we zoomed past Exeter before Rob could open the map. We reached Polzeath campsite on the north coast of Cornwall (approximately 12 miles north east of Newquay) and had the tent pitched and all set up before 11.00am. Not bad.
Our minds were now focused on the object of this weekend. We got our gear on and headed towards the sea. Now for those of you who haven't twigged, this was not a climbing weekend. The surf was up.
For those uninitiated in the delights of Cornish seawater, let me explain that the point at which the first wave washes up over your middle is ?@00$! freezing. The gear needed therefore is a wet suit. All good climbers should have one in their wardrobe. Think of all those deep-water solo's your going to do.
Already there were hundreds of surfers and boogie boards out in the sea. The surf was looking good. We headed out and soon the sea was chest deep. Water down the neck of the wet suit not so good. We had boogie boards and after a couple of attempts got our first ride on a wave all the way to the shallows. That was great! Back in for another go.
You can't catch every wave so the art is to recognise which one to go for. When you get it right, WHOHOOOOO!!!!!! Zooming in, keeping with the wave. You want more and more.
When you get it wrong. Wipe out. Churning round and round in the braking wave. Freezing cold water. Which way is up to get some air. Gasp!
With a bit more confidence we went a bit deeper into the sea. At this point a 2 or 3 foot wave coming at you leaves two options either jump up or dive headfirst through it. Freezing cold water. We jumped so that the wave doesn't wash over us. Now a 2 or 3 foot wave doesn't sound very big, but I can tell you that it's big enough. A boiling, foaming, churning mass of water coming at you focuses the mind into self-preservation. Couple this with all the other surfers and boarders very close around you getting waves and you get the picture.
After a couple of hours Rob decided to go into the village and hire a full surfboard. Now this board was a serious bit of kit. I decided don't get in the way of that!
We headed back into the sea to catch some more waves, man. Oops. Got carried away there.
The tide was coming back in now so the surf was great. Water up to chest/neck high. The next wave coming in, but not one to go for. Lying on the board and diving headfirst through the wave. Getting the idea of this. Must have got acclimatised to the water. Hardly noticed the rush of cold water down the neck. Yuck!
Rob was going great on the hired board. With this board he was going out further and catching the waves for a longer ride. Either kneeling or lying down he was riding the waves all the way to the beach. The only difficulty was getting through the incoming waves to get out to the better waters.
After a couple more hours I got out to watch the experienced surfers from the cliff top. They were further out than I had been. The tide was well in now so the surf was wild. They sit on their boards until just the right wave materialises. Then they are up on their feet and riding the wave all the way. There were also a few boogie boarders out there and one of these was doing 360-degree donoughts riding down the wave before it breaks. It looked fantastic. I wished I could do that.
Well at the end of the Saturday we cooked dinner (all right Rob cooked dinner, you know what my culinary skills are like) a great big spagbowl, lovely. Then we headed to the pub to get some beer down our necks, beats freezing cold water down the neck any day. Great pub, Rob knows what I mean.
Sunday morning dawned. The sun was rising. Stretching and yawning out of the tent before 8.00am, looked out to sea, there were surfers out already! They must be keen. Rob cooked breakfast with a bit of help from me; I made tea and other bits like that. What a massive fry up. Gammon, sausage, black pudding, beans, egg, toast and tea. I was stuffed and a little worried that I would sink like a stone.
Sunday continued much as Saturday. Surf was up and we were catching the waves, man. Oops, there I go again. All we need now is the bleached long blond hair and we could go in for 'Faking It'.
Now for the blokes there is some great totty to keep the interest going. Either in wet suits or swimsuits. Great!!!! And, as the girls have pinched our word, I do mean totty of the female kind.
The day continued with catching some great waves and did some retail therapy in the surf shop. Wet suites can rub around the neck so a rash vest with a high neck is another good investment to keep in the wardrobe.
The day ended with another great meal and then back to the same pub for some darts and pool. The pub did not have as much interest as Saturday night. Do you know what I mean? Hey, that's an Oasis lyric. By the way the music was very good in the pub. Rocking!
On Monday morning I suggested GO KARTING! We agreed that would be great. Rob hadn't driven a cart before. We headed of to a place called St Eval where there is an outdoors 1000m track. Dressed in overalls and crash helmets at the ready. The carts look good, 400cc 70 mph rocket ships with your @£$& 50mm from the tarmac. Fantastic! We couldn't wait.
We are in our carts and Off we go. Cold tyres, slip sliding round the first lap or two. I'm following Rob around the track, he's having problems round the bends, coming in to quick and locking the brakes, sliding and spinning right in front of me. I hit the brakes, turn, opposite lock to collect the slide, don't know how I missed him, then foot hard down on the accelerator to power away. The tyres were warmed a couple of laps later, I'm hammering down the straight at 70 mph and overtake Rob on the inside then back to the outside of the track and braking ready to take the 180 degree bend at the top end of the track. Rob however thinks 'he's not going to overtake me' and comes down my inside as we go into the bend. I'm thinking he can't possibly slow in time. I'm right. Big cloud of tyre smoke and he goes straight on towards the tyre wall and Armco barrier around the outside of the track. Ha! Revenge is sweet. We continue blasting around the circuit and our 15 minutes of racing are soon over.
We compare our lap times and decide YER lets go again! The lap record is 43.50 seconds. We are both getting quicker. But the illusive lap record is still over 3 seconds off. With more confidence in the grip we are finding that you can keep the accelerator peddle nailed to the floor for more and more of the lap and take some of the bends at what seems like impossible speeds. But two of the bends on the track are the key to a good lap time. Get these wrong and the time disappears. Get the fast bends really wrong and you are spinning off the track big time. Ouch! You also get called in by the marshals for a ticking off. That doesn't please Rob who explains he's here to race so yes he's going to push it and go as fast as he can. Some great dicing between us and the other carts on the track. This could get very addictive (also a bit expensive)
To round of the weekend we stop of at a quarry near Bristol (with a very short walk in) to do a couple of slab routes.
A great weekend.
We name it 'BRUCE AND ROB BEHAVING BADLY'. What a route!
Can't wait to do it again.
Bruce
A footnote from the editor (my son David) he wanted it known that he taught me all I know about boogie boarding during our summer holiday in Cornwall this year. The cheek of kids these days! I don't know.
Over The Top
A recent trip to Chamonix brings the unexpected, William Hellyer and Andrew Brett recently took to the mountains, but it didn't all go to plan;
Early July, sitting at work, bored as usual. An email conversation between William and myself sparks into life as the much-muttered about comment of the Alps creeps back into the equation.
Totally unexpectedly the question is asked - 'so are we going to the Alps or not?'
Without deliberation my fingers have already managed to type the reply without me even realising it. So that was it, August the 3rd was the date, just a few weeks away.
For me it was a journey to the known, but for William, well, lets just say Mountain Craft and Leadership was hastily read at god forsaken hours of the night and during any available break at work!
Preparation was fairly straight forward, although there were some items, such as crampons for William that had to be purchased, and the inevitable travel and breakdown insurance that had to be purchased. I managed, much to my relief to persuade my parents to look after my dog, so that was it, ready to go. I can't really remember the next few weeks at work, in fact, did I even go to work?
August appeared, and the journey began. The ferry crossing was smooth, and all was going to plan. A night in a Campanile brought some much-needed rest and the journey continued the next morning with fresher eyes.
We had been driving for about an hour, following a lorry that must have been using vegetable oil as fuel, for it smelt like there was a bonfire under the bonnet. We pulled in to get some fuel, leaving the lorry to get some distance, and it was whilst we were sat in the queue to get to the pump that we noticed the smoke billowing around the forecourt. It went through my head that maybe vegetable oil was available at the pump! William got out to get a snack, and it was at this point that I realised the look on his face was trying to tell me 'your car is on fire'.
Without hesitation I cut the engine and jumped out to inspect the source of the smoke. Luckily it was just oil burning off the exhaust, but unfortunately that meant an oil leak. This in turn meant that my three-year-old car that I had owned just two months was broken. In turn that meant money, a repercussion of which was that we had no transport.
The next few hours were spent arranging a hire car that would be large enough for all our gear (we had two mountain bikes as well!). All ran smoothly, and within no time, the car was at a Volkswagen dealer, and we had a Fiat Multipla (you know, the bulbous looking things). The only problem being that William had forgotten his driving license, so I was the only driver. The adventure continued.
Upon arriving in Chamonix at 11pm, in weather destined for ducks, we set about finding some food. A small burger bar was open so we ordered our meal, and tried to stay awake to eat it. Obviously I was still in the land of the living, as after a couple of bites I realised my burger was still frozen! That in the bin, we headed to the campsite and pitched a tent.
The morning held rain, and lots of it. In fact, so did pretty much every day! So, soon getting used to being constantly drenched, we headed for the hills. First off, we went to the Glacier Du Argentiere, and spent a day ice climbing and crevasse jumping! The following day we made our way to the Albert Premier hut at 2702 metres. At this height, the rain clears and it is usually snow. We weren't disappointed.
Having totally forgotten that we needed to book the hut, it was looking like a long walk back down, or my preferred option, a very cold night with only a T-shirt, fleece and emergency nylon bothy shelter! Luckily 20 minutes later a cancellation had been made, and we were given a bed.
Not wanting to waste the afternoon, a small amount of crevasse rescue training was performed on the snow-bare crevasses below the hut, much unlike last year that had a very healthy helping of the crevasse-bridging white death trap.
William's new rucksack fared considerably considering the number of times we threw it over the edge of the crevasses! A practice rescue with real a real body was not performed due to lack of time, dinner being at 5pm prompt. What is the point of that stale bread?
The following morning we headed out with the crowd. A couple of hours later we were queuing on the Aig. Du Tour, waiting to stand with one foot in Switzerland and one in France! Feeling very much like a tourist, we waited for 30 minutes for our moment of glory. I now felt that William had experienced a nice introduction to alpine climbing, and was ready for the serious stuff. That afternoon we headed back down to base camp Argentiere, where our tents were waiting. During our descent, we met one of the most astonishing men we had ever seen. Now retired, and getting on in life, this gentleman was training for his second attempt at the summit of Mont Blanc in memory of his mother who herself climbed the mountain in the days before it was a tourist stop. Most eccentric, but one of those people you just can't help to respect.
Our rest days consisted of mountain biking down some stupidly rocky paths and slippery mountainsides. This is the best way to mountain bike - get the cable car up, let the wheels roll down! Within 50 metres of our first rocky section, I had fallen and trapped my leg between a rock and my bike. But pain aside, we continued. To get an idea of the terrain, imagine a boulder two-foot high, then imagine lots of boulders of similar size. Add some water for fun, then put them all together and ride them.
Neither of us seriously fell off again, which was a good thing considering we were planning to climb the Cosmiques Ridge when the weather allowed.
A break never really came in the weather, so taking chances going by the usually vague weather forecast in Chamonix, we took to the hills again. Gearing up at the top of the Cosmiques is always fun. Tourists asking for photographs and watching in ore, as you hop the railings and disappear into the white of the wind blown ridge. Unfortunately there were fewer tourists this year, possibly because there was a howling gale blowing, and it was freezing cold. But none-the-less we enjoyed the few who were there. Making our way down the ridge, I had already explained to William the importance of jumping down the opposite side of the ridge if I fell. At one point, I thanked myself for remembering to explain this theory, as the wind almost swept me off the edge.
At the bottom, sheltered by rocks, we practised ice axe breaking, much to the amusement of other climbers and guides who found us a most useful demonstration of techniques. Probably of those not to use!
Later on in the Cosmiques Hut at 3613metres (that we had remembered to book when the weather looked poor and everyone else had cancelled), we overheard a group of Americans talking about Mont Blanc. Having been strongly advised against attempting Mont Blanc by guides, the hut owner and others we met, due to bad snow conditions, avalanche risk and the fact that it had not been climbed via this route for the last couple of weeks. We were intrigued to hear that they were going to give it a go.
With our ears on maximum, we listened to their plan, and over dinner a controversial decision was made between William and myself to give it a go too. At this point, an Italian couple, a man and his wife, who were also swaying towards giving it a go, joined us. The usual map scrutinising began, and it was decided that at 1am we would leave the hut for the forbidding looking ascent up to Mont Blanc Du Tacul. A steep, overhanging climb, thwarted by crevasses and cascading towers of ice that loom high above you, waiting to break free and take everything in their path with them, including anyone who happens to be underneath.
Morning came too soon, I don't believe that we slept at all. Having not acclimatised to this altitude, your head pounds, and you have a constantly dry mouth, no matter how much you drink, but on the good side, I felt better than I did last year at the same altitude. Lying in the bunks unable to sleep properly is a feature of huts. Putting in ear plugs to cut out the noise of the others around you only worsens the pounding, as you now only hear your own head as the blood thumps around your body trying to keep a constant supply of oxygen to your brain.
Despite the lack of sleep and the dry musli for breakfast, we headed out into the night sky. This is one of the most beautiful sights that one can experience. A clear sky at this altitude is like looking into space. There is no light pollution to spoil the view, and you don't even need to try to look for a shooting star, as the sky is constantly alive with them. The down side is that black is black, and you must navigate by the slope angle, memory of what you have seen in daylight and the contours. This does however have the advantage that you can't see the severity or danger of what you are climbing, as you can only focus on the small spread of light in front of your feet.
Our Italian friend had climbed this way before, and had a better idea of the route, so we happily let him lead. However, after only a short time, he was exhausted from kicking steps in the shin deep snow, and as no one else wanted to lead, I thought it to be the decent thing to take over for a while. Little did I know that I was going to be leading, kicking these shin-destroying steps for much of the way. Luckily, William's confidence was building, and he was able to take the lead, sparing me of further pain.
After hours of climbing, and not really knowing where we were on this climb equivalent to 700 vertical metres, we came across a great crevasse, totally impossible to cross, not least because our torches would not reach to the opposite side! We backtracked and came across an equally large challenge, as the way forward dropped into a small plateau surrounded by 50 foot overhanging ice walls. A foreign team who had followed in our steps thought nothing of standing under these walls, almost enticing the mountain to claim another victim. Our only hope to get to the top now was a sloping snow funnel. What lay below this snow was unknown, it suspiciously resembled the tell tale signs of a crevasse. So on a long rope, I led the way through knee deep snow, whilst William kept a tight hand on the other end, waiting for me to disappear to the depths below. Thankfully, the snow held, and others began to follow.
Dawn was now looming. We could see the mountains in the distance slowly being unveiled from the darkness of the night. Beautiful though it was, we were running out of time. When the snow begins to warm up, the avalanche risk rapidly grows, and we were not in a good place to risk an avalanche. As we hurried for the top, myself leading once more, we were yet again held back by a crack approximately 1cm in width running lengthways across the snow, leading at each end to a gawping crevasse. I had only noticed the crack as I placed my foot directly next to it! After wasting much needed time considering the possibilities of surviving a running jump, and arguing with William whether we should head back down, one of the mad foreigners cautiously stepped onto the thin snow that bridged the gap. Miraculously, he found the only part of the snow bridge that would hold, and gingerly everyone followed across. By the time Williams turn came, the bridge had partly collapsed, and it was becoming decidedly dodgy to get across. However, William made it and a short climb under the beautifully lit formidable towering ice took us to the top of this part of the climb.
Having used the average mans monthly calorie intake, we now had another 450 vertical metres to climb, and still that was not to the summit. This time we were to encounter what looked like an overhanging band of ice approximately half way up. As it happened, the ice was nowhere near as bad as it looked from the bottom, and it gave William the perfect opportunity to lead a proper ice climb. William made an excellent job after an interesting start, and created the most ingenious belay for me out of his ice axes. (Lucky he never saw my belay!).
It was tough and slow going, but we were making progress, and at least were at the head of the pack. Shortly prior to the top of this section of climb, another group overtook us. Having followed in our steps, they had far more energy to move quicker. They made for a snow slope providing access to another band of overhanging ice - the final frontier to the easier slopes of Mont Blanc.
As they were taking time to climb the ice, I decided to head for a snow steak visible at the top of the ice about 50 metres to their left. It soon became obvious that directly in front of the ice lay a deep bergshrund, almost as if it was guardian to the easier slopes above. I swung my axes into the ice and discovered that it resembled a blueberry slush puppy! Slowly falling into the bergshrund, I took a final swing at the ice, as high as I could muster my arms to reach. One axe held, how well I don't know, but it held. I heaved myself over the man-eater below, and desperately swung my other axe to get a decent bite in the ice. I found a marginal placement, so hung desperately on my leashes whilst I fumbled to screw in my longest ice screw. The screw went in easily, too easily, but it is at times like this that you have to trust your judgement (and pray). I climbed on, using all my ice screws as I heaved myself around an awkward overhanging section of ice. Upon reaching the stake, I balanced precariously on the steep ice, and set up a belay for William/device to stop me falling. Happily sitting on my leg, making a relatively flat seat, I belayed William whilst he hacked his way up the ice, momentarily falling through into the bergshrund. William climbed up past me making best use of the snow steak protection. It was at about this time, that I repositioned my sitting position, only to be crippled by the most excruciating, never ending cramp one could endure in ones thigh. Whilst other climbers looked up at me bellowing in pain, they were helpless to assist. I sat it out, whilst William made himself as secure as possible above. After about five minutes the pain abated, and although very bruised and still very sore, I was able to perform what must have looked like the most hilarious tripod-body-hopping design ever invented. I hooked the lifeless leg over my working leg and hopped up the ice, hoping not to slip or spear myself with my crampons, in what was still little better than slush puppy.
Tired, battered and lips bleeding from the cold, we appeared over the top to see for the first time the final slopes of Mont Blanc.
Wanting to move quickly, as time was now getting on, we skipped a rest and any food, and made towards the summit. As we began to climb the slope, I began to feel slightly 'strange'. I didn't have much of a headache, but still, I put it down to altitude. We were now at 4400 metres and climbing rapidly.
I ate an energy bar, in the hope that it would give me the final push of energy needed, but it made no difference, my energy was at an all time low. I could hardly stand. I could not speak, nor could I acknowledge anyone. I was completely out of energy. Most people I am sure would have stopped. They would have gone back or more likely got an airlift back down. But I refused to let my body rule my goal. My body was screaming at me to stop, it was shutting down my brain to the point that you no longer care about anything. I passed out momentarily at least 3 times on the way up that last section, and yet others were still going strong. I kept sitting down, but William was concerned at the time of day, and kept encouraging me to move. If he had not, or if I had been on my own I would probably still be up there now. Pacing out steps, I could make 10 to begin with before needing a rest. Nearer the top this became just 2. I thought about breathing, but felt sick. I pulled away my facemask trying in a vain attempt to allow more oxygen to reach my mouth, but soon put it back when the cold air froze my lips. I could not think properly. This did not feel like a lack of oxygen, I hardly had a headache! I thought about many things as I tried to provide my body with a reason to continue. It was, I am sure these things that that I thought of that kept me moving, for I knew as long as I kept moving, however small the steps, I would have to reach the summit in the end. At one point I really thought I was not going to make it, so close, but yet so very far, that summit just never seemed to appear.
When William shouted 'the top' at 11am in the morning, I did not even have that last ounce of energy to hurry like you may think you would. After 10 hours of climbing, to me it was still just uphill. We did get to the top, and I collapsed in a heap of rucksack and body at 4808 metres. The smallest of efforts, such as turning my head to look at the view behind was a task of mammoth proportions. I managed it only once. Two pictures were taken, and then it hit me. I had not eaten anything since 1am. I needed food, not sugar. My energy bar nearer the bottom had not helped matters at all. I could hardly focus, so I muttered to William in a half-drunken state that we needed to get down. 'Get down, got to go down'. William had already realised things were not right, so he helped me up. We staggered down the 'tourist' past, only to be held up by another climbers ill fitting crampon fall off on the narrowest section of path. The climber struggled in front of us for a couple of minutes whilst we stood there gesturing to them of the urgency that we needed to pass. Oblivious to us, they made no attempt to move. We struggled past, and then took a short break on a small snow ledge. Suddenly I awoke to William asking me a question, like the moment you realise you have nodded off when talking to somebody at a party. It was at this point, that I realised how severe the situation was. Hurriedly we made our way down, me staggering, tripping and tumbling down the pitted snow, William holding me with every fall. We got to the emergency shelter where William was planning on a helicopter. But, no way, no way was I going to be transported off a mountain by helicopter. We sat on the snow whilst William forced food at me, and I chewed on it like a kid who has been told to eat his greens. After forcing the best part of a musli bar down me, I had come back to life. It was like a shot of adrenaline had filled by blood stream and my body had reacted by waking up and getting out of bed. In that instant, I felt like I had been retrofitted with a new body, so we picked up the gear, shared out the heavy stuff (William taking the best part of it), and made our way down.
The next 8 hours were spent descending, battling our way down past the hundreds of climbers who were racing to catch the good weather that we had enjoyed almost to ourselves at the top of the highest mountain in Europe.
I still regret not having jumped in the air at the top. That day I just wanted to be the highest person in Europe, and I saw no one else jumping!
We got back to base camp Argentiere late that evening.
The weather never really improved after that, and as it was we were running out of time, so our final active day was spent mountain biking again. We purchased an all-day pass to Le Tour cable car, and found the practice section that has been constructed at the top of the mountain bike trail. The idea being to determine what difficulty of route you should undertake depending on the difficulty of the task you could complete.
Having completed all but the 'expert' route, William was determined to see them all completed. The next thing I recall is seeing William impersonating Superman, however without the same powers, as he came crashing back to the ground landing heavily on his wrist, followed by the bike falling on top of him.
William, eager to show his ability to avoid serious injury, proceeded to hop back on his bike and have another go. But it soon became apparent that the powers were not on his side that day, and a rather painful wrist was the result. Still not wanting to admit to pain, William agreed to continue cycling at a rather slower pace. Unfortunately we got lost and ended up on a path graded as 'very difficult' for people on foot! 'Hugely impossible' would have been the grading if this was a mountain bike trail!
Still not admitting defeat, and wanting to make best use of the all-day pass, William decided to make another couple of trips up and down, over what could only be described as bone jarring, high speed rocks, so that he could boast about having descended a full 5km of mountainside!
That evening, waiting in the Hospital for the results of the X-rays, we talked about our plans for getting home. We still had a hire car and my own car was still not repaired. A trip back out to France was the only way of retrieving my vehicle, but this complicated getting our kit and bikes home, as my car was half way through France, and we had no transport to put the kit in.
After many, many calls to the breakdown company that I won't name as Direct Line Rescue, we were promised a container to put the luggage in. After a long drive to the ferry, we booked in, only to be informed that Sea France do not have any containers. As a result we couldn't drop the hire car off, as it was full of kit, so after frantically trying to rectify the situation, we found the manager of P&O, who took pity on us and allowed us use of a container. The clause being that the ferry left in half an hour! We threw our gear into the container, threw the keys of the hire car back at the rental reception (possibly the best thing to do with Fiat Multipla keys!), paid for the ferry and then hopped on a bus which took us to board the luxury of proper seats and food.
A relaxing journey was had, however, this was all to change very soon, as we found ourselves abandoned on the English side with the promised hire car not having been booked (thanks to the company that I won't mention the name of), and all the other rental offices closed. Did I mention we lost our container with all the kit too?
We were now both tired and frustrated, with no way to get home, so the breakdown company offered nine taxis to get our kit to the railway station, and from there we would have to make our own way back!
Having refused this, a mini bus eventually appeared driven by a sympathetic lady who had given up her bath to save us! We filled the vehicle, and arrived home a couple of hours later.
To this day I have not received any money from the breakdown company that I won't name, possibly because they owe me well over £1000, and it looks better in their bank account than it does in my own!
Anyway, we survived, William gained a momento wrist splint, we climbed Mont Blanc (the hard way), and our bank accounts are deeply in debt.
We had a great time.
Andrew Brett
Birthday Corner
Most of you will know that my age has caught up with my hair, and I am now forty. About five years ago I discovered that this particular birthday would fall on the 50th anniversary of the first ascent of Cenotaph Corner by Joe Brown on 24 August 1952. This is the most famous climb in Britain - if you didn't know that already, you do now, so there. Having never done the route, mostly because I don't like long sustained jamming/layback cracks, I've been saving it for the special day. Anyway, you lot went to Cornwall and I ended up at the zoo with the kids, introducing them to their (very) close relatives. Hmm, it was a nice idea though! Several weeks of good weather then went by with the nagging doubt that I had missed a very important appointment. Then having secured a pass for the Pass, Jim and I blasted north on a fine Saturday morning at the end of September, four weeks late but never mind.
Here we go, put aside thoughts about 2002 being a particularly bad climbing year (two days at Wintours Leap and a VS at the Roaches), little training and a dodgy shoulder. The Corner is E1 5c, top end. It would be just about as much as I could manage, possibly, and very much time to pull a rabbit from the hat.
We picked up a stray at the Climbers' Club hut under Dinas Cromlech, whose partner had let her down - "Do join us for the weekend and, er, we can do the same!" This of course added further pressure on me to perform - I've been climbing 25 years, this is the most famous route in Britain, possibly the best line in the country, its 50, I'm 40, my boots are crap and chances are so is my climbing. But, BUT I must NOT frig this route. Oh yes, and I don't like jamming!
Hilary performed a useful task by warming us up on a VS, then onto the shelf below the main part of the crag, which was very quiet for such a perfect day, save for a few pairs of nutters…"Cenotaph Corner, isn't that a famous route?" and "where does the Corner go?" I think you'll find it's that 120ft perfect corner above your head! Moving on, I gathered an enormous rack and got stuck in, creaking, straining and struggling through the first fifty foot. At halfway, I was really starting to tire of the style of climbing needed for this piece of work, but had to retain some energy for the crux at the top. Hanging in desperately on the last ten feet, I threw in a friend, then squawked as my shoulder appeared to pop out. Aargh, no, no, its still in - my shoulder that is, I can do this, one final something and I'm there! Enormous rack all gone, just how did I do that free?? Rabbit successfully extracted, job done. The others followed and wished me a happy birthday.
Sunday was relaxing indeed - Jim and Hilary took me up Main Wall on Cyrn Las, one of the best and most exposed severes in the country, and definitely not one for beginners or bumblies. Tremendous routes, and a fitting start and end to climbing this year.
Life in the Gorge
With the promise of another wet November in the offing where else to go but Southern Spain? So, to Southern Spain we went - to El Chorro in fact. Booking was simple; EasyJet to Malaga, a hire car from the airport and accommodation at Finca la Campana, all reservations made via the internet. According to our host we chose the optimal time as well, unseasonably hot weather, even so near to Northern Africa. There were a few grumbles amongst the party about the heat at mid-day, but to my mind it was as near perfect as it could be.
For those never having been to the area the limestone is mostly bolted and in the higher grades, but modest climbers (UIAA IV to VI) can still find plenty to do, particularly if you go to the less frequented (and consequently less polished!) locations.
Like other before us, we traversed the King's Walkway, a high level platform built into the sides of the gorge in 1920 to facilitate the construction of the hydroelectric scheme that dominates the area. Destruction of the ends of this walkway has meant that it is no longer possible to start from one end and walk to the other, but the bulk of the route can still be done from the middle outwards. A harness and sling will help keep you sane, particularly where large pieces are missing!
Climbing in the gorge is awesome, and access is made simple by walking along the railway line. The infrequent trains do give you plenty of notice, but rumour has it that on an earlier visit at least one of our number was seen to levitate when a locomotive sneaked up behind her. You can, of course, make life much tamer by walking by the side of the track, but what's the fun in that?
Anyway, back to climbing. The major areas are all listed in the guidebooks, but since development is still ongoing by the local activists it pays to get the most recent version available. An updated topo can be bought locally, but it is not the easiest to interpret. Classic areas within the gorge include Los Cotos (climbs at all grades, but the easier ones are rather polished), El Polverin, and the Amptrax area (neither of which we managed to get to), but all give an indication of what is on offer. Outside of the gorge, Las Encantadas is just a few minutes walk, and both Escalera Arabe (Arabian Steps) and Abdalajis are a short drive away. For varied climbing in the lower grades the latter takes some beating. Slightly further afield are Turon West and El Torcal, both of which are simply superb and should not be missed.
Oh, and the food and wine are cheap too, provided you do not buy it from the mad hatter in the shop opposite to La Gargantua.
Note: Take the Rockfax guide if you want to find the routes; not the other branded name!
Derek 13th November 2002
Great Slab 2, Great Slobs Nil
Round 1, July 1954
The instigator, a legendary slob whose expedition etiquette rendered even Johnny Cunningham bereft of words adequate, backed off. This was easily achieved as his right foot had not left the ground. My turn. My first VS. Five hundred feet of Cloggy. The ultimate, awesome Black Cliff soaring above intimidated me not at all. What scared me shitless was the way the smooth slab of the initial traverse had exponential exposure. If you could somehow move five you were fifty feet above the ground, ten feet left and there was a hundred foot drop. That you would pendulum into the rocks below the belay was no comfort at all. Right foot on the spike I gave the slab a tickle with my left. If it was ticklish it might crack into a smile or at least crease up a few wrinkles I could use as holds. It was not amused. My token faff over, I backed off.
This has rankled for forty eight years. But think of the changes. Double ropes, sticky boots, nuts, lovely nuts, cams, helicopters; hey we have the technology. Courage and strength may be declining but with kit and cunning who needs them.
Round 2, October 2002
With all that gear, six weeks of dry weather and a leading machine in tow this was going to be the day. No butterflies in the stomach this time. I held the aces; the deck was stacked; a great feeling of control. An illusion of course. The first few light slight drops of rain fell before we got halfway to the crag. Nothing to worry about. By the time we got to the foot of the crag we and it were wet. The damp must have shorted my common sense circuits. The flight option of the fright or flight dichotomy was swamped by my residual testosterone. Macho madness. Rob and I had not climbed together before and I was not going chicken; I was not going to blink.
I started. Once I had chalked my fingers (only the fifth time ever) I was able to get lots of over head gear in and get on with the faffing. It was intended only as a token faff. " you have a go now Rob" was the script I was working from but my feet got mixed up, moved across a bit and, fool that I am, I followed them. A hundred and thirty feet later I belayed Rob up. His turn to faff. He pinched my punch line "Would you like to have a go?" If I though we could have abbed off I'd have suggested it but there was a lot of overhang below and every chance it went on for longer than the rope. We had saved weight by leaving both guidebooks at the bottom. They would have told us that in the wet the crux of the route was above us and should we not take the hint, how we could get there. I missed the right turn at forty feet and took a belay at eighty. Sheets of water where pouring down the slab. Rob claimed that he could not swim (or some such excuse) so I carried on. I got the message at what a later reading of the current guidebook indicates is the unprotected 5a crux of the top traverse. Neither of the cams I put in was any good and the micronut wasn't even a good micronut but I reversed the pitch with their nominal protection. Looking back at my £70 worth of gear switched my native mean gene into overdrive. Down climbing had not been too bad. Back up I went, recovered the gear, fumbled and dropped one of the cams.
The wind had got up. It began to feel much colder. At Rob's suggestion I faced the facts. We began to abseil. This was serious mountaineering and we were playing for keeps. The first bit of luck was finding a nut; the second was finding a solid spike to split a long abseil. From it our ropes reached the base and so did we.
Failure again but a successful failure and quite disproportionally satisfying. Adrenaline beats sex as I once mentioned to Pat but since when did a slob do tact.
John (my body is a) Temple
Barbie does Brimham does Granite
It was Laura, my six-year old daughters, climbing fantasy. A sandy beach, massive boulders, even a fairytale castle on it’s own private island. And the whole lot coloured in pink. This isn’t the tale of how I painted my daughters glasses. It’s true. Really, genuinely, positively true.
Finding ourselves at a loose end, as you do in the middle of France, one day we decided on a family outing. With the number of weeks since Katherine was born approaching double figures we decided to make it an adventure (get her used to it young!) and this is how we got to La Cote du Granite Rose.
A late arrival one damp, foggy afternoon did nothing to squash the spectacularity of our first sight of this coast. A gentle cove gave way on either side to massive boulders. Four kilometres of them, stacked one on top of another on top of another. And formed in the most amazing shapes. Massive granite waves flowed into granite whales flowed into granite bowls with the most delicate flutings flowed into a tower of disc shaped boulders balanced on the most improbable (and possibly unstable) points of contact imaginable. And all the most unexpected shade of what was most definitely pink. And I don’t mean that pale imitation of pink you may have seen on granite in Cornwall. This is full-blown Barbie pink. If you’ve ever been to Brimham Rocks and wondered at the formations there then this place will amaze you. The boulders are not so much natural occurrences as works of art. There’s many a sculptor would like to be able to create quite such flowing lines, such smooth rounded shapes. But I doubt they’d dare to make them quite this shade of pink – even the gutters and the bins in the street are made out of this stuff.
As you can imagine Laura and I donned rock boots (conveniently in back of car) and charged over the beach. Given lateness of day and weather conditions scrambling was the most practical option. But what scrambling. Scuffing skin on razor sharp talons of granite, shredding fingers on large rounded corners. Ripping trousers on less impressive bum descents ever mindful of the sea sixty feet, then six feet beneath you, then next to you as the next route reveals itself in a beckoning pink slither luring you further and further into the labyrinthine twists and turns of this huge pink granite complexity. Eventually conscience wins over and I return to take baby letting Trev explore this playground for himself. He trusts the friction of the rock far more quickly than me and is immediately running along the top of big pink fins balanced on top of high rise granite blocks and scaling the ones that jut unitidily up to the sky.
The following day we go for a post breakfast stroll. We return at four cos none of us realised that lunchtime had been and gone. Baby Katherine has performed some impressive stunts for one stuck in a pram. Laura has had the time of her life playing hide and seek in the pathways, created by the sometimes incredulous balancing of these boulders and the natural erosion of the sea. Trev and I have been making boulder problems and when these got too hard we’ve just gone and played scrambling.
Although we found evidence of people bouldering I would doubt that this place would ever make it big in the annals of bouldering history. There’s just too much chance that one slip will render you irretrievably stuck in a horrendous tangle of boulders. It’s the only time I would recommend a boulderer wear an avalanche alarm – it really could be the only way the coast guard would ever track you down. However it’s a superb place to waste a day or two – should you ever find yourself unexpectedly on the north coast of Brittany then I definitely recommend it!
Sarah