Time for my monthly update… When I started this blog the idea was to write something every time I climbed something. However, with the best will in the world, it’s not always easy to find something interesting to write about another trip to Hatfield or Stowmarket. Hopefully now the weather has taken a marked turn for the better I’ll be able to get outside a bit more (and I don’t mean the West Stow boulder) and get some more interesting things written.

Anyhow, enough apologies. On to the main subject of this months outpouring of drivel - a trip to Stanage last week. I’d heard good, and bad things about Stanage to be honest. Good - the quality and quantity of the routes were without question, and a flick through the Eastern Grit guidebook showed page after page of inviting looking cragginess with any number of fantastic looking lines. Bad - I’d been told the place would be crowded, and told to watch out for the ‘Prana-wearing top-roping Gaylords’. I made a mental note of this, and vowed never to buy a Prana shirt as long as I’m climbing, just in case I get seen seconding a route whilst wearing it. Sol & I had an early start, and stopped half way up the M1 at Leicester Forest for a bacon sarnie and coffee whilst looking out the window at the hammering rain. It didn’t look good. We arrived at Stanage Popular via a GPS-induced series of detours around Hathersage (just in case anyone from Hathersage ever reads this, I’m really sorry if we disturbed you after driving around the village for the fifth time) to a completely deserted car-park, and a low cloud but no actual rain. So we put the kettle on. An hour or so later, the cloud was still low, but the wind had picked up nicely. And we were still the only people there. Another car load of young climbers had turned up, all piled out of the car, and then spent ten minutes asking each other who had remembered to pack the ropes before all piling back into the car and going to get them. I like to think that they had remembered their Prana shirts and matching chalk-bags though.

So, with nothing better to do, we wandered up to the crag, and had a poke around. Anything that was in the wind was dry, anything sheltered was greener than a particularly sanctimonious David Cameron cycling off to fix his wind turbine. So, we picked a route, Leaning Buttress Crack, and I geared up to lead it. About half way up I got lost, came back down to have a good rethink, while Sol scooted up there in about twenty seconds flat. I seconded him, and we walked around the crag to get back down again. Lovely. Eddie had turned up by now, and he and Sol had a quick go at Chockstone Direct while I wandered off to do something vitally important, the exact nature of which completely escapes me. Next up, the classic line of Flying Buttress, again with Sol leading and me seconding. What a brilliant climb. I had a bit of a problem flopping over the top on the very last move, but it was still a fantastic climb, and the first time I’ve realised what a 3-star climb is all about. Brilliant. We stopped for some lunch, at which point I realised that Pot Noodles are far easier to eat with a fork rather than a pair of matches as chopsticks.

After lunch we decided to go for something a little harder, and Beech Tree Wall appeared to fit the bill, particularly as all the easier climbs now appeared to be in the process of being top-roped by a bunch of Prana-wearing gaylords. (And one unfortunate youngster who got stuck on Leaning Buttress Crack for about 90 minutes, while continually whining to anyone in a twelve mile radius that there were no handholds. I have no idea what happened to him. For all I know he’s still there. The queue of people waiting to try the same route just led up past him in the end, fed up with waiting). Anyhow, again, it was agreed that Sol would lead the climb, as there was a rather blank looking section in the middle that would require long arms and a steady nerve. Both of which Sol possesses and I don’t. And, he did struggle with it, but eventually topped out with a whoop of restrained happiness while I got ready to fall off it. Which is exactly what happened. It was only a little slip though, and once over the sketchy middle section, it was plain sailing until I put my hand into a pile of bird poo on the top ledge. We were both getting a bit tired by now, and it was a long journey home, so we decided to have a crack at an easy one to round off the day. Black Hawk Traverse Left was chosen as a suitable candidate, and I tied in to lead. To cut a long story short, I got lost. Twice. Idiot. That will teach me to read the guidebook more carefully in future. However, help was at hand in the form of a group on the next climb who pointed me in the right direction for the “bishop’s stride” around the bulge. A great move, once I had worked out where it was… And I capitalised on this sudden rush of confidence by traversing straight past the point where I should have started heading upwards, instead finishing up Castle Crack. Enjoyable, apart from the rope drag caused by my navigational incompetence.

A great day out. I don’t care that I only led one climb and managed to get lost doing it - I thoroughly enjoyed the crag, and can see why it’s so popular.

Much as I hate to admit it, I am rather a control freak. I don’t like being placed in situations where my actions have no bearing on the outcome of the event. This is why I’m so terrified of flying, yet will happily go out and race a motorcycle. Obviously, statistically, I am far safer on the plane, but I feel far safer on the bike, as I have a direct input into what is happening. It’s one of the things I like so much about climbing - I can put myself in situations that are inherently scary and very exciting, yet I still retain control of that situation. Do I want a bit more risk? No problem - just don’t place any protection before the move. Do I feel scared? Again, no problem - protect the current situation [1], take five minutes to recompose myself, and work out a plan.

Last night, however, something happened that I think a few months ago would have had me in real trouble, shouting for help and hanging on desperately while I wondered what to do next. I had lead to the top of one of the panels at Hatfield, not a technically difficult route (5a I think) but quite physical. Certainly physical enough that when I clip into the screwgate at the lower-off I breathe rather a large sigh of relief. Last night, however, I reached that lower-off and the screwgate was jammed solid. Nothing I could do to it with one hand would get it open. I could have just abbed back down from the last bolt, but that would just have left our quickdraw there and passed the problem on to someone else. So, a plan was hatched. Climb down to that last quickdraw (I didn’t have any spare on my harness), remove it, climb back up (not as tricky as it sounds, as it’s only about a metre below the lower-off), clip myself to the lower-off chain and rethread the broken screwgate. And, in complete control, that’s exactly what I did. No shaky legs. No swearing. No drama at all. Luckily I carry a spare screwgate on my harness for exactly moments like this, and for the first time it was pressed into service. I was rather pleased with myself when I got back down again - firstly for completing the climb with no trouble, and secondly for remaining calm and composed when I was presented with a bit of a surprise problem at the top of the route. I know that in the grand scheme of things it was a pretty trivial problem when placed against some of the things that can go wrong while climbing, but I’m still happy.

In fact, I think I probably deserve a cup of tea.

[1] I know, it’s not always possible. At my level it certainly is though.

Well, it’s been a few weeks since my last entry here, which normally indicates a lack of activity on my part. In this case though, nothing could be further from the truth. Firstly there was a couple of trips to the wall that were, well, uneventful. And then there was a four day trip to the Montserrat Massif with the chaps at climbcatalunya last weekend, which turned out to be one of the greatest things I’ve ever done, culminating in a multi-pitch to the top of one of the pinnacles that make up the startlingly dramatic landscape of the summit of the massif. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The trip started pretty badly actually, with a long wait on the runway at Stansted due to fog in Barcelona. There were meant to be four of us climbing for the weekend - however, at that moment Sol & I were sitting at Stansted, while Eddie and Champ were sitting at Luton for exactly the same reason. Eventually Barcelona air traffic control declared that they could see well enough, and we got going, arriving there a couple of hours later to be met by our guides for the weekend, Gee and Carole. We all piled into Gee’s Landy, and headed straight from the airport up to the massif. The landscape is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. And rather than trying (and failing,no doubt) to describe it, let’s see if I can find a photo. Ah - yup, here we go.

(Image copyright someone else. No idea who. Hope they don’t mind me linking to it, but as I’m the only person ever likely to read this, I don’t suppose they’ll notice the extra bandwidth). Well, as you can guess, we were all pretty excited to see something like this, and couldn’t wait to get started. Important things first though, we stopped at the cafe and had coffee and a sandwich before heading up the funicular railway, and a short walk in to the base of six or seven climbs, all about 25 metres. Now, given that the only place I’ve ever clipped a bolt before now is at the wall at Hatfield, I had two immediate concerns. Firstly, where were the big plastic juggy holds? Secondly, why were the bolts four or five metres apart? I had about twenty minutes or so to ponder on this, as Sol decided to lead the first climb. This sort of technical fidgety climbing is right up his street, and he fairly whistled up the climb before tying off at the top and abbing back down with an enormous smile on his face. So… My turn. My first outdoor sports lead, on an unfamiliar rock type best describe as ‘entertainingly bolted’. I needn’t have worried. It took a few metres to get used to the technique for moving up on this rock (just look for any kind of feature, no matter how small, jam your toe on/into it and stand up. Don’t bother looking for handholds - there aren’t any. If you find a handhold, it’s usually cause for quite a celebration) but move up I did. The runout between the bolts really didn’t bother me actually, as I was enjoying the climb so much and concentrating on the movements. I made it to the top, clipped into the lower-off with a handy quickdraw, and turned around to look at the view before rethreading. Wow. Really wow*10^6 - now I’d cleared the trees at the base of the climb I could see clearly, and the view was stunning. Anyhow. Acutely aware that I was hanging on a single piece of protection, I decided that rethreading was a good idea, and then it hit me that my actions in the next minute or so would have a distinct effect on the length and excitement of the rest of my life… I checked the knot four times before shouting to Sol to take up the slack in the rope while I unclipped the quickdraw. I was back on the ground twenty seconds later, in complete control, with the biggest smile on my face. The rest of the afternoon was spent at the same face, trying different routes, and chilling out enjoying ourselves. I probably made about three climbs, before attempting one last one but dropping off half way through ‘cos I was hungry, and tired having been up since 4am in order to catch the plane. For tea, Gee and Carole took us to a local restaurant where we had cold beer, tapas, squid and chips. Perfect…

Next day dawned bright and beautiful, with some stunning views from our refuge down to the mist in the valley below. I’ve got some photos somewhere which I’ll upload when I get an hour spare. Anyhow, a long day on the south face of the massif beckoned, so we breakfasted, drank coffee, and all bundled into the car. The walk-in was a bit more strenuous this time, with a bit of ‘bushwhacking’ as Gee described it to get to the base of the first face. Gee scuttled off up a 6a+ climb to put a rope up for us, Sol led up a very technical 5+, while I settled for the easy option and led up a nicely situated 4+ just around the corner. In fact, I liked it so much I pulled the rope down, and led up the route immediately next to it as well. The sun was up, and I was feeling good. I then had a go at top-roping Gee’s 6a+ route, and suddenly realised that despite feeling good, I wasn’t Johnny Dawes. I got about 12 metres up, and just fell off. So I tried again, made it to about 13 metres, and this time just gave up. I’m not sure why, but this knocked me back a bit, and I completely failed to complete any further climbs that day, including a beautiful technical crack line that Gee picked out when he saw I was struggling with the technical climbing. I couldn’t help feeling that for some reason I was letting everyone else down by not giving it 100% effort. Sol & Eddie on the other hand were both giving it at least 100% effort, and proved it by both climbing a beautiful 30 metre neighbouring route involving a chimney, some bridging, laybacking from a hanging flake, traversing an undercut before clipping in to the lower-off a full 30 metres up. A beautiful route, but quite beyond me. I sat at the bottom, sulked a little, and realised that just because a line is there, I don’t *have* to climb it. I can appreciate it just as much by looking at it and working how I’d approach the climb if I was technically capable. Food. Beer. Zzzzzzz…

Next day, and another sector on the South face with another fearsome walk-in. First route up was a brutal looking chimney, straight up, a full 30 metres. I belayed while Eddie led it, and it was obviously a struggle, as it took him 30 minutes or so. My turn… I like this kind of climbing more than the technical nadgery stuff we’d been doing up to that point, so was expecting to enjoy this climb and do well. But, yesterday’s demons were still haunting me as I got to a tricky narrowing of the chimney about 15 metres up, and rather than press on, just bailed out when I looked down and got scared. I was furious with myself. Bloody furious. It was such a beautiful piece of rock, and well within my ability. So I cleaned the crap off my shoes, told the demons to piss off and got back on there. 10 minutes later I was at the lower-off, feeling bloody marvellous. From there, it was straight onto a very technical “six something plus I guess” that was next to me. And here, I had another epiphany. I got to a very reachy technical move which normally I’d just shrug my shoulders at and drop off saying “can’t do that”. This time, however, I had a big sweary moment. I really shouted. Lots. And, with a final scream of “f*cksocks” I pulled up on a handhold that was no wider than a pencil using a pebble hole no bigger than a large grape for my toe before driving straight through another less than enormous hold up to a “resting point” which was actually a small ledge smaller than my mobile phone. I closed my eyes, breathed very very deeply, and relaxed. At this moment Sol took a picture, so rather than capturing the most dynamically explosive move of the weekend, it actually looks like I’m having a snooze. I’m sure I climbed something else later that day, but I’m already having difficulties remembering exactly what I did and when I did it. What I do remember is eating sausage and chips for tea in a local bar and drinking a couple of cold beers before suggesting to Gee that we maybe have a pop at a small, easy, multi-pitch route the next day.

And, next day, I was standing at the bottom of one of the massif pinnacles after a 7c+ walk-in wondering what on earth I’d done. It was about a 100 metre climb in all, with a traverse, two 30 metre pitches and a final 20 metre scramble to the summit. Champ had flown home ill the day before, so the plan was for Gee to lead me, and then Sol and Eddie to follow us up exchanging the lead. There was a lot of ropework to learn, and Gee was brilliant at explaining everything at ground level, demonstrating as he went along. So, all geared up, he started off along the traverse. Eventually I heard the call of “safe” so took him off belay, shouted “that’s me” as the rope came taught, and started off. I’ve never done a traverse before, and bloody hell, this was a baptism of fire. It started off easy enough, but there were only three bolts over the entire length of the pitch. And the second one was immediately *before* the hardest set of moves, so if I’d slipped there I would have had a 10 metre swing out over the trees. It’s safe to say at this point that my mind was concentrated wonderfully. I made the belay ’stance’ (actually, it was technically a hanging belay, as there was no ledge at all, just a couple of bolts and a chain) clipped in, and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Gee then went through exactly what was going to happen next, and exactly what my responsibilities were as I belayed him up. Off he went. The first bolt was a good four metres above, so a fall while reaching to clip it would have been entertaining for both of us. Of course, he didn’t fall. He vanished round the corner, and 10 minutes later again I heard the call of “safe” and the process repeated itself. The climbing wasn’t too tricky - a couple of balancey moves, but really, a lot easier than we’d been doing the day before. The exposure was completely different though, as I was acutely aware that I was starting from a point 20 metres up, and climbing another 30 metres from there. It was fantastic. The next belay point was a cave, where we stopped, had a quick bite to eat and a drink, and again, a lesson in constructing safe anchors and belaying off them. I felt enormously privileged to be there - on a global scale, a mere handful of people had ever sat in this cave and seen this view. Next pitch was more of the same. 30 metres of quite simple climbing up to the next belay. At which point, rather than making myself safe, Gee just told me to scramble the final metres up to the summit being bloody careful not to fall off as the only protection was from his belay point. I crawled onto the top of the pinnacle, clove-hitched my rope to a rusty old piece of kit bolted on up there, and sat down. I’d made it. And just sitting here typing it up is enough to give me a huge surge of adrenaline. The feeling was completely and utterly indescribable. I don’t care that it wasn’t the highest pinnacle on the massif. It was the proudest moment of my life in terms of achievement, and I had about 30 minutes of complete solitude up there while Gee waited at the belay for Sol and Eddie to make their way up. I’m not a spiritual person, but sitting up there, completely alone, on the summit was the closest I’ve ever been to a spiritual revelation. Enough of this though. As anyone will tell you, a climb is not over until you’re safe on the ground again, and we had a two pitch abseil ahead of us, using full length ropes. I made a bit of a meal of this to be honest, as my belay plate doesn’t work too well for abbing on two full ropes, so I bounced my way down, and managed to jam my thumb in the bloody thing just to add injury to insult. (As I write this, I am debating what to replace it with). The last abseil pitch was the most risky part of the whole day, for two reasons. Firstly, the back of the chimney we were descending was very loose so a lot of rock came down. Secondly, there was a bees nest at the bottom. But, we all made it down, thanked Gee profusely for the help and guidance, and prepared for the flight home. (Actually, there was a lot of chilling out and chatting, but my typing finger is hurting now).

I got home after midnight. Tired, but immensely, immensely proud. Enormous thanks to Gee and Carole for their hospitality, assistance, good humour, coffee and encouragement. I’ll be back again. No doubt.

Climbing, it seems, is about more than hauling ones bulk up to the top of a wall/crag/mountain and getting back safely again. There is also a social aspect to it which I had never considered. From the strong bond of trust forged between a climber and his belayer, to the meeting up of loosely associated groups of people on a regular basis who have nothing in common other than a desire to climb, there are always people around a climber. This is one aspect of climbing that I struggle to deal with to be honest, as I am a miserable surly git at the best of times, and am very uncomfortable in large groups. So when I arrived at the Stowmarket wall last Thursday evening to find it so full that there was only one rope that didn’t have a small group congregated at it’s base, I was, frankly, rather dismayed at the prospect of spending an evening accidentally bumping into people and apologising to them. Happily, in the end, it was a good evenings climbing. The crowds dispersed after an hour or so, and left Sol & I virtually alone in the place to get on with it. Very good.

Compare that with Saturday. I had arranged to travel up to Birchen to meet up with a few friends for a day on the gritstone. Birchen is a three hour drive away for me, so it was an early start, and I arrived just before 9am. The car park was empty, which was a good sign. So I picked up my gear, and walked up to the crag. And I had the whole place to myself. Not just the crag. The whole valley stretched out around me, and there was not a soul to be seen or heard. So I fired up the Trangia, made a cuppa, and just sat there, listening to the birdsong and revelling in the tranquility and solitude. Really, it was the most pleasant half hour I’ve had for a long time. And the creeping realisation that I would be doing a lot more of this in future filled me with an optimism that I will be carrying with me for a long time to come.

Blimey. Almost seems trivial to talk about the climbing after that, but climb I did, and ticked off another grade - an HS 4a was chosen as my first route of the day (Stoker’s Hole), and after a little struggle to get the first move, the rest of it went swimmingly. Comedy moment of the day was when we eyed up the next route, Trafalgar Wall, a highly rated climb. We looked at it, scratched our heads, and both fell off the starting move before giving up, heading left and wandering up Trafalgar Crack instead, which proved to be very enjoyable. I’ll have another crack at Trafalgar Wall next time I’m there, hopefully with someone who has done it before so I can get a bit of information about how to get off the ground. I don’t particularly care about not being able to claim it as onsight, but I do want to have another go at it. Final climb of the day for me was Yo-ho crack which I chose just because it looked like a nice line, rather than the grade. I’m not sure what I screwed up, but I really found this one a struggle at one point - I just couldn’t work out what to do with my feet. In the end I just pulled myself up on a rather uninspiring hand hold and used a couple of smears to gain height, which felt a bit precarious, and certainly not in keeping with the character of the rest of the climb which was lovely. Again, I’ll have another go at this one at some point, as I’m sure it’s a lot easier than I made it.

A grand day out. And made all the better by that 30 minutes of solitude at the start of the day which I will remember for a long time to come.

(Before I start, an apology about the title of this entry. I know it’s a tired old cliche, and a quick search reveals literally millions of “fear and loathing in <placename>” web pages around. My excuse is that it’s Monday morning, I’m a bit tired, and in desperate need of tea).

Any road up. Last Friday was another trip to Hatfield, to meet up with Sol and Kev. I may have to start limiting my trips there because it’s costing me a fortune in petrol, which is a shame as I thoroughly enjoy climbing there. But, onto topic one of todays drivel: Fear. I noticed something odd while attempting a new route on Friday. I got about halfway, up to the crux which was a couple of balancey moves to grab a hold around an overhang and pull myself over. Nothing that I’ve not done before on other similarly graded routes, but I got up to it, looked at it, tried it, came down, looked again, came down, and pondered. In the end I realised that I wasn’t going to get it, so I bailed out, and Kev whipped up to the top to retrieve the gear I’d left behind. While he was on the move that flummoxed me, I watched carefully and closely, and when he got down, I told him to leave the top rope up and I’d try it on top rope now that I knew the sequence of moves I needed. While I won’t say it was easy, it really did get me wondering why I couldn’t work out the sequence on the onsight approach. And the more I thought about it, the more it confused me, for one main reason. I’m normally pretty good at making on sight choices regarding risk and action. When I raced bikes, I could pretty much guarantee that on the first race on a new track, I could get a top three finish while everyone else was struggling to learn the circuit. By the end of the meeting I’d be back in my customary midfield obscurity as all the proper racers learned the track and used that knowledge to good effect.

So, why can’t I apply this ability to climbing? My theory is that it’s easier to rationalise falling off a motorcycle than falling off a cliff, and for that I blame evolution. Falling off a cliff is a much more primal fear than falling off a motorcycle, and so the brain is harder to retrain to accept and rationalise the risk. I rather think the only way I can overcome this little problem is actually by falling off a good few times and attempting to get used to it.

Loathing? The cafe closed up early and wouldn’t sell me tea. No excuses, no apologies, nothing. Don’t they realise how important a good cup of tea is to the modern climber? (Well, to me at any rate).

There are, of course, lots of words that will strike terror into the heart of any man.

• “Have you forgotten it’s my birthday?”
• “Do you know what the speed limit is on this section of road sir?” [1]
• “I’d like to arrange an appointment to talk about your overdraft”

etc. etc. However, last night I found another two that could be added to that list for climbers. Let me set the scene: I’ve not been climbing for a couple of weeks. In fact, I’ve not done any kind of exercise, and have eaten an inordinate amount of very good food, courtesy of being away on my hols for a while. So, last nights trip to Hatfield was always going to be a bit of a struggle, as I’ve put a few pounds on that I needed to haul up the wall with me. We warmed up with a couple of 5a routes. One easy, that was despatched with no problems at all, and one a bit more technical, which I needed to put my foot on another route at one point, purely because there was a hold from the other route in exactly the place I wanted to put my foot for balance. Anyhow, Sol then showed me up a rather physical 5b he’d completed the week before on top-rope, and fancied a go at leading. He managed it, but I could tell that it was a struggle for him, and that I was about to struggle even more. To cut a long story short, I didn’t have a chance. I struggled and puffed and panted, thrashed, wriggled, and finally gave up on the 5b route, and grabbed the 5a that was next to it. By the time I arrived at the top I was sweating, shaking, and had a distinct case of Elvis leg. I clipped the lower off, and shouted down “Take in!” to Sol as I was ready to drop. Back up the wall came a plaintive reply:

“Hang on!”

[1] A friend of mine was pulled for speeding many many years ago on an old RD350YPVS. The officer greeted him with a cheery “having trouble taking off were we Wing Commander?”

I’ve been reading over on the forums at ukclimbing.com a lot of posts recently about people’s first outdoor lead climbs. A first lead climb outdoors seems to be a pivotal moment to a lot of climbers, and it brings out a lot of emotion, to the point where people want to document the moment. Also the fact that a £500 prize was up for grabs for the best essay seemed to encourage the written output.

My first outdoor lead was (unusually for me) pretty well planned. The date was to be Sunday, 3rd February. The place was to be Birchen Edge. I also found a set of suitably low grade routes on a particular buttress that seemed to fit the bill for a first go. Everything looked good, right up until the last moment. At which point we had the first snow of the year, 70mph winds, and possible flooding. Still, I wasn’t going to let a little thing like that put me off. I just packed an extra wooly vest in with my climbing kit, and headed off to the crag. Once there, the first thing I noticed was that despite the dire warnings from the met office, there was no actual snow laying on the ground. OK, so there was still a biting cold wind, but the crag was dry, and once we’d found a little cave to set up the camping stove in for tea, it was actually pretty cosy. After a cuppa we decided to look for a suitable first route, and found a candidate in Nautical Crack, listed as Vdiff, and with easily spotted points for protection. In fact, there was only really one placement needed, and it was easy enough to scamper up the bottom half of the climb unprotected to reach it after the lead, as we were later to find out. We tossed a coin, and Sol won, so tied in while I clipped my belay plate on. The climb was uneventful, apart from a bit of a squirm to get out of the V shaped crack. About a minute later a shout of “safe” from the top of the crag (nearly lost in the 60mph gusts of icy wind) indicated that Sol had completed his first lead, and the smile on his face a few seconds later as he reappeared around the side of the buttress confirmed that he was happy with it.

And so it was my turn. My first outdoor lead. Was I nervous? Um, not really. I had been, up until the point I tied in. At which point the nerves vanished, and I got on with the job at hand. And to be honest, other than finding the same squirmy exit from the crack a bit awkward, it was all pretty straightforward. One thing that did surprise me though - the amount of friction available from gritstone for my feet. Anyhow, I scampered up the slab above the crack, shouted “safe” down to Sol, and had a little self congratulatory moment, standing there looking out over the peak district shivering my nadgers off.

That completed, we had a celebratory cuppa, and looked for another route to have a crack at. In the end we couldn’t be bothered to look too hard, as it was so perishing cold, so we just decided to do the next route on the buttress, Heave Ho. I wasn’t holding out too much hope of completing this one to be honest, as it weighed in at a grade of S 4a which I was kind of planning to complete by the end of the year. In the end though, it turned out to be easier to complete than the previous climb, despite me taking the wrong sized nuts up there and having to fiddle around for what seemed like 45 minutes trying to get some protection in place.

So, two leads by lunchtime, a VDiff and a S 4a which I was more than happy about. We stopped for lunch as by now, we were both shivering with the cold, and needed to get some hot food and tea inside us to try and delay the onset of hypothermia. While munching away on pot noodles we looked up the wall above our little encampment. It looked eminently climbable, and the guide listed it as Ta Very Much, an HS 4c. This was well above what I’d planned on climbing this year, let alone this visit to the crag, but my confidence was on a high, so I decided to give it a go. Until, that is, I took off my gloves and found that I couldn’t actually feel my fingers any more. Discretion being the better part of valour, we decided to pack up, and save it for the next visit to the crag when it may not be so damn cold.

So, we packed up, and headed off to The Foundry in Sheffield to spend a couple of hours in the warm. Nothing remarkable to report really - a few good climbs and some very welcome hot sweet tea.

And that’s that really. My first outdoor lead, and an ambition realised. The problem is, I want to do a lot more of it, and soon. So I guess I’ll be spending a lot of time travelling up and down the M1 from now on.

Happy? Yup. Proud? Very.

Measuring physical strength is easy - how much can you lift, and how many times? I’m sure there’s an awful lot more to it than that, but in my simple, pink and fluffy world, that’s really all there is to it. So, in terms of strength, last nights trip to Hatfield was a resounding success - I climbed/belayed for three hours without having to back off any routes due to being knackered. I’m not sure how many routes I completed (it was either eight or nine, and I’m guessing the wall is thirteen or so metres high) mostly around 4c/5a. Which technically doesn’t sound that tricky, but I’m more than happy with that, thank you.

Mental strength is a different kettle of fish though. How do you measure it in respect to climbing? Well, I had a good test last night. We’d been climbing for a couple of hours, and I was wondering what to do next when Kev spotted a route up a well featured arete that neither of us had ever tried. It looked possible, so I decided to give it a go. About 1/3rd of the way up, I was thinking that some of the holds were a little crimpy, but that things were going well, and I should be able to get up without too much drama. Then, out above the penultimate bolt, things went wrong. The holds, which from the bottom had looked so inviting seemed now no more than crimpy little smeary marks on the surface. The one good hold was an undercut, which I couldn’t get into a suitable position to use. My left foot was slipping. All in all, it was not a good place to be, and I started to panic a bit. Now, a couple of months ago, at this point I would probably have just let go, taken the fall, and put it down to experience. But I didn’t. Despite being in physically a very uncomfortable position, I still had enough composure to take stock of the situation, steady myself, make a plan and get out of trouble. OK, it meant I took a hold on a neighbouring route, but it did mean I could reach the safety of the last bolt, and from then up to the lower off. And for me, this was a far more important test (and result) than the physical ability to climb strongly. When I later checked the grade it was a 5b, which is really a bit above what I know I can climb at the moment anyway, so I’m very happy that it went so well.

It’s worth noting that although my description makes it sound like an epic onsite attempt at Indian Face, I was in fact, about nine metres up with two metres of runout and obviously in no danger at all.  I don’t care though - in my own little world it was an achievement of note, and that’s what counts for me.

Hmmm, seeing as I have a ‘general’ category I guess I’d best write something to put there. This could be put down to destiny, kismet, karma or some other such new-age bollocks. Or it could be in an attempt to actually write something here rather than having another unloved blog festering away on a server somewhere, clogging up someone elses disk space, another momument to the uncommitted.

So, what’s been happening then? Well, I’ve got a lovely new computer (thanks Freecycle), and have just had tea, so there is an awful lot to be cheerful about. And the first signs of spring are appearing in my garden, which is also nice. On the climbing front though, all is not so rosy… Firstly, I’ve done something irritatingly painful to my left elbow. Secondly, due to a recent change in working hours by my wife, it’s been increasingly difficult to actually find any time when I can get out with my usual climbing partner. Option B is just to trot down to Cambridge and get on with some bouldering, but in all honesty, I’d rather contract syphilis. So, in the past three weeks or so, I’ve only managed two outings, which is a little disappointing. However, in the process, I have made my first ventures East to the frozen wastelands of Suffolk and the Stowmarket climbing wall. And it’s actually rather nice. Not too high (about 7 metres at the highest I’d guess) but nice and friendly, with a good selection of routes - some slabby, some overhangy, some with big bulbous knobbly bits, some with little evil crimpy bits and cracks. All in all, a good find for me. Far closer than Hatfield, and far nicer than Cambridge. And cheaper than either of them.

Here’s a question: Why can’t climbing walls standardise on one grading system? (Or, in the case of Cambridge, why can’t they have a grading system, other than “can climb that one” or “can’t climb that one”?) Hatfield uses a UK technical grade, while Stowmarket seems to use Font grades. While I don’t want to get hung up on chasing numbers, it’s bloody irritating for a newcomer to turn up, and not really have a clue what’s what. Still, looking on the bright side, I now know that I can managed a UK grade 4c without too much trouble, or a Font 5+ with a little bit of swearing and a bruised kneecap. Lord only knows what grading system they use at Bear Rock, Warwick, as when I went there a few weeks back I skipped up a 6a without really much of a problem. Or perhaps gravity just isn’t as strong there.

On the ‘things to look forward to’ front, there’s a couple of things coming up - firstly, a trip to Birchen next weekend. My first attempt at trad lead climbing.  So looking at things pragmatically, unless I write something else before then, there’s a chance that this could be the last blog entry, and my last act on this earth will be to make a small crater at the bottom of a bit of gritstone while wondering what went wrong with my cam placement. Secondly, I’m off to Spain in a few weeks for a few days sunshine and climbing in the Montserrat Massif. Which will be tremendous fun, apart from one thing - I am terrified of flying. Gulp.

Have I already made it quite clear that I really don’t know what I’m doing with regard to climbing? Yes? Good. As the following is an admission of complete idiocy on my part.

I popped into the local wall in Cambridge a couple of days back for an hours climbing before going to the panto with my family. (Cinderella at the Cambridge Arts Theatre. Highly recommended if, like me, you’re still a child at heart). I’d noticed a few nights ago that the soles on my shoes were no longer black, but more of a hazy grey colour (or gray color for our transatlantic friends). I didn’t really think much about this, but I just cleaned them up with a damp cloth and dried them to bring back the previous nice black colour. I was, to put it mildly, rather surprised when I skipped up a climb that only a week ago I’d fallen from three times when my feet skidded off from a little smeary patch.

Nobody had ever told me that you need to clean the soles of climbing shoes. I’m not sure exactly what I expected (magic climbing pixies that come out at night and look after my kit for me or something) but that’s something else learned. See? Told you I really don’t know what I’m doing.