Saturday. Sunny. Lovely day for a long route. Unfortunately Dan had a sudden and painful attack of work, wasn’t able to travel on Friday night, and is still trying to get here. It is 9:30 am. The clock is ticking. 

Dan arrives at 10am. We hit the crag at 1pm.  

As we kit up a small voice starts up in the back of my mind, “You are starting way too late. You are going to get benighted. You are going to have an epic. Turn round NOW.” 

Sod off, small voice. I am going to do this anyway. 

Right, ten pitches, gets dark a little after six, so half an hour per pitch or GET A MOVE ON. Dan climbs faster than I do (fitter, more talented and less inclined towards gibbering sweary moments), so the plan is for him to do most if not all of the leading.  

The first pitch suffers from a protracted start-of-route gear faff and takes over forty minutes. Not good. 

The second pitch  suffers from a can’t-find-the-belay faff. Not good either. 

Deconstructing the guidebook, comprehension dawns. We’ve overshot the belay and are actually halfway up the third pitch. I lead through and we are back on track. By the fourth pitch we are flying. 

Up the awkward bit. Up the corner. Up the ridge and yes, this is *that* belay, this is where we need to be. Now, where is the thing? A quick guddle under a suspicious-looking loose rock and I have cache#1000 in hand.  

We top out just as the sun starts to set. Sorted. 

It would be nice to report that there was much beer and celebration that night, but sadly I ended up asleep after half a pint. 

(On Sunday, as some sort of karmic balancing act for the joys of Saturday, we went to Dinas Mot, did The Cracks in persistant penetrating drizzle, and then got the ropes stuck on the abseil off just as it started raining properly. Hmph.)

 (Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 34
Sport Routes (led): 5
Trad Routes (seconded): 46
Trad Routes (led): 8
Trad routes (solo: 1)

“I’m not sure I can do this.” 

Scrabbling desperately, he fumbles a quickdraw onto the bolt. 

“I think I’m coming off.” 

Weight all on hands, nothing for feet. He needs to get the rope into the quickdraw, but he can’t get a hand free. He’s tiring fast. 

“I’m gonna fall off!” 

He’s a big lad and he’s a fair way above the last bolt. He sounds more than a little stressed. 

“I’M COMING OFF!!” 

And suddenly, I am flying up to meet him.  

Loud laughter from all present. “Steve? You owe your belayer a pint, mate!” 

At the end of the meet, amid all the thanks for the beer/food/climbing and see-you-Wednesday, he grins. “Cheers for saving my life.” 

Funny, this sport of ours. We make regular attempts to get killed and our belayers perform ordinary, everyday miracles in stopping us dying. And we very rarely think anything of it.

 (Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 34
Sport Routes (led): 5
Trad Routes (seconded): 44.5
Trad Routes (led): 7.5
Trad routes (solo: 1)

Sometime earlier this summer, one of the club movers and shakers collared me at the club hut and said, “We’re running a novice course in September, are you coming?”

My first reaction was “Cheeky git! I know I’m crap, but I’m not *that* crap!”, but it turned out that what he actually meant was that he wanted me as one of various spare bodies to help shepherd people around when they weren’t doing the course, the two days of the course being aimed at two separate groups of people.

Fairy nuff.

A couple of days before the weekend, I had a little think. People in the weekly pub session had been making noises about slate quarries, and almost every time we end up sport climbing we seem to end up shouting the what-to-do-at-the-top instructions up the crag to someone who’s got to the top of the route and realised they aren’t sure how to get down. Trying to teach people what to do with a two-bolt belay without actually having the belay to play with doesn’t work very well (which is why people still end up being unsure and confused) , so I had a guddle around in the toolbox and came up with . . . a simulated crag top.

Of course, Sod’s Law then dictated that we then found some bolts at the right height for people to practice on! Which I shall bear in mind for future reference.

(Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 30
Sport Routes (led): 4
Trad Routes (seconded): 44.5
Trad Routes (led): 7.5
Trad routes (solo: 1)

Club meet at Llangollen, hindered somewhat by the campsite we’d booked into closing down three days before the meet and the last-minute replacement having a slope so severe you ended up sliding out of your tent and down the field if you weren’t careful. The organisational faff didn’t extend to the climbing, and we ended up at the bit of Trevor that’s too new to be in the guide. It was more than a little loose. On the other hand, it wasn’t polished. Which was nice.

(Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 24
Sport Routes (led): 2
Trad Routes (seconded): 44.5
Trad Routes (led): 7.5
Trad routes (solo: 1)

Rock up in North Wales with high hopes for a certain magic number, and what happens? First I can’t find a partner, and then it pees it down. Grrrrr. 

(There has to be a reason why it seems to rain so much on Bank Holiday weekends?)

Four days (two days leave plus weekend), 91 geocaches. The mission may yet happen.

In search of something a little bit different, Andrew and I had a wander up to the Pinfold area of Trevor. Very quiet – only one other party there – but also a little bit loose. Did two routes, seemed to be having a bit of a high-gravity day, enthusiasm noticeably absent.

(Score so far:
Winter Routes (survived): 3
Sport Routes (seconded): 15
Sport Routes (led): 1
Trad Routes (seconded): 44.5
Trad Routes (led): 7.5
Trad routes (solo: 1)

The slugs are back. Spent the weekend geocaching in the Peak (nearly up to 800), had slugs *everywhere*. As I believe I may have mentioned before, I hate slugs. 

When I eventually get round to ruling the world, (once I’ve done the washing-up and had a shower), the slugs will die. 

All of them. 

Every last one. 

Especially the one that I stood on in the campsite toilet block. In bare feet.

Is it *ever* going to stop raining? Long weekend on Dartmoor, no climbing, got very very wet!

3^rd weekend, so informal meet time again. Where one of the first people I walked into was one of my colleagues. It would appear that Adam is romantically attached to the niece of one of the club movers and shakers.

I hate work. I hate having a long commute to a remote office when I live five minutes’ walk from my base office. I hate having nothing to do when I get there. I hate it that on the very rare occasions when I do have something to do that something can be summarised as “Press refresh a lot. When it stops working, phone
Newcastle” which could quite frankly be done by a trained baboon. I hate my team leader’s “I want to be your friend” act and if I have to listen to much more drivel about his pet chinchilla I am going to break into his house and strangle the thing. The building reminds me of a prison, the canteen has been known to serve cheese-and-worm sandwiches and it’s in Telford, where most of the locals seem to be slack-jawed boss-eyed knuckle-dragging morons.

So it was, therefore, quite refreshing to discover that one of the co-irkers who I had previously filed under “twunts, miscellaneous, self for the annoyance of” is actually quite a nice bloke. But of course he is . . . he’s another climber, and they mostly are!

(And yes, I am actively job-hunting elsewhere!)

No climbing due to rain. Squelchy walk. As usual.