Living with wads

An insight to sustainable living, cake eating and hard climbing

[livingwithwads]

Bad Omen

That night there had been a murder.

I tore up The Raikes, my imaginary blues and twos flashing as I flicked into second gear and revved up the final steep section. DI Footwork was on the case with his totally trusty partner, Bojan the blade, whose crime solving abilities had been likened to those of chief Wiggum.  

As we pulled up to the crag, two men were walking slowly back towards the gate. It was Dan and Rob. “Any climbing, lads?” I yelled. “Whitehouses is gone”, said Dan flatly with a thousand yard stare. Gone? What did he mean gone, even a crag small like Whitehouses would be tricky to steal. On closer inspection it was indeed, ‘gone’. Not only had the crag been smashed to bits, but it was wet too. After dusting for prints and checking the nearby bins in case someone had decided to toss the murder weapon on the run, we put together the list of suspects.

Our prime suspect was the landowner with the candlestick in the field. On finding out his wife was cheating on him with the chap that owned the llama farm, he’d grabbed the dining table centre piece, ran down the hill and beat the crag to death in a fit of frothy rage. The soft llama fur boots she’d been wearing all winter should have been a dead giveaway. Plausible, but unlikely. This was calculated, the rock amputations were all holds belonging to established problems. Never mind the massive ‘Do Not Climb Here’ sign that had been (reservedly) bolted 7 times to make sure it didn’t fall down in the wind...

The landowner, fed up of pranks climbers played on him and yelling at them to move their cars (artist impression)

I conferred with my undercover source on the ground, Tommy Tickles. Rumour has it that one of those funny lads from Llandudno did it. The motive? Some local had declared Parisella’s to be shitter than his nan’s hearing and that Whitehouses was the one true eliminate venue. That same night, a blacked out Vauxhall Corsa with a licence plate ending in G O P rolled up alongside the wall. It’s blue neons were reflecting onto the tarmac, casting a pale light onto the surroundings, like ripples across the ceiling of an indoor swimming pool. The engine was kept purring as three dark shadows, one massive, jumped the gate and crawled through the grass. I heard they got big George to pull the flakes off with his bare hands, the starting jug of Bush Bully now sika’d halfway up Rock Atrocity, like a gruesome Somali warlord’s trophy, acting as a reminder to any one else that wants to play silly buggers.  

Accy Nez (not his real name) has a conspiracy theory that the BMC did it. His youtube video has 97 views already. He claims the BMC aimed to drive a wedge between the climbing community and force enough of the die hards to renounce their membership by plunging them into a feeling of abject abandonment. By winning the swing voters they could sell Crookrise and buy Shauna an auto-belay that can do 15m in 6 seconds to practice for 2020.

But a good detective never discounts a witness. If we go back to the start of this short tragedy, the last known people to have visited the scene of the crime were Dan and Rob. Perhaps they had discovered a terrible, old secret. Like every time someone climbs at Whitehouses, 5.10 discontinues a shoe that everyone’s finally got used to using again. It had to be done. Then again, it could just have been ‘shovel hands’ Sam who has an unfortunate knack for pulling crimps off.  

Meanwhile, Wiggum was raging in the front passenger seat that yet another weekend of climbing had been washed away and, this time, smashed into little pieces. Whatever the story, it’s sad that such a venue is no more. It probably took 10 minutes to destroy what was very good and reliable climbing, for us and the future generations. If Whitehouses is a sign of things to come, we need to be much more attentive in looking after our crags and if someone is jeopardising access, tell them. If they don’t listen then just piss in their chalk when they’re not looking.

[livingwithwads]

Aisle 24

I’m drifting aimlessly through the aisles with the shopping list in my hand. Written on the back of a torn envelope, I’ve had to guess what a couple of the items are. Freekeh, for example, could be a yoghurt or it could be a cereal. Fuck knows. The bloke wearing a Sainsbury’s jumper had no idea either. Turns out it’s just posh bulgar wheat, which is basically posh couscous. Don’t ask. I’m just the errand boy.

Supermarkets are an odd place to bump into people you know. Half the time you’ll try and keep a tab on where they are in the shop, just so you can avoid them. There’s nothing quite like having a stilted conversation with someone you vaguely know in front of the broccoli, shuffling back and forth like you’re at beginners salsa whilst annoyed shoppers lean past you to one of their five a day. On this occasion I ran into Tom and Jeni, who, unfortunately for them, only saw me coming when it was too late. Oh yes, people are probably avoiding you too.

We stayed chatting a while by the tender stem, catching up on the old and the new. I always enjoy climbing with Tom, it usually being a lesson getting schooled at route climbing. He climbed Right Wall as his second E5 and dragged me up Supersonic as his third. Far from the safety of my grit climbing repertoire and the knowledge I probably won’t die if I hit the ground, these routes are in a different league to what I’m used to. I didn’t even mind so much when we got to High Tor once and he’d forgotten his harness so we ended up at Kilnsey via a quick house visit in Leeds. Climbing has taken a back seat in Tom’s life as of late. His board shunned for a different discipline, one of lifting iron and PB’s in a hall of mirrors. Looking back, it was a bit of a blow when he told me. But then I’d had not too dissimilar thoughts of my own late last year. It’s a nagging of the conscience, a guilt that you’re at the crag just because you’re a climber but what you’d rather be doing, is not climbing. One boulder was just blending into the next and the satisfaction I used to get that glowed for days would evaporate by the time I’d put my shoes back on. Climbing had become mundane and would it not be for the mates I climb with (great gossip) I might have gone looking elsewhere. I guess I was in a bit of a rut.

There’s an article by Andi Turner called ‘The Start of Something New’ in which his words struck a chord:

“we start climbing as an adventure, as something different, as something to get us out of the norm, but then it becomes the norm, it no longer scares; it’s the thing we do at the weekend, after work and in our spare time. I’m no longer the person who found climbing by doing something different, by getting out of my comfort zone; I’m just a climber comfortably seeing it out.”

I might be pessimistic in thinking people can’t have an eternal fire roaring in their belly for climbing. If Instagram is anything to go by the world is full of these zealots. But, then again, I’ve seen Robbie Philips sipping coffee indoors looking glum for 2 hours before asking his partner to take a shot of him hanging on the board then going home. The ensuing post gushed about psyche and a hardcore session. Yeah right. This is presumably why I’m not sponsored either.

The new year is a perfect time to take stock and, heeding Andi’s words, i’m going to try and not comfortably see it out. If Tom won’t drag me up the routes then I’ll just have to do it myself.

[livingwithwads]

It’s about time

I came close in January. Very close.

Exorcist on demon wall roof, Almscliff. I’d done all the climbing, it was just a case of linking it together and not falling off. Nathaniel had done it earlier last year, like a chimpanzee swinging through the trees, he’d land deftly onto each crimp before casually sailing over to the next, high above the cow shit canopy.

Hungry for the magic 8th grade, Bojan and I decided to commit ourselves to the trial last winter. We knuckled down going whenever we could over a three week period, but it was hard going in January and the weather was miserable. The height of desperation (or psyche depending on your point of view) came when we had to hide under the roof with the pads up, tortoise formation, to shield us from the wind and horizontal rain. We’d poke our heads out from under the roof to see black streaks crying down the rock. This may have been problematic but we were prepared to siege the bastard. We’d sit a while, eat some mud stained cake and let the wind do it’s job. So strong was the wind that even under the roof the pads wouldn’t stay down. We used a solitary pad so that one would climb and the other would pull it like a hunch back dragging a limp. With frozen tendons we’d pull on and battle against the howling wind because we wanted it and it was still money in the bank, training so that it felt piss in any conditions other than these.

I was getting close though, putting away the sessions here and there. I was now dropping the final move before the mono pretty much every time. All that climbing to fall at the same point again and again. I screamed expletives at a kid once when my foot skipped off the rock going for the glory mono. He just stood there, staring at me with small wide eyes. I didn’t say sorry. I was raging inside, a veritable biological pressure cooker that had been whistling for 10 minutes and you’re screaming at each other to turn the sodding thing off.

I have another go, my left hand curling up on the little edge when my foot comes off once more. My arms only just keep me on, doing their best to pull two crimps closer together in space but almost immediately I realise I’ve made a mistake. The power in my fingers disappears as though someone’s pulled a plug inside and the last of the energy splutters and dies. I know it’s over. There wasn’t an audible pop but the damage was done, left ring finger definitely sprained at best. I’m almost relieved that I can stop now. Dr Bojan looked at it and prescribed ten max hang sessions on the 6mm’s to sort it out. I decided to ignore.

A month passes with no climbing, during which Bojan continued the lonely siege. One evening he does it, wearing his stealth ronhills and commando base layer. With muscles moving like pistons, he climbs it like a typewriter, banging out every move with mechanical precision and with just as many pauses to ensure there is no mistake on the page. It’s a flawless ascent.

Another month passes and I was climbing again, seeking the softest of grit slopers with the thought of trying Exorcist buried deep in my mind. It was now well into spring, the weather was getting warmer and the window was closing. But two months post injury I found that by buddy taping my little finger to his injured neighbour I could crimp well enough. I knew that if I could climb Demon Wall Roof Left Hand my finger could cope with Exorcist. One evening I pulled on and did the moves first go. Everything was suddenly back on the table. After a tentative start I was back dropping the last move, however strong I felt I just couldn’t get past this. I needed something to tip the balance.  

One session Nathaniel was watching and casually asked why I wasn’t using the thumb catch on the crimp I kept falling from. Apparently I’d found it when we were trying left hand years ago. The tosser had been watching me fall off that same move at least 20 times over a period of two months and one finger injury. “I thought you were already using it”, he mused, a smirk plastered on his face. That evening we were treated to one of the best sunsets at the cliff, it felt like we were on another planet. Warm drops of rain fell like mana from the heavens of this new galaxy, creating a light show to rival the sunset, both so stunning we didn’t know which way to look. This was it, new micro beta and the cliff giving me a neon sign. I climbed top off in the rain and the glowing sunset. I didn’t do it that evening but in my head the problem was lying in the palm of my hand and I drove home buzzing.

photo Will Stokes

The next time I did it, first go of the day. It was a bit muggy and far from a perfect ascent but it felt simple, the full set of moves hard wired into my brain. Maybe I didn’t need to take so many sessions if I’d known about the thumb, but I’m almost glad it did. My first 8A wasn’t a push over, or a flash or done in a session. None of this soft Rocklands social media merry go round on the Hatchling (jealousy is a terrible thing). It should have felt like a climbing milestone but it didn’t really. At the time I just felt like I should tire myself out doing a bit more climbing, maybe do some laps on something.  

We continue to get stronger and that’s pretty cool to see. I wonder how far we can go.

photo Will Stokes

[livingwithwads]

Hungry

The young male relies on sending rock climbs to survive. He can go without dry rock for days at a time, but as the wet days turn into weeks, starvation begins to set in.

When problems are scarce, the psyche starts by feeding on the fatty send reserves from the last problem dispatched. Unfortunately for this male, the last send was only 7a+ and a good couple of weeks ago. He’ll need to feed again soon if he is to survive. Once the last of the send reserves are depleted the pysche starts to break down the protein in muscles and the young male will need to avoid this if he is to have any chance of climbing his projects this winter.

He ventures out of his cave. It’s raining outside but he has no choice, if he stays inside he will surely starve. The young male can travel miles alone in his quest for food, committing to memory the various oases of perma-dry rock in Yorkshire. Today he travels 54 miles to Whitehouses, a usually safe bet. It’s not raining here and the young male is optimistic. The road is soaking wet but the crag faces south and there’s a good breeze. The young male turns the corner and, albeit a few dry crimps and slopers, the rock is streaked with black with drips forming at the edge of the lip. The times are truly hard. A snow storm arrives and the young male is forced to huddle under the roof, to watch the blizzard of snowflakes drench the last of the dry gritstone. A tickmark alerts the young male that someone has passed by this rock not long ago. The male does not recognise this mark and so does not leave a reply. He does not want a turf war when times are this bad. So desperate for food, the young male had brought with him lamps to continue his hunt in darkness, but he knows that it would be a cold wait for nothing and a waste of his reserves. His psyche is ebbing away, all warmth leaving him and he has little energy left. Irritated and hungry, the young male goes another 60 miles for indoor climbing. It’s meagre rations though and will only sustain the young male’s psyche for a couple of days at most.

With no kill, he returns to his cave and reads the guidebook again. He makes himself a cup of tea and tucks into a scoop of unflavoured protein to stave off the inevitable a while longer. Perhaps the male needs to travel further, casting his net wider. If he manages to tick a 7c+ it could last him for weeks until the dry weather returns. As the young male is lying on the sofa, thinking about having achieved nothing today along with the pointless exercise of searching for dry rock, he hears a key knock against the cave door.

The male’s mate has returned and he hasn’t done the washing up or cleaned the kitchen like he said he would. The young male swings upstairs, shrieking as he goes and hides under the bed covers, hoping everything will be ok.

[livingwithwads]

Diving for scrittle

Some bits of Almscliff are forgotten. Neglected lumps of rock that lie in the murky shadows, collecting scrittle and growing coats of lichen, waiting for someone to come and climb them. Some have been waiting for as long as they can remember and their once green coats have long turned grey. As fortune had it, the deep sleep of one of these stones in particular would abruptly come to an end, as it was rudely woken up by three very lost climbers.

Earlier that day we had been playing around the Wall of Horrors. I teetered right out of the Niche, slapping my hand as far as it would reach. large footholds tempt you further round, but the bulging smooth wall made it feel like I was trying to hug my way around a redwood tree. Very much an exercise of sideways shuffling, Every Man Has His Niche was novel if a little pointless. But it’s always nice to tick something new at the cliff, especially these days where ‘new’ and ‘cliff’ don’t really go together. After feeling like we’d made a decent day of it, Nathaniel remembered something and he ran off to show me a little project he’d spotted a couple of years ago. I don’t think I’d been that excited since discovering crag x a little under a year ago. Mostly it was shock that no one had noticed this line but perhaps I could see why. You needed vision to climb this thing. The style is completely Dave Graham and the difficulty soon apparent when we could barely pull on. We managed to do the top out which is pretty good in itself at around F5. Yet linking the starting position to this would take a heroic effort. We reckoned in the F8A range but some crafty beta may bring it down a notch or two. There’s even an extension...

Fueled on by the thought of first ascents at Almscliff (as if), we dived deeper and stumbled across what looked like a sunken ship turned to stone by the ages of time. The rocks were caked in a thick layer of lichen and our small brushes, which might have been perfectly at home at Sutton Hoo, did little to unearth the treasures beneath. Finding the proudest line we set down our tools of chalk and rags and got to work. The climbing is a mix of bouldering and caving with the added excitement of an uncontrolled tumble onto the uneven floor and theres even the chance of being ejected through the ‘sky door’. It’s not as bad as it sounds though. We climbed two lines which may, until Andy Emery comes along, be new. The carbon dating solution to first ascents is not an exact science, but if the amount of scrittle raining down on you is enough to fill a pint glass and your ears then you’re probably in the right direction. Whilst looking up at the holds Nathaniel was cleaning above, my eyes were wide open and the left one suffered a direct hit. I knew straight away it was bad. Next time I’ll be wearing a snorkel mask. These lines were probably climbed long ago, thought of as rubbish and then never written up to be forgotten forever. But whilst driving home, holding a hand in front of my weeping eye, I thought at how good our little adventure had been climbing the unknown. We’ll be back and with bigger brushes.

The next day I was standing in a crowded lift with an eye that looked like someone had used it to put out a fag. A colleague standing next to me asked, ‘what happened to your eye?’ I explained what scrittle was and the dangers it posed to climbers. A short silence ensued before polite laughter but I could see he probably didn’t believe me. The whole lift probably thought I had rubbed shit in my eye.

[livingwithwads]

The circle goes clockwise

Two weeks. In just two weeks time I’ll have to don the black shiny shoes once more. Iron a shirt, shove breakfast down my throat and turn up, bleary eyed just like the rest. It’s not that I’m sad to be going back to work, quite looking forward to it in fact. But if someone asked if you’d like to go climbing all week or sit at a desk 9-6 the answer is easy.

I went into the new department last week to meet everyone before starting. My new boss strode up, gave me a firm handshake and asked, “are you looking forward to starting with us?” Why bother with the question mark, it was a rhetorical question after all. Inside my head the words “hell no” bounced around. I’d really enjoyed the past month climbing at my leisure, sitting out in the sun all day drinking coffee and idly paddle boarding. Life seemed so easy. Now I had to go back to work. Instead, the diplomatic sentence “very much so, can’t wait”, slithered out of my mouth before I could suck it back in. The thought of sacking it all off then and there cramped my brain. Plenty of friends had done it. Thailand, South Korea, Llanberis. Wherever Jacobs next adventure is. But to do this would be selfish. Not only would Laura be pretty pissed at me dropping off the radar whilst she works, a large part of where I am today is thanks to my dad. Ruining 3 years of hard graft would be pretty irresponsible. Maybe it’s because he slogged it out the hard way from the age of 20 that I feel like I need to do my share. Regardless, it’s not like I have much of a choice. Right now I’d rather be sitting at a desk 9-6 because I need the money.

However deep down, I know I’m not cut out to travel the world constantly as others are. The problem with climbing all the time is the down time between trips. Everything in comparison seems dull and working a dead end job to fund your next trip isn’t sustainable (for me anyway, trust fund climbers may have a different view). Plus I’d be as much fun at some world class crag complaining about my shoulder as Hazel Findlay. (I’m probably slightly more fun if we’re comparing though). If she wants to swap places for a couple months she can get in touch. I have a lovely view of Morrisons I’d like to exchange for Yosemite. Now 26, i’m slowly getting closer to knowing what I need from life. High paced work is good for me. I stay motivated and eke out every spare hour left in the day. Rather than waste them sitting at home watching breakfast movies half dressed, although I recommend doing this at least once. There’s certainly a better balance to be struck somewhere, but I hope to find that before it’s too late. If asked the question at the start of this post, the answer will never be work. But it’s never that easy, or is it... 

At least I’ll be able to catch up on those physio exercises 

[livingwithwads]

Classic routes in a classic helmet

High Tor. I didn’t want to go at first. After finishing final exams and a two month lay off from climbing (or anything remotely connected to a healthy lifestyle), the last I wanted to do was some necky E5 limestone traverses. But over the past two weeks I’d managed to get some mojo back into the old forearms with some good sessions at Malham and Kilnsey. We almost made it to High Tor last week but Tom forgot his harness and his brain only caught up with the fact around Chesterfield. Today the boot slammed in Matlock and we shouldered our bags, we were definitely going to be climbing at High Tor.

Tom wanted to climb Supersonic, which, I gather is an absolute classic. I didn’t know this having a) not done much on peak limestone and b) didn’t know High Tor existed until last Tuesday. Free from the weight of history, impressions and expectancies, I was just looking forward to a bit of rock climbing called Supersonic. Below the route I stuck on my trusted red Joe Brown helmet. We’ve done a lot together. You don’t see many of these at the crags, people preferring the more modern spongy design. It’s a bit heavy but I quite like climbing in it, especially when you see one was worn on the first ascent. If it’s good enough for them... Plus It has lightning bolts on the top and a Derbyshire National Trust bird sticker on the side. What’s not to like.

Supersonic. But where’s his helmet?

I belayed hanging off a small tree sticking out the muddy hill side. Bees were lazily going about their day jobs and the rope was running through some wild mint giving me a small desire for mojitos every time I gave out slack. Tom disappeared beyond my roof of foliage and it wasn’t until much, much later that I heard the magic word. Safe! Trying to get myself psyched I did the Dave Birkett warm up and tied my shoe laces, climbed up to the overhang and began the route by dropping my nut key.

Tom had made the initial capped groove look quite hard. It was less hard than it was pumpy and I soon found myself out of balance and running out of options. I looked down at the peg, goading me as I was getting boxed. I could just stand on it, I thought. Tom can’t see and who would know. I swung round the corner on a poor pinch, forearms complaining already and reached up to a polished crack with a couple of stuffed wires. Not dropping my nut key this time, I began cleaning my way up to the junction of Flaky Wall where at last the arms got a rest.

From here I could see Tom, far above me. Between us an immaculate wall of ivory white blankness with little metal waymarkers sticking out now and again. Whilst Tom may have led the pitch, he didn’t have the pleasure of wrestling the stubborn wires out that had decided to play a game of pretend limpets. Hard techy moves out the groove culminated into an all or nothing slap for a jug just as the holds ran out. From here, thin feet that were just good enough to rest now and again allowed steady progression up the wall until there was just one piece of gear between me and the belay. Unfortunately, the belay was about 5m to the left and I would be climbing up and right. Tom had put a couple of pieces in to protect the traverse but, having fallen out, they now hung limp on the rope like useless good luck charms.

I take the cam out and suddenly it feels a lot more airy. Like a limestone Cromlech, High Tor punches steeply out the hillside. I hadn’t much noticed the exposure, but now perched on its upper reaches with my lifeline dangling out over the abyss, the road and river below were looking quite small indeed. It was do or whip and I rather preferred the former. Positive pockets and hurried rock overs lead the way and with one final lurch I was granted the glory jugs and a big smile on my face. My, what a route! I wonder when it was last climbed in a Joe Brown helmet.

But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking he stood on the peg.

[livingwithwads]

There’s going to be some changes around here

In the wild west vale of Yorkshire, rumour has it that a new editor is in town. Wielding printing plates like Moses did the 10 commandments, he will soon turn his wrath on our beloved crags and coves of Yorkshire.

“It says right here at number 4, Thou shall not steal my project”

It is said that the pen has more power than the sword. Mighty indeed, the pen has written a great many things that has brought humanity to its knees. From signatures on paper that have allowed atrocious killings to letters of love that have united people for a lifetime. The pen has written down our history, the ink left on the page becoming the only truth we may come to know of what occurred thousands of years ago. People believe the ink on the page and for the most part it goes unquestioned. If you need any proof just ask the people taking 7C for McNab SS at Lords Seat.  

The man with a pen full of ink must not abuse the vast power he holds in his palm. Yet something we well know is that power corrupts even the incorruptible, it happens to the best of us. The most moral of intentions can get sidetracked down a path of greed and self gain. Soft grades have somehow managed to creep into our guidebooks since the demise of the XS system. Where poor souls didn’t know if when setting off they would be back at the pub before last orders or never to be seen again. The rise of climbing walls and fashion of training meant that people began to believe they could climb harder than English 6a, which everyone knows is the highest possible grade in Yorkshire. Working for an interest held by a minority (note: not minorities), the new gunslinger in town may be about to take history on a u-turn. Lock up your projects, the grading police is here and they’re holding the pen.

“MAKE YORKSHIRE HARD AGAIN” - sketch artist impression by Nathaniel 

It was overheard that the campaign plans to use the proceeds of the guide to build a 10ft wall just North of Wakefield to keep those peakies out from littering our crags and stealing our projects. If anyone would like to fight for the cause and join the campaign, please get in touch. 

A Peaky Boulderer after being told he may never see Earl Crag again

[livingwithwads]

Connies are shit, we’re going home

“I just remember at Ilkley... Wills skin was too hard yet too soft, the rock was perfectly dry yet wet, his hands were a semi permeable membrane both absorbing and releasing water all at the same time and somehow the pores of the rock had 'opened' releasing some sort of sci-fi butter.... Was only font 6a”

Sam Marks recounts his first and last bouldering session with Will. 

[livingwithwads]

Thick skin

3 February

I was half way through pouring my cereal when Laura came through the door. It was 9.30am and she had just returned from her night shift. “I’m going to bed”, she said. Nothing else, nothing more. Holding off from pouring milk, I went upstairs to find her already curled up under the duvet with a scarf wrapped round her head to shut out the light. “How was work?”, I ventured. Silence. I waited a few moment before asking, “are you ok?”

Quiet tears appeared from under the scarf and rolled down her cheeks. She began to sob and once it started the sobs became anguished and uncontrollable. So I held on and waited for it to stop, all the while thinking about my coffee going cold. Soon the sobs became stuttered gasps and weird snorts your nose makes when it’s full of sadness. She told me what had happened at work that night. There isn’t a lecture on how to cope in medical school, no one really tells you. To see other humans suffer day in and day out takes its toll, no matter how thick your skin.

I take a sip of coffee, pour the rest down the sink and flick the kettle on.

Since christmas I had been shut inside revising for exams and hadn’t seen a lump of rock, not even a small one, for over a month. Not that the weather would have let me anyway. But I was going rock climbing and the weather had said, “I’ll let you have today”. The little grey skoda roared like a 1.2ltr engine only can and hurtled down the country lanes towards Brandrith, where I hoped to indulge myself with some easy soloing. I got as far as Blubberhouses before a massive road closed barrier stops the skoda from going any further. Fuck’s sake. I was about 5 minutes away. The diversion takes me up and over the moor towards Ilkley and, much later (and more irritated) than I’d like, the other side of the A59. There’s a little round-about before you come onto the road and as I went round I saw the dreaded ‘road closed ahead’ sign again. Uh oh. It said it was closed up to a village I had never heard of. I went round again, made up my mind and plowed ahead.

Your day off ruined in two words

The car and my heart raced up the deserted road. Please don’t be closed, please don’t be closed. I had left the round-about a good few minutes ago and I was getting close. I saw a flash of orange barrier near a turning up ahead and died a little inside. Turning the bend I could now see the barrier was just covering a crack in the side of the wall. My foot pushed down harder on the accelerator. Another ‘road closed ahead’ warning flashed past. I felt like Luke Skywalker hammering it down the death star corridor whilst his mates get blown up beside him. Almost there. One more turning, over the hill and then the slip road would be in sight. Almost theere. I kind of wanted to close my eyes by this point and see if I’d get a weird voice in my head but decided I didn’t want to write off the skoda. I reach the top of the moor only to see orange barrier upon orange barrier and tall metal gates ahead. &#@%!

The skoda now comes with proton torpedoes 

Having come all this way I wasn’t ready, or willing, to turn around and decided to try my luck. I wiggled the car past the first couple of orange bouncers. I turned up the slip road where, about 30m further up, a massive truck waited, sat in the middle of the lane with giant concrete road blocks on either side. What was this? I’d seen less security at Gatwick airport. I slowed the car further and tentatively drove towards the truck whilst two guys in the front watched me. I pulled up alongside it and the guy nearest rolled the window down. “Hi, umm, is the road closed?” I said in a small voice, giving my contender for the thickest question of the year. “Are you local?” the man asked. “No... I mean, yes”. I wasn’t expecting such a curve ball. There was a short moment before words just started tumbling out my mouth. Exams, indoors, please, climbing, just up the road, please. The man looked at me confused, then grinned and said, “Ok, just this once, enjoy”. The truck pulled forward leaving a small gap just large enough for me to slip through. It’s away!

The BMC might struggle sorting out the latest access issues

I spent the remaining afternoon soloing peacefully. The routes I climbed were short and of vague description. With names like filthy grovel and bag of snot it’s unlikely they get much attention. But climbing is climbing, especially when it involves pulling on heather, testing the friction of green sludge and wondering what that mysterious substance was your fingers just brushed in the crack. A few unthinkable landings always sharpen the mind I say. Anyway, I’m an ardent ticker, the shit ones must get climbed too. To complement the route choices I dropped my thermos lid and watched it roll into some grouse poo and spent the drive home picking scrittle out of my hair. Oh how I missed the little pleasures. The rough grit had covered my hands in small cuts and scratches and my fingertips were pink. The thick skin I once had was certainly gone.

The great truck guardian let me through on the way out and I showed my extreme gratitude by giving a brief thumbs up. If I had a beer I would have given it.

[livingwithwads]

The Roaches trip take two

We woke to a roaring wind that made the hut groan. Our phones said 51mph gusts but that wasn’t going to interrupt a day of climbing. Nor did it deter Mike (of the delightful film, Stonnis), who had come across for the day to join us. There was no rush for the kitchen, no pots and pans being smacked at 8am. Most people had come from work the night before and it was the weekend after all. Tom had booked the Roaches hut for another weekend after the success of last year and the usual suspects were milling around, chatting about what they wanted to do. Tom hadn’t forgotten the port, but this year the special addition was a dancing christmas tree bought from a petrol station the night before. It already sounded like a singing birthday card after the the battery has run out with a voice used primarily for ransom calls.

Mike took us to look at a problem on the Dougless boulder which looked great if a little high. Wanting to warm up properly, we went on a circuit of the lower tier boulders which had some great little gems including 3 Pocket Slab and the Greener Traverse. I was worried about my thumb getting infected so mummified it in tape and hoped that would do. It had been ages since I last touched rock and took no risks with the shoulder, 4’s, 5’s and 6’s were the order of the day. After our hands became warm enough to feel holds again, we went back to check out Doug-less (6B), a green wall with a broken crack and slanting shelves. We soon realised 6B was a bit of a sandbag and this was going to need some determination. After sussing out some crucial beta for the top (slowly slowly catchee monkey), Will managed to rest his hands on the final shelf and after a bit of contemplation, the top.

Will checking the pads (and spotters) hadn’t blown away - photo Mike Cheque

I had a couple more goes but kept getting scared and jumping off. I was about to give up when, as if on cue, Josh came striding through the field towards us, his blond curls bouncing up and down. It was like the scene from Onsight when Neil Dickson makes his appearance. You could even hear the guitar solo playing as he came over. “alright”, he said cheerfully in his Northern drawl.

He wasted no time in dumping his kit in the hut before running back out with a shoe in each hand. “Right what’s the beta?” Josh soon figured out the secret and disappeared over the top. Damn it. Rejuvenated by his ascent, I had to have another go. Slowly pressing my right foot onto the smear I lunge for slopers above. I hit the holds but they give nothing back, sending me on my way and I kick off the slab aiming for the pads, letting out a little ‘fuuuck’ as I plummet down. Whoompf. Pleased with my commitment, I was duly rewarded with a small dose of adrenaline that lingered for a short while, temporarily staving off cold and hunger. It was by now half past 2 and we were feeling the burn. The hut was right there, but I knew that after being sat under those heaters with a nice hot cup of coffee, my desire to try again would have completely evaporated. One. Last. Go.

Slapping wildly for salvation - photo Mike Cheque

As soon as the wind dipped from force nine I get a move on. In my hurry I forget to step the left foot high before jamming my right in the lower crack. Rushing, I make an awkward rock-over onto a helplessly stuck foot should I fall, but with a bit of a panicked lurch, manage to reach the slanting break. I set my hands up and paste my foot onto the smear once more. Will and Josh shout up encouragement. “Just stand up, you’re on it!”. If it were that easy I’d have bloody... I push weight onto my foot. My left hand presses down on the little comfort the break offers and I haven’t fallen off yet. Still not quite in range but slowly I keep stretching for the slopers, constantly fearing the right foot would blow any second. I can’t stay in this position much longer and my nerves get the better of me causing my right hand to rush towards the slopers whilst my mind is thinking about the floor. There’s a half hearted slap, but it was just enough to keep me on. “Will had another go, and did it. And then Josh did it and then I had to do it basically otherwise I would have been the odd one out”. It was just like Onsight. The job done, we willingly retreated back into the hut for a much deserved mince pie and a brew. Our fingers and toes were protesting, the wind was still in gale mode and Mike (who had been taking pictures) was looking a little pallid.

Noticing that the light outside was fast beginning to fade, we decided to brave the bitter cold wind once more. In the short time it took to circumvent the bog to the front of the spring boulder, the sun had drowned itself in the reservoir and dusk now hung in the air. The ground was saturated but we had brought a tarp which we laid out and pegged down with brushes (I don’t know if the sublime brushes can do this). Luckily for us, Josh had brought what can only be described as a coachman's lantern from the set of Sleepy Hollow. It spluttered into life, emitting an eerie orange glow and hissed softly in the wind. Josh swung the haunted lantern from an outstretched arm, its light cast our shadows onto the rock making them flicker and dance. Mine was making more progress up the slab than me. Eventually I had to give up and for the third year in a row I was defeated by Spring Slab. Josh, also on a personal vendetta, was holding his breath on C3PO. Impossibly thin smears and sharp pebbles that snagged on skin and fingernail. Josh almost managed to get both hands over the top but alas never made it further than that.

The lamp hissed and Josh’s shadow hissed back - photo Mike Cheque

It might have been the creepy bouldering session but as I lay in my bunk that night, reading the guide under lamplight, the following passage rose from the pages.  

“These pools are inhabited by a mermaid, one of the few inland mermaids in the country. The pool is named after Doxey, daughter of Bess of Rock Hall, who was renowned for her singing, which was said to be foreign and melancholy. She was taken away one night by men who were sheltering in the caves, was raped and drowned in the pool”

I became horribly aware of the moaning wind outside. From the safe interior of my sleeping bag I peered through the window to see the ghostly white trees still thrashing in the wind. Had their gnarled and twisted branches been slightly longer they would be able to tap. tap. against the thin pane of glass, the only thing separating me from the ghoulish fingers and fears of the night beyond. I dared not look outside further lest I saw the ghost of Doxey, dripping cold and staring up at me from the flagstones. Had the bunk not been crammed full of sleeping bodies and drunken snorts, blissfully unaware, I would rather have waited for sunrise fearing I might otherwise wake up by the still black waters of Doxey’s pool... Sleep did eventually come, though somewhat hindered by the snoring and Luke drunkenly getting out of bed every 10 minutes.  

I woke up not cold and shivering by unfamiliar waters but, as you might expect, in the bunk safely cocooned in my bag. The weather outside was no pretty sight. The wind had died down but been replaced by a soft grey drizzle and wet mist that clung to the forrest floor. We weren’t going to do any climbing today. Climbers stumbled into the kitchen, searching for a clean mug and lifting small metal lids in the hope of finding coffee, not wanting to have to make their own. Smiles, laughter and goodbyes were shared as we pack our stuff and clean the hut. Another year passes us by. It’s always a treat to see old friends and the Tichols Roaches trip is fast becoming a highlight during the winter months. Here’s to hopefully many more to come.

[livingwithwads]

A new hope

After an initial diagnosis at the physio of scapulata incorrectus (scapula not doing its job correctly for us state school lot), I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do. Hearing about my plight, Tom kindly offered to lend me some christmas reading during this time of face stuffing and contemplation.

I stopped reading Dave’s book when it said I might be fucked. 

Whilst waiting for his poorly trained cat to come indoors, we nursed cups of tea and talked climbing. What’s the alternative when you can’t do it and how to stay motivated. Having had some time away from climbing himself, Tom provided the following wisdom. ‘You realise that stopping going to Malham doesn’t mean you’ll get worse at climbing’. Likewise, I feared that by not consistently climbing on the grit I’d somehow forget it’s subtle moves. It’s a hard thought to swallow when it’s all you know, but realistically it will only take me a week to remember I was never actually any good in the first place. Not using my muscles might make them soft, but it shouldn’t take long to hone them once more. I’m always surprised how quickly you can be back to fighting fit. In the meantime I’ve been seeing non climbing friends who thought I had ceased to exist. The transition has felt like a scene from Harry Potter, apparating into this strange muggle world that everyone else lives in. No longer am I off to the wall to while away the evening training and talking spells (of the rainy variety), but instead the agenda is pub quizzes, board games and eating out. I’d go as far to say I’m even enjoying myself...

I’ve been bouldering solely for the past couple of years now with the exception of the odd route or solo thrown in. Maybe it’s time for a change. It’s a lot more manageable to look forward to something new than to count the days since you’ve been to Almscliff, which is 59 by the way. Having heard back reports of a recent trip to Whitehouses I’m still burning Will off whilst sat on my sofa eating pastries, so there’s no rush to grab the boulder bucket. When Tom got back into it he left clipstick and gri-gri at home and went trad climbing in the Lakes. Malham will always be there for when the time is right to go back.

So I decided to stop caring, poured myself some whiskey, opened Scottish Winter climbs and went, ‘hey that looks quality’. I’ve never been any good at winter climbing (too scared), but I love the mountains during winter. Buttresses cloaked in white snow with icy ribbons decorating the runnels. The complete silence of an alpine start, only crunching footsteps and the trickle of a distant stream to be heard. And walking into a Cym under the cover of darkness to see the first pale rays of sunlight hit the ridge line. The mountains for me have never been about difficulty, but about beauty. I remember being in the Alps, unable to stop staring at the Drus. I was happy just standing there in the car park, looking up at them. With injury comes wishful thinking and hopefully some easy winter climbing. I just need the Lakes to come in so I can nip up for some practice and remember how not to tear my trousers in two.

Va Va Voom

Going back to the cause of these guilty thoughts (for grit is the one true rock), I had my follow up appointment with the physio last week. Tom had been a great source of knowledge and shown me some stretches which I added to my imaginary ski jumper routine. The physio seemed pleased with the progress and has given me some theraband exercises to get on with. It turns out my terrible posture is also hindered by poor lower back muscles. I’ve been told to do Michael Jackson hip thrusts (hand on crotch is optional). It’ll be bloody Yoga next. 

If anyone has seen a black cat in the Leeds area still refusing to go inside, please call Tom.

[livingwithwads]

Fortuity

I had made plans for this winter. My diary was more booked up than an on call A&E doctor and my weekends blacked out like a CEO charity golfing event. “Janine, I shan’t be taking any calls today”. I had even written a long list of viable excuses as to why I would ‘most regrettably’ be unable to attend tomorrows journée.

I’m sorry, he’s at Caley again. Would you like me to take a message?

This season the grit would tremble as I execute move after move with surgical precision, toppling my projects one after another. It had certainly looked promising after some pre-season action, with quick dispatches of old nemeses such as Ju Ju Club, Hunters Roof and Two Squirrels. That was now over a month ago. You see, something happened and it just escalated from there.

I woke up one morning with my left shoulder aching as though a blacksmith had mistaken it for his anvil and the King wanted his new sword tomorrow. I tried to climb a bit but this just made it worse. Stretching alleviated the symptoms somewhat but the pain persisted like some bad STI. Two weeks off and still no improvement. “Crap, I’m broken, I’ll never climb again”, I panicked. Having seen the physical decline of Luke Tilley with a persisting lower back problem and Hazel Findlay requiring shoulder surgery, my mind began to plunge into depths of worry climbers don’t explore until it’s too late and we’re all out of oxygen. Fingers may go snap crackle and pop (at least mine do), but being careful and giving them time meant I was back on the rock again in no time. This is different and it scares me. Wallowing in self loathing and pity akin to Ralph when he broke his scaphoid, soon I’ll be repeating the same gloomy mantra to anyone inside not climbing whatever the weather. “It’s beautiful outside, you should be out crushin’”. Perhaps I should just give in and buy an old captains outfit, head to the pub and spin yarns about the mystical sticky damp that spelled the end for many a raiding party. Instead, I wasted no time in pleading my case to my GP who secured me a physio appointment within 2 weeks.

Fortune would have it that last week I sliced my thumb open on a broken wine glass. Now this I could deal with as it was quite obvious what was causing the pain. A flesh wound (quite a big one if I may say so) on my left thumb. The first thing I did was check my pinch strength which, thankfully, had been spared. Once I had assessed (and could physically see) my tendon was still moving correctly I dispatched myself to A&E. Plastics operated the following day and it will be 3 weeks until I can start using it properly. A blessing in disguise for, other than having a concrete excuse as to why I can’t do the washing up, it has given me a very firm reason to lay off climbing compared to this mysterious shoulder pain.

I thought it was obvious, which made me think they had seen a lot worse. 

I had the first physio appointment on Friday where I was told my posture was truly terrible. Cavemen sat better upright at their granite slab. He asked me to lie on my front and, without using my shoulders, pin my shoulder blades together like a ski jumper taking off. The inner ski jumper within me didn’t even make it to jumping off the ramp. He tumbled off the side before crashing through a thatched barn roof, ending up splayed out in a chicken coop covered in egg yolk. You get the idea. I was being told to use muscles that had been dormant since 2009. I was explained that I needed to get the synapses firing up again as the muscle and brain weren’t talking to each other very well. Once I can get them to agree, we’ll work on some strengthening exercises and slowly incorporate them back into climbing. At last, something to work on. I have a follow up in 10 days so, three times a day, I lie on the floor like a beached whale, pretend it’s the Paralympics and squeeze my shoulder blades for England. Or France. Whoever is most likely to win.

The realisation that I might be out for all winter has caused my calorie intake to increase as what’s the point anymore springs to mind. My cadbury’s hot chocolate with marshmallows and squirty cream plus a double shot of rum for good measure can concur. I would be lying if it didn’t pain me to see friends enjoy the first fruits of grit season and meanwhile I begin the fast decline into decrepitude. I’m horribly aware that even if I’m fixed before the end of the season, the months being out will have left me climbing like a lump.  

However, I hope that this is just the post break up effect with my unconditional love for gritstone. Once I single handedly buy out Morrisons of Häagen-Dazs I can get back on the warpath. Look at Alex. She took rehab seriously, unlike Amy and now one is sadly dead and one is back crushing 8B. I just need to get my hands on Ben Moon’s autobiography for some psyche induced training and rehab. I remember Jerry’s book left me unable to sleep I was so excited for the next days climbing whilst in Céüse. I also have some rather important exams in January so in the grand scheme of things called life, not climbing for a bit was probably a good idea anyway.

[livingwithwads]

Give that man a biscuit

Let me be very open (I usually am). I think the Depot is great place to climb (you just know things are about to go downhill). 

But when they advertised a student discount day with a free raffle one would think the winner was surely in for “a great prize” (their words not mine). So what did our lucky winner get exactly? Drum roll please.

Don’t mind the gun, smile for the camera please. 

I get that the raffle was free, the Depot is under no requirement to give anything away and the prizes are usually donated by companies. So why am I laughing? Well first off, the prize is a joke. It’s an advert the same as the one on the wall just behind the poor winner except someone he’s (I’m guessing) never met has signed it.

This might sound slightly hypocritical coming from someone who asked Steve Mac to sign his limestone guide at Malham and who accosted Fred Nicole and Nalle to validate his font guidebook. The list goes on. Yet these scribblings are memories. They have been actively sought out when the opportunity has arisen because they added personal value to my books. So when my bones are weary and broken I can open them and reminisce of the wonderful trips I had climbing. I would like to add that I don’t just ask anybody to sign my books as Jacob can bitterly attest. I might have liked the poster when I was 12 but unfortunately that age has long passed me by. Only the bin has won here.

He also got a nail file.

There’s a problem with shit stuff climbers don’t need flooding the market. I mean, have you ever read some of the things people have written to sell a product. Using the above as an example:

“Wood is curved for better balance and efficiency”. Que¿

“With an orange cord that helps you find it in your pocket or bag, as well as increases the chance of finding it if you drop it”. Might as well strap a rape alarm to it too for the visually impaired.

They could at least have thrown in a pot of finger cream. I would have been pretty pleased with that.

In the voice of fairness, I do have a recent comparison to make where my uni held a free raffle also.  

I won a packet of rich tea biscuits and some shower gel (sadly unsigned by the dean). Those are some pretty useful winnings right there. I’m halfway through the shower gel and almost down to my last biscuit. As far as freebies go, they’re as good as anything they chuck from the Tour de France caravan. Minus the free for all where adults take out the kids a la Boris Johnson for a bag of haribo.

Jim’s four hour wait to watch the peleton pass was sadly interrupted when Boris spotted a bottle had been thrown.

The point is, a prize doesn’t have to be expensive to be good. Yet when they’re as embarrassingly shit as that someone may be accused of being a Scrooge. #sponsoredclimber #sellingmydignity

So I haven’t written anything in a while and I start by being a dick. By saying that it was wrong to give someone something for free. Heck, the winner may be over the moon at having won. If it’s the rush of adrenaline at having your number called can I please suggest bingo, the butchers and waiting rooms.

So to end on a positive. Dear raffle winner, please let me buy you a coffee if I bump into you at the depot. I’ll even save my last rich tea for you.

Regards

Bojan

[livingwithwads]

The golden hour

Yesterday (well actually Sunday) I went to Almscliff for precisely 6.30pm. 2 hours before spotting footholds would become difficult, 30 minutes before the grit cranked up the velcro factor. I love walking up the all too familiar path, the small tricep assisted squeeze through the notch in the wall, your mind focussed on todays goal.

In my mind were two solitary crimps. The left one has three fingers tightly stacked, a thumb curls around them protectively on a small natural notch. On the right crimp, trembling white fingertips, each trying not to push the other off the depressingly small ledge they share. They’re lifting 70kgs of dumb and they can certainly feel it.

Before I get to business I warm up on two problems I’m not acquainted with. Teaspoon Variation Left and The Little Greeny. Whilst dumping my bag and pads on the grassy slopes looking for a place to lob my banana skin I look up and see Naomi Buys waving at me from the mid height rest on Big Greeny. ‘Hello’, I say and wave back. Immediately I realise Naomi is actually shaking out and not waving at a complete stranger in a once blue down jacket. Luckily I come across as a bit of a muppet and what would normally be an awkward moment is instantly diffused. Naomi, being very kind and not a muppet, waves back and returns my hello. Jordan wonders who the muppet in the dirty coat is.

Is she waving or shaking out? Act like a London commuter to save embarrassment. 

Teaspoon variation goes quickly and I’m standing above Little Greeny shortly after. I think I’ve now actually done all the 7a’s at the Cliff (bar the massively eliminate ones). Time for the goal, time to focus again. As I walk around to the main face of high man the wind drops and the two crimps I’ve had in my mind the past 30 minutes come into view.

The week before Nathaniel and I had gone to try Jess’ Roof which, despite finding a human shit in the cave, is an excellent problem. We didn’t tick, but the potential of landing in poo meant we put extra effort into not falling off. As the horizon swallowed the sun whole and night befell us, we quickly threw the pads down and hurried to Stu’s Roof. Taking it in turns to wear the only head torch, one would point and the other would climb using the small beam of light to navigate their way over lumpy crimps. I fall off the small break on Stu’s Roof Left, cursing into the night, but I was spent and it was time to go home.

Now I was back and the glowing sun was flirting with the treeline. I had a good hour yet before dark. On my second go I fall off both hands in the small break with my feet scrabbling on the face. Instead of cursing like last time, I lie on my pads, drape my asbestos rag of down jacket around me and close my eyes. I count to 60. My heart was beating hard and fast and I felt nervous having fallen off the jugs. In this situation it has been suggested to break down the problem into individual moves, enjoy the climbing and don’t think about the end goal. I brush myself down and concentrate on the first move, just enjoy the climbing...

My foot slips and I fall off the first move.

Balls to that. I flex and clench my fingers and think only of the break. I think of how the rock is weak and has exposed itself to assault. All too quickly I am I rocking onto my right heel but haven’t generated enough momentum. I readjust my left hand ever so slightly and keep pulling onwards to the break. My right hand pierces the break like a knights lance thrust through his opponents visor. I match the break and throw again for the juggy ear. Cautiously I begin to stand up, a shaking hand feels for the top. ‘If I pop off now I’m going to sell this pad that doesn’t belong to me’, I think to myself.  

I don’t cheer, nor whoop nor dance. I allow myself a smile and let the waves of relief wash over me, it’s the satisfaction of a job well done. I traverse off, pack my stuff and walk down the grassy hill back to my car, the golden light still dancing on it’s silver top.

I hope Jordan doesn’t realise there’s a banana skin in his rope bag. 

[livingwithwads]

The weekend weather forecast

Wondering where to go climbing this weekend? Unsure whether to trust the weather forecast that's on the back of yesterdays Daily Mail? Not to worry, our very own weather correspondent James Malloch has been consulting Yorkshire's gritstone 8 ball to see where we can all get our weekend fix. So what did it have to say James? 

Brimham Rocks would be nice?

Don't count on it.

That's a shame, Ilkley might fare a little better?

My reply is no.

Hmm, perhaps we need to go a bit further afield. Whats the moorland stuff looking like James?

Ask again later. 

Thanks for that James. Sadly thats all we have time for as BBC weather have asked for their 8 ball back. But just before we do, Is there any chance of us getting any climbing done at all this weekend?

Outlook not so good.

ah. um... 

[livingwithwads]

Rodeo Roaches

Twas the night before the Roaches, when all through the hut no climber was stirring, not even Tom Nichols. The racks and ropes were laid out with care, with the hope that tomorrow the sun would be there.

And lo the sun rose high and the sound of thirty people stirring filled the hut, the shuffle and scuff of sleeping bags and people on the floor being trodden on. The Roaches is composed of callous and dark, uncompromising gritstone. A place where boys can compare fist sizes but should you forget your nerve then prepare to sit around nursing a nice cup of safe tea.

I was holding onto my cup tightly, trying hard to force the warmth through the ceramic and into my flesh. It was gone lunch time and I hadn't climbed anything. I wasn't the only one feeling unenthusiastic. Conor was looking at his climbing shoes as though someone had just pissed in them, Gareth wasn't going to take off his two down jackets anytime soon and Tom, well Tom was just looking under rocks in case someone had left some port. There was one person enjoying himself however and was currently making his way through a cheap ham and coleslaw sandwich. Having waltzed all over the spring slab boulders as a warm up before padding up Track of the Cat, Will was having a better day than most. He had tried to persuade me I should do it using the old trick of, 'oh I'm not even any good at slabs'. It's like an albatross saying he's crap at flying, so you, the dodo, should give it a go, except the albatross comes across as more modest. I didn't even make it onto the slab, swinging round the corner without using my hands... 'Numb fingers' and 'can't feel anything' were mumbled. Shortly followed by, 'you lanky git'. 

Will Hunt shows the boys how it's done. 

The rest of the day was spent down at the 5 clouds near the Tetris block where upon arrival we were greeted by Britain's manliest man. Jason Pickles, with someones baby (I'm assuming it was his) strapped to his front gave beta and at last I was granted a climb. There was another baby who was sleeping on top of a bright red down jacket and incidentally turned out to be a rubbish spotter. Late that evening Tom had run out of port and disappeared only to return with 10 more bottles a couple hours later. Apparently Leek didn't have a 24 hour store, but Buxton sure did. Feeling festive he had also bought himself a pair of antlers to go with his port party. The next morning there was much less of a stirring and those kicked or trodden on didn't really wake up, just grunted to let you know they would like a cup of coffee should one be going their way. 

This just about beats the keel

People had driven from as far as Edinburgh to make the weekend trip and I didn't envy their journey back. The weather had turned foul and people were lugging their kit out from the hut, down the path and back to their cars, returning at a run for a cold rain had settled. Tom would still need a couple of hours until he could drive again. I want to thank him again for organising such a great trip, the hut and Jamie for the food. It was like an old climbing club reunited with new acquaintances, only everyone knew which bunk was best and no one forgot their toothbrush. Conor even remembered his sleeping bag this time, much to our hidden disappointment.

To everyone a great Christmas, whether you're freezing your nuts off outdoors or overheating at the kitchen table. I'm going to bed, apparently santa got me cuff links for christmas, is that a type of carabiner?