Apparently the club hut was 50 at the weekend. Or possibly it was the hut warden. Or possibly the hut warden’s dog. But, whatever it was we were supposed to be celebrating, it was a good excuse for a marquee in the garden, several barrels of beer, music, dancing, general revelry, and a pig looking somewhat surprised to find that someone had not only gutted it but impaled it on a spit as well.

This also meant that, as well as various newbies enticed along by the prospect of beer and pig sandwiches, members of the club who hadn’t been seen for years came crawling out of the woodwork - all those, ahem, ‘mature’ members widely assumed to have long since died, emigrated, or stopped climbing and taken up morris-dancing. The hut was packed to the point where late-comers found their choice of sleeping spots limited to the toilets, the coal-shed or sharing a bench with the beer-barrels, and for once I wasn’t the last person out of bed.

It also meant that, rather than being the fat weak punter tagging along behind the fit and talented, I actually found myself in demand, due to having brought ropes, rack, and enthusiasm and hence being the ideal partner for  people who don’t lead yet, people who last led twenty years ago, people who can’t read maps, and people who can no longer see well enough to read maps. I had a very pleasant amble up a two-pitch Diff - the top pitch being a glorious slab with just enough gear - abbed off another route in pouring rain, persuaded someone to do his first lead in absolutely ages, and went for a long walk round a reservoir with superb views and endless seas of purple heather while explaining the difference between a footpath and a bridleway to two new members whose acquaintence with the delights of OS maps was only minutes old.

And I really wasn’t trying. Normally I tend towards the view that getting off the hill without recourse to a headlamp feels like a waste of daylight, that climbing in the rain is perfectly possible and that there is always time for one more route, but, on this occasion, I was happy to come off the hill early for tea and buns. There was no pressure at all to perform, which just made it all the more relaxing.

So yes, I got virtually nothing done. But it was still - in a relaxed, ambling sort of way - fun.

Earlier this year, I had a sudden and painful attack of social responsibility, and so I did two things – I wrote to my MP about the ongoing situation at Longstone Edge, and I went to a work meet at Horseshoe Quarry. Both of these were entertaining, in their own way – the MP (who I would suspect divides her time between London and her constituency on the outskirts of Birmingham) appeared to be having some trouble with the concept of a park containing any plant larger than a stinging-nettle or serving any function other than that of a receptacle for litter, fighting youths and canine bowel movements, while the Horseshoe bash was enlivened by free cakes and various people being shouted at by the Safety Lady for going too near the Dangerous Rocks (5+), picking up litter the wrong way, and being within 90ft of the chainsaw man without having attended an official chainsaw-watching course. All good fun, and the sort of thing that leaves one with a warm fuzzy glow of Doing The Right Thing.

So, to summarise – I spent a day making a quarry nicer to climb in, and I complained about the expansion of another quarry.

I went for a walk past the huge quarry at Longstone Edge recently. It’s got bigger since the last time I was there. Quite a lot bigger, actually.

But I am ashamed to admit that my first response was not “Omigawwd! It’s an outrage! Our national parks are being KILLED TO DEATH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” but “Hmm, looks like a nice line over there, wonder what grade it’d get?”

I’d suspect I’m not the only passing climber to have had that reaction.

Before anyone gets the flamethrower out, I certainly don’t think we need any more quarrying at Longstone Edge, and I don’t think that the Peak National Park, or indeed any other National Park, needs any more huge muddy holes in the ground.

But, in many years time, when the dust has finally settled and quarrying on Longstone Edge has long since finished, I can see the climbers colonising, the bolts appearing (Gary Gibson will probably be awfully old by then, but I’m sure it’s possible to invent a zimmer-frame-mounted bolt gun), and then parties of 22nd-century volunteers turning up to eat cakes, pick up litter and be shouted at by the Safety Lady. There may even be chainsaws.

I wasn’t around when it happened, so I don’t know for sure, but I do sometimes wonder how much fuss people made about Furness, aka Horseshoe, Quarry when the hole first started being dug? Come to that, I wonder how much fuss was made about the quarried areas of Froggatt at the time?

I think it will be interesting to see how the Great Longstone Edge Row looks in many years time – as a great environmental crime (which, from today’s point of view, it is), or as the creation of a new venue.

However, speaking from today’s point of view . . . the sooner they stop digging, the better.

I love climbing. I love the physical poetry of movement over rock, the craftsman’s satisfaction at seating a well-placed nut, the lazy camaraderie of people who choose to label themselves climbers. I love sunsets at the top of Stanage. I love looking down on trees. I love doing something that is still, to many people, a little bit “different”.

I hate climbing. I hate being cold. I hate training incessantly in an echoing chalky bus garage and achieving precisely bugger all. I hate failing miserably on routes well within my ability and I hate being the rubbish one in any given group of climbers. I hate being scared.

Love and hate, like many extremes, are simply two sides of the same coin.