Penfro

The long Easter weekend dawned bright and early as we made our way up the M5. Being, as I am, a full-time climbing bum, who is only employed in the vaguest sense of the word, the concepts of Bank Holidays or even weekends are alien to me – marked only by the crags being busier that mid-week. Justin, however, is constrained by a full time job and as a result it's Easter and we're heading to Pembroke.

Day 1: Stennis Head

A few hours later and we were peering into Huntsman’s Leap, a terrifying looking crag filled with routes ranging from hard to HARD! I fancied a gentler warm up to Pembroke trad and headed down to Stennis Head to get on a truly awesome looking route – Pleasure Dome.

Pleasure Dome has everything you need from a route: a perfect line on a pristine section of rock, guaranteed exposure with a drop to the sea beneath your feet and holds and gear galore. It was a perfect wake up after hours in a van and the route didn't disappoint. I topped-out revelling in the un-Swanage-like nature of the rock – it’s not even loose!

Enjoying Pleasure Dome

Justin’s lead and he picked the mean-looking line of Flash. One smooth lead later with only one, very controlled shout of ‘watch me’ and he reached at the top. I climbed it and got the fear, seconding is a scary business.

It was my lead again and true to the rules of ‘Add a Grade’ I had to climb something harder than Justin’s last lead. I flicked through the guide looking for a low in the grade E5 that I could check out from the bottom before committing to, that doesn’t have words like  ‘outrageously strenuous’ or  ‘finger-shredding’ in the description and that isn’t accompanied by any of the following symbols in the Rockfax guide:

Unsurprisingly this narrowed the field somewhat.

Trevallen

Yellow Pearls at Trevallen fitted the description – apart, possibly, from the low in the grade bit but the guide says it’s French 7a+ and I can climb 7a+ right? Wrong! The route started well; I performed the vertical bellyflopping move that is required when the route, and the cliff, start over a metre off the ground, I mantled with surprising ease, I even climbed some moves and placed some gear. Soon, however, I reached a point where I needed to place a wire in the slot that I was eye-balling but couldn’t take a hand off to do so due to the irritating lack of footholds. I considered ignoring the gear and carrying on, citing the old motto ‘if in doubt: run it out’ but I felt too close to the ground to justify it. I settled on the only option left open to me and fell off.

A few more attempts later and I surrendered the lead to Justin who found the same difficulties but reach the top via a few quick-draw shaped holds. I seconded it with some rests and much fighting with firmly wedged-in gear. I was annoyed at falling off but pleased that I had got on the route to start with and psyched for some serious endurance training.

The day ended with a typical camper’s diet of beer, pasta surprise and mini eggs but I felt lost without my trusty van that, at present, is in the garage having the engine re-attached.

Day 2: St Govan’s

We woke to drizzle and the sounds of an entire campsite complaining that 'this wasn’t on the forecast' but after a brief trip to stock up on supplies of cake and tea it cleared up enough to risk an abseil. Strong offshore winds hassled us as we sorted our kit at the top of St Govan’s Head; at the cliff bottom it was another world, in the lee of the wind with the sun sneaking out from behind the clouds to warm our backs and dry the rock it felt like paradise.

Justin led first, climbing The Butcher (E2.5) a lovely climb which made me feel that I was about to barn-door off around the arête on nearly every move. Back down, out of the wind, I eyed up Charisma; the guidebook description suggested that it was a bit of a one-move wonder with the move protected by an aging peg and had upped the grade accordingly.

The route went well until The Move; from a good rest I placed some gear, ignored the rusty peg and tried to figure out The Move. I must have spent 30mins climbing up and down, trying to ignore the increasingly apparent fact that The Move was a big, committing slap to a flat hold. I don’t like big committing slaps, I don’t like them above a bouldering mat, I don’t like them above a bolt and I especially don’t like them above (admittedly bomber) gear. Eventually I had faffed enough and had nothing left to do apart from commit to The Move, which I did. I hit the hold and didn’t fall off, a bit of an anti-climax really. The rest of the route passed in an over-gripped and pumped blur.

Justin’s lead and sticking true to the game of Add a Grade, he found a classic E5, Get Some In, and set off. The route looked pumpy and greasy, rests were taken. My experience of the route was made far more pleasant by chalked holds and the absence of a lead-fall potential but I still fell off.

We abbed in one last time to retrieve the bag and escaped up Army Dreamers, a classic HVS, which had both holds and gear and was delightful. More beer, pasta surprise and mini eggs followed.

Day 3: Stennis Head

Easter Sunday dawned grey and cold, we started the day by a recce of a couple of committing routes that Justin and I had our eyes on: Out of my Mind at Stennis Head and Star Wars at Bosherston respectively. We managed to talk ourselves out of both routes due to the lingering sea grease experienced on our first climb of the day, Stuntsman.

Trevallen

A wee while later and I was staring at the bottom section of Trevallen Pillar eyeing up the grease and psyching myself up. The grease didn’t prove to be problematic and the first half of the route (originally the first pitch) went well; technical climbing, enough gear and a pleasantly committing crux. Then a ledge offered a welcome rest and a slab above offered a far less welcome series of unprotectable, unreversable moves on spaced crimps. I tried, I failed, I got scared and ran off, sideways, to belay around the corner leaving a 5b pitch for Justin.

Contemplating Barbarella

Justin’s lead and after a brief contemplation of the horrors of Barbarella he led the neighbouring Sunlover and we skipped away over Pembrokeshire moorland to the promise of tea, warm showers and a real bed.

Days That Dreams Are Made Of

I’m sitting on a grassy slope, a cliff-top at my feet and the sea far below, ropes trail back from me to a stake and a fence post and down in front of me to my partner climbing up. The sun is shining brightly in a clear blue sky and a gentle breeze is blowing along the cliff carrying with it the smell of gorse flowers and the sea. At my waist my battered and bleeding hands, aided by protesting arms, control the rope though the belay plate. Out to sea four sea-kayakers fade to minuscule dots in the vast ocean and the occasional hum of a passing motorboat replicates the lazy drone of a bee on a hot summer’s afternoon. I feel alive, content, sated.

Earlier today I stood at the foot of the cliff and stared up, the line of Ocean Boulevard looked awesome from the ground, an obvious crack line slicing through the wall liberally strewn with massive holds and perfect tapering cracks for gear. I bounded over to the start eager to get my teeth into the route, eager to get absorbed into the climbing and to let the noise in my mind fade to silence. The climbing was as good as it looked; big holds all the way, steep enough to remind me to keep concentrating whilst still allowing time to relax and enjoy the exposure, the view, the uniformly haphazard cliffs stretching away on each side. All too soon it was over and I was standing on a ledge at the top with only the typical Swanage top-out still to climb wishing the route was longer.

I belayed Justin up and we grabbed some food and abbed back in, it was Justin’s lead and what a route to choose – Wall of the Worlds – a name which, like the route itself, both inspires and intimidates. I sat and belayed in the sun dodging the falling chips of rocks which seem to find me wherever I placed myself. After an impressively calm and smooth lead Justin reached the top and I set off after him fighting a rising pump and the few hard moves thrown in along the way.

Such a route called for a celebratory picnic which gave my arms time to recover before ‘Round 3’. The route I had scoped out for my next lead was Barracuda, a beast of a line up a steep section of rock which the guidebook says “never lets up” (they weren’t wrong). At the bottom I ditched as much unnecessary clothing as possible, partly because I didn’t need to carry the extra weight and partly because the last few days of climbing had worn through much of my skin leaving only the layer that constantly seeps moisture and glistens in the sunlight, the cooler the skin the better.

After a cursory look at the first bulge I set off and found steep rock, poor holds and equally poor gear. A hard-looking move not far off the deck made me feel the need for a decent bit of protection that was only achieved one downclimb and two painful knee bars later. Excuses gone I had no choice but to get on and commit to the move and the route, I just managed to reach the good hold above when my foothold crumbled quietly beneath me injecting a shot of adrenaline into my lactic acid infused circulatory system. On the better holds above I tried to regain some sense of poise and control however the clock was ticking and my arms were tiring fast. A few more moves and gear placements later and I was properly pumped, so much so that I could only watch as my fingers tried over and over to clip a quickdraw onto the cam and clip in the rope.

The cost of learning to jam mid-route.

Pumped I reached a vague corner that I wedged my body in and desperately tried to teach myself to jam, being from the south I am hopeless at jamming but I knew that you can get a good rest on jams and I really needed a good rest. Even more pumped I grabbed at the break above which didn’t provide the sinker jugs I was after but instead provided a selection of rounded holds covered in sand. By now the pressure was off, I had given everything I had and at some point I would reach the top or fall off, I didn’t really care which as long as it happened soon.

I found some sort of a rest in the break which involved a heel-hook and a lot of hope, the angle of the wall above looked like it eased a little and I convinced myself that there would be a perfect rest above 5 moves further up. This gave me just enough encouragement to leave the break and carry on, needless to say the rest didn’t turn out to be restful but I told myself there were good holds just about 5 moves further up and so it went on. I was now just climbing on auto-pilot (the pilot had given up some time ago) and, with enough hand swaps, I could place the odd bit of gear.

The angle slowly eased as the pump in my arms continued to rise, the sinker jugs never appeared but eventually I found myself standing on a ledge at the top that I had stood on four hours earlier, this time I didn’t wish that the route was longer but I have never felt more alive.

At my back the sun shone in a cloudless sky and the smell of gorse wafted gently down from the cliff-top above.

Before the Bird-Ban

The last couple of weeks have been spent, beside the regular trips to Ansteys’, climbing on cliffs shortly to be bird-banned. Last week, on the 29^th of February, we sneaked in one final trip to Guillemot Ledge, the highlights of the trip were falling off the awesome line of Fly Crazy But Free, not falling off the no-less-awesome line of The Spook and watching for pirate ships lurking in the mist out to sea.

Yesterday, however, we headed north instead of east as the bird-ban at Baggy Point doesn’t start until the 15^th of March (I hope someone has told the birds). A short visit to check out the new-born livestock on my parents’ farm allowed the slabs time to dry out after the morning’s rain. By the time we reached Baggy Point the sun was nearly out but unfortunately strong winds were battering the coast; great for drying out the slabs, not so great for any feeling of psyche or motivation. A good friend once told me that you can estimate the speed of the wind by comparing your ability to walk in the wind with your ability to walk after a few pints; 1 pint equals about 10 mph. I reckon we were at least 3 pints down and well on our way to another pint and a kebab.

Anyway we unpacked by the top of the slab trying to stop our stuff blowing away and noticed the conspicuous absence of one of the half ropes (my incompetence). Luckily we had a single rope with us and figuring that lines on slabs were straight-ish we abbed in. The wind was calmer near the bottom of the slab but still strong enough to whip up the waves and occasionally send the foam circling into the sky in crazy maelstroms.

The angle of the rock at Baggy Point is always surprising, from a distance it’s hard to imagine a truly hard move, and in most places, if you just believe, you can move up on nearly nothing. However the gear, or absence of it, the state of the pegs and the friable nature of the rock balance out the fact that you can get a hands-off rest at any point.

I tried, without real intent, to find the line of an E3 which was described differently in both guidebooks, neither of which seemed to bear much relation to the cliff. Instead I ran away up the beautifully obvious line of Undercracker, a route which follows the edge of one of the sheets of rock that make up the slab. Having only one rope, limited extenders and climbing a slightly wandering line concentrated my mind to place only bomber bits of gear and a restrained number of those (as opposed to my usual tactic of shoving in gear at random in the hope that some of it would hold).The moves were wonderful requiring poise and balance in equal measure along with a strong belief in the capacity of rubber to stick on lichen-covered ripples of rock. I restrained myself from placing cams behind dodgy flakes and avoided using a massive balanced block which looked like it had the capability to kill both me and my belayer and arrived at the top laughing and singing to myself like a mad-woman. I composed a belay out of dodgy bits of gear and a general belief in the structural stability of the cliff and then sat and watched the gulls soaring as Alexis skipped his way up the slab.

We abbed back down for round two as the tide worked its way up the belay ledge, Alexis debated briefly between Soft Touch and Urizen and chose, due to the rising tide, the latter. I sat below the towering, tottering cliffs to the right of the slab and watched the waves crashing in, the sun highlighting the plumes of spray. By my feet the water kept creeping up the ledge but Alexis crept higher faster; soon the call to climb came but not before I had moved the rope out of the sea’s determined reach. I set off up the long clean corner of Urizen and remembered the last time I climbed this route five years ago, when I was learning to lead climb and Baggy was my nearest crag.

At the top we gathered our things and set off up the slope and into the still raging gale spurred on by the thought of home-made Eccles cakes and the squalls bearing in on us from the Atlantic.

Pigs and Pixies

It’s 7.45am and I prise myself out of bed; my body aches and my mind protests against movement after the 13 hours of work yesterday and the four days of climbing before that. I stop making excuses and get up.

I step outside and the warm air feels strange and unnatural, the ground is wet and condensation could well be a problem but I’m only heading to Pixies’ and it’s worth the 10min drive to find out. The world-famous Pixies’ Hole is a squalid cave at Chudleigh which epitomises all that I need to improve at. The angle, somewhere between vertical and Ferocity Wall steepness won’t succumb to my usual technique of turning sideways and throwing in a drop-knee instead you need to climb square-on using strength, power and accuracy, three of my major weaknesses.

I park up and walk in, the crag is silent and deserted which is unsurprising as it’s 8.30am and the whole crag is dripping with condensation. Pixies’ is normally festooned with bright white chalk marks but today it’s dark and damp and slimy.

Climbing is clearly out of the question but I can’t bring myself to turn around and head back home. I dump my bags and wander on down the crag, past Pixies’ where many a happy hour has been spent in the company of good friends, past Combat where I scared myself silly 1^st time round and Tendonitis where I felt calm and collected despite dropping some crucial gear. I pick out lines I’ve led, lines I plan to lead and lines I haven’t noticed before. I look up at Hot Ice and remember top-roping it many years ago and hoping one day I’d be brave enough to solo it... then remind myself to get on and do it. Past Cow Cave, past some of my first climbs nearly ten years ago, Wogs and Barn Owl Crack, exciting outings that I loved and that got me hooked on climbing. I look up at Black Death and White Life and mentally bump the latter up my to-do list of climbs for this year. I wander on past Scar and The Spider and Great Western, so many climbs and so many memories of great days out.

Turning away from the crag I meander back through the trees breathing in the warm air and the scent of spring, I see snowdrops pushing their way through the mossy soil and watch ravens soaring and cackling overhead. The smell of the woodland and the sight of the old twisted oaks remind me of walking through the wood on my parents’ farm, following dear tracks and disturbing magnificent stags. I remember being sent with a bucket of pig food to find an adventurous pair of pigs that we brought for the autumn; the pigs where free-range throughout the whole farm but had a penchant for exploring and finding gaps in the boundary fence.

As happy as a pig in...

I walked through the wood calling and rattling the bucket until eventually there was a rustling in the undergrowth and the two pigs trotted over for some food and a good scratch. On the way back I disturbed a pair of stags fighting in a pond in the centre of the wood, the image of them is framed in my mind with sunlight streaming through the trees and catching on the droplets of water thrown up in the air.

Back in Chudleigh I see no deer or pigs but the wood is beautiful nevertheless and the morning spent wandering around a damp crag doesn’t feel wasted at all.

Training

For some climbers training is the bane of their lives, a torture they endure occasionally and only when circumstances force them to. For others it’s the reminder of a climbing lifestyle in an otherwise busy life, an escape from their commitments for a precious 30 minutes spent hanging off a fingerboard or training wall, memories of past climbs and future plans are all the motivation they need.

For my part I enjoy a good training session, I love turning up to the wall with a plan and sticking to it, I love walking away 4 hours later with tired and aching muscles and a very real sense of achievement but most of all I love the focus it requires.

I warm up at The Quay, traversing and climbing some of the easier boulder problems then I head to the 40 degree wall and work out a ten move problem that’s near the limit of my ability. It’s strange to be climbing in a busy climbing wall instead of at a quiet crag, people and their conversations distract me; I climb the problem for the first time, feet skating everywhere. At the last hold I jump off, a 30 second rest and a quick chalk up and I’m back on the board. This time the concentration comes more easily, my footwork is more precise, each move is carried out more efficiently.

Jump off, rest, chalk, climb.

The third go and I start to feel tired, the pump in my arms won’t shift and I feel like Popeye just without the spinach habit. Fourth and fifth goes are a trial, the last move nearly gets me each time but I stick it, just. Five bolts stand in a row by the entrance to the boulder room, each one symbolising a go on the board and an inability to count whilst tired.

I take a rest then head to the other boulder room and repeat the process on the roof section then back to the 40 degree wall for round 3 on a new 10 move problem. Time for a break and some food and renewed psyche from an old edition of climb magazine.

Back on the floor I warm up again and head on to the auto-belay for laps on some longer routes. A slopey 7a is perfect for the challenge, only one positive hold on the route and hard moves requiring locking off and reaching. Five goes later and I don’t want to stop, my arms are tired but the moves are so absorbing that I don’t seem to mind. In the break between goes my mind wanders, in the lull between focusing hard on the route it explores the reasons why; why I’m training, why I enjoy this, why I keep coming back.

Sanctuary Wall - it's time to get strong!

I think I’m addicted to the feeling of moment, of freedom, of pain and resistance, of power and strength, of muscles working to their limit and my mind fully focused on each hold, each move. The beauty of it is that while my mind is full of climbing it is empty of everything else. The absolute commitment to each move requires rules out thoughts of anything more, of life and people, of the ever-changing future or the unchangeable past.  My life, and all of existence with it, shrinks to a heart-beat, a burst of power from my muscles, a single focused thought.

At the end of the session when the outside world returns to crowd out my mind I miss the feeling of being lost inside a move but the memory of it is as powerful as a drug, calling me back time and time again. 

Early-Morning Blues

I wish I was still in bed...

My thoughts are slow and sluggish but it’s 7.45am, I’m at the cove and it’s one of those days when everything feels like hard work. I try and wake up by getting on the traverse but after yesterday’s dawn session at Chudleigh my skin feels like it’s on fire. I move round to the sloper traverse in the hope that it won’t hurt as much and that I’ll warm up, which I do, slowly.

... my skin hurts...

Though it's gloomy over Anstey's the view out to sea takes my breath away; a container ship sits out in the bay silhouetted against the early morning sunshine that breaks through the layer of cloud in rays covering the scene in a soft orange glow.

... it’s beautiful here...

Under Ferocity Wall the cold easterly wind whips along the base of the cliff stealing the last of my psyche and body heat but we set up anyway as there’s not a lot else to do. I put the clips in Tuppence trying to link sections of the route but the moves feel hard today, especially compared to my last session. On Sunday, back on the project after 3 weeks away I felt fit and strong, possibly the strongest I’ve ever felt on the route; today, however, every move is a challenge.

... but so cold...

After a stint of belaying I’m climbing again, trying to ignore the pain but each hold bites into my skin like a piranha, if my fingers pop off a hold the pain increases leaving me hanging on the rope cursing quietly but the move at the bottom of the route is the worst. The big slap to a razor sharp hold requires all-or-nothing commitment, I settle for neither and my fingers catch but don’t quite hold the edge...

...*&@%!...

Thought it feels unusually hard and painful today, somehow it’s still worth it; every move I try and make with tired arms and worn-out skin will feel easier next time, at least I hope it will! Despite it all it feels great to sneak in a climb before a full day’s work, like I’ve manage to cheat the system just a little.

... I wouldn’t miss this for the world.

España

I’ve just returned from two weeks in El Chorro climbing sunny sport climbs, absorbing a much needed dose of Vitamin D and accidentally believing that summer had come and winter was over for the year. My return to England and its rain, snow and sub-zero temperatures quickly disabused me of that notion.

We stayed in the Olive Branch, the perfect hang-out for any climbing bum, and our time there fell into a regular pattern; days spent at a local crag either baking of freezing depending on its aspect, evenings spent in the strange improvised dance that happens when half a dozen people attempt to cook in the same kitchen.

Makinodromo

The highlights of the trip were:

 ·         Bouldering in Malaga Airport with John Mcshea, we found a traverse around a pillar which involved wide spans and then matching on sloping side pulls. We got a few strange looks from the other tourists but it was worth it for our first bit of Spanish climbing.

 ·         Climbing in Poema de Roca, a massive cave in the side of an immense expanse of rock that puts any cliff in England to shame. We went there on our first day as, much to our disgust, it was raining (and there’s me thinking that the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains). The routes in the cave vary from wall climbs to tufa-laden endurance routes to horizontal, and frankly ridiculous, roof climbs. I had a go on Swimming Through a Shark Attack partly because it looked crazy and like nothing I’d ever climbed before and partly because it had the draws in as I didn’t fancy the logistics of stripping a nearly horizontal route on petzl bolts. The route consisted of swinging between stalactite blobs, finding knee-bars and leg-locks and trying not to become disorientated in a world that is 90degrees away from the norm. I had a few goes on the route but didn’t get further than halfway, I’ll save the route for another day when I have learnt how to roof climb and have the endurance of a chimp.

Redpointing La Villa Strangiato in the Poema de Roca cave.

Climbing high above the cloud inversion at Desplomilandia

Justin figuring out the crux of Arabesque at Escalera Arabe

        ·         Visiting Desplomilandia, a shady, north-facing venue perfect for any sweltering climber unsuited to the temperatures of the Spanish Winter. We spent most of our time on the El Triangulo crag, the angle was just what I am used to (cheating really) but some of the routes were 25m long, approximately 10m longer than my stomping-ground Ferocity Wall (and to be honest I spend most of my time there sitting on the rope or possibly linking 2 or 3 moves). Good days were spent there trying the moves of the marvellous Mar de Ortigas which consists of 25m of pocket and tufa climbing – exactly the sort of route I came to Spain for.

John on Mar de Ortigas at Desplomilandia

Amongst all this bolt-clipping I did have a yearning for some trad climbing, a yearning which was at least partially sated by our ‘rest-day’ climb Africa. Just the approach to the climb was an exciting and nerve-wracking affair; after walking to the start of the gorge you embark on El Camino del Rey, a dodgy concrete and metal structure that traverses the entire gorge made somewhat safer by the via ferrata set-up that accompanies it, although the locals bimble along the walkway with the nonchalance of a French Guide we edged our way tentatively expecting it to collapse at anytime. The base of the climb is then reached by crawling through a tunnel and abseiling 50m down the side of the gorge to a committing position where escape is either up the cliff or an abseil into the river below. The route is partially bolted and gets 6b+ in the guide which makes it easy to forget that you’re embarking on a 4 pitch E3/E4. The route was great though our route-finding towards the top wasn’t and as rest-days go it wasn’t particularly restful leading me to take another rest-day just to get over the first one.