Urban Bouldering
The boulders stand in a typical urban park, hemmed in by Victorian terraces and the railway line. An old woman, well-wrapped against the rain, plods slowly along the path while her small hairy dog lifts its leg against the rusting goalposts. Hidden amongst the dripping trees, the boulders are new, as yet un-graffitied, the muddy scars their construction has gouged into the grass yet to heal.
You could almost imagine someone being murdered here, the scene immortalised in grainy newsprint monochrome, one abandoned trainer lying forlornly like a memorial to hope. But, then again, hope has led someone to construct – and pay for – five small concrete boulders, which are the whole reason for my being in this muddy wasteland on a wet Saturday afternoon.
We are in Northamptonshire, a county whose principal – and indeed only – entry in a climbing guide is the truly execrable Finedon Slabs. The only climbing walls date from the era when gluing bits of polished rock to the side of a sports hall was considered state-of-the-art. And now we have boulders. Not good boulders, not high boulders, not boulders with interesting features, not boulders with holds other than jugs – but they are, at least, better than nothing.
As a climber, I have a fascination with such things, and so I have sat through an hour-long bus journey and come squelching out into the park to investigate. An hour spent traversing around the boulders, hands numb with the cold, around and around and around like a zoo inmate pacing the cage, and it’s time to pack up and squelch off in search of a bus home.
Why do I do this? It isn’t real climbing. It’s of doubtful value as training. But it is a structure intended for climbing . . . and so, to a climber, this means that it Must Be Climbed.