"The only real failure in life is the failure to try." Anon

Like every aspiring hard climber I am constantly trying to evaluate my performance to try to work out how to climb better and where best to concentrate my training. I am, however, coming to the conclusion that the main reason why I don’t get up a climb is because I don’t get on it in the first place. That’s not to say I would get up any climb I choose to get on just that I tend to pre-empt failure by avoiding the route altogether. Why I don’t get on a route seems to be due to a combination of reasons: fear of falling, fear of failing, a reluctance to put myself in a position where I’ll have to try hard (otherwise known as laziness) but mainly because I forget that I really like climbing.

Recent outings have been prime examples of this. Last week we headed down to Swanage, to the mega-steep Lean Machine Area. Alexis lead Surge Control first whilst I belayed cowering from the huge waves funnelling in to the base of the crag. I set off to second it with cold hands and without a warm up, unsurprisingly it wasn’t long before the flash-pump-of-doom and numb fingers saw me sitting on the rope feeling generally sorry for myself. The rational view of this would be that I fell off because my fingers and muscles were cold and I was trying to climb the 6b crux of a pumpy E5. The view that I took, however, was that climbing was hard, painful and unpleasant and that there was no point in me getting on Lean Machine as I would just fail and hate myself forever. As you can tell I wasn’t in a happy place!

Luckily I had time for my arms to recover, I managed to encourage myself to get on the route and from there it was alright. Compared to seconding Surge Control it was a walk in the park: lots of holds and gear and an entirely bearable level of pump. The crux as always was the decision-making part before getting on the route, moral of the story: I really enjoy climbing and if in doubt should get on and lead something.

Yesterday, with the memory of Lean Machine in the front of my mind, we went to Cheddar to get on Kephalonia. As three star, three pitch E5s go it was amazing, cold and shady but amazing. Alexis led the first pitch – it was his birthday after all – and I seconded it cold, without a warm up and fell off with numb fingers and toes and flash pump in my arms (déjà vu anyone?). Despite the lessons learned from last week’s adventure when I got to the belay and looked at the intimidating second pitch I handed the lead back to Alexis citing flash pump, cold fingers and the fact that the first pitch felt really hard.

The other Kephalonia

As I sat on the belay listening to the plaintive cries of goat kids and the unnecessary noise of boy-racers echoing around the gorge I berated myself for not leading ‘my’ pitch. By the time I got to the second belay I was annoyed enough with myself to make the decision to lead the last pitch without thinking twice. We sorted out the gear and I set off, as usual as soon as I stepped off the belay I felt relaxed, happy and unhassled by a rope above me. The pitch started easily and then culminated in a wonderful series of layback moves above 60 or 70 metres of exposure. It was a delight and leading a pitch made the whole route a far more enjoyable experience.

From now on I solemnly vow to ignore the pessimistic voice of failure and get on lead on stuff that I find hard whether I believe I can climb it or not.

Sharpnose

The unlikely (and unstable) looking fins of rock that make up Lower Sharpnose Point jut out into a wonderfully calm Atlantic Ocean. A light breeze blows along the faces drying out the last of the sea grease and the sun pokes his head out from behind the clouds creating a tranquil atmosphere at a normally intimidating crag. When we arrive there are already a few other parties climbing and, though I enjoy the solitude of a quiet crag, the crowd of regular Devon climbers only add to the convivial atmosphere.

Crispin on Last Laugh

Pete and his band of ‘seasoned’ rock athletes heckle and sandbag each other whilst ticking off hard routes with ease whilst Crispin, Dave, Justin, Nick and I get on routes that have long been on our respective tick lists and for once we all succeed. Between the five of us we tally up 17 E points and 20 stars and not a single fall leading or seconding which means either we all had an awesome day or we really weren't trying hard enough.

While Dave and Crispin finish warming up on The Smile Nick sets off up Lunakhod, a bridging masterpiece on the North side of the central fin which offers the climber a surprising view through the metre wide fin. Although it is slightly disturbing to be able to see daylight through the cliff you are climbing; the rock (and the abseil tat) held so I really can’t complain. My lead next and we head round to the South side stopping on our way to congratulate Crispin on his first E2 onsight of the testing Last Laugh.

I decide to get on Pacemaker after falling off seconding it a year ago and, as is expected of one of the best climbs in the West Country, it is amazing. The route wanders up the sheer face giving 25m of technical climbing on a gently steepening wall with enough gear to keep me happy and a rising pump to keep me moving.

Me on Pacemaker

Back on the ground it was Justin's turn to lead and my turn to skip around the boulder-strewn beach staring excitedly at the rock like an over-eager Spaniel with a rock fetish. I mentally added to my tick list Break on Through and Fay (occupied by Justin and Dave respectively), Sunscape, Dry Stone Wall and Finesse. I giggled at Coronary Country and tried to imagine leading it, I picked out the line of Culm to Mother on the North side and shuddered at the look of the rusty pegs then turned and watched the tide as it quietly snuck towards me.

Nick smiling on The Smile

When Justin and Nick had finished on Break on Through we hurried back to the North fin with minutes to spare before the tide came in and guaranteed wet feet for anyone left behind. Justin, Crispin and Dave walked out with the bags and I belayed Nick on The Smile as the busy crag quickly emptied. The last of Pete’s merry band followed up Misery Goat and Out of the Blue and the ab rope snaked silently up the cliff pulled up by unseen hands to leave me on my own at the base crag gazing out at the soul-searchingly beautiful view. Without a sound it began to rain giving the boulders around me an increasingly bad case of measles and turning the light grey pebbles a matt black. The call to climb came and I set off across the face leaving Sharpnose in peace for another day.

Learning to Headpoint

At a rarely visited crag tucked away on the Penwith coast quality 3 star lines lie between sections of unclimbed Greenstone. We approach the top of the cliff while a raging sea jostles for attention down below but for once the rock reflects a matt dryness back to the eye. For reasons known only to the fickle conditions gods neither condensation nor spray will affect the crag today. We set up an anchor through which I thread the half ropes and watch them unfurl down the length of the crag, their ends slithering inevitably into a pristine rock pool to lie patiently alongside the limpets.

I abseil down, spinning slowly in the cool air as gravity drags me away from the face and deposits me a few metres out from the base of the cliff. Alexis slithers down the rope after me placing gear on his way to keep his rope close to the route. He reaches the bottom, assembles the necessary gear and sets off again, acting out the performance of removing gear, replacing it and removing it again, re-practising pre-practised moves and chuckling at the run-out from the comfort of the top-rope.

Soon he returns to the increasingly wave-washed platform and we swap roles. A different route but the same routine: I place gear, test it, remove it, memorise footholds, refresh my memory of the sequence and try to stay calm.

Back on the ground an air of nervousness prevails, an almost audible crackle of excitement, of fear, enhanced by the sound of the waves pounding the shoreline. The ropes are pulled, Alexis ties in and organises his gear into the correct sequence on his harness. He sets off and I belay standing in close to the cliff, one wary eye on the raging sea sending waves crashing over the platform ever closer to me. He climbs, executing the moves precisely, placing gear and leaving it below his feet to face the 5 or 6 metre run-out seemingly unconcerned. He reaches the top without so much as a power scream and between waves I edge out tentatively across the rock platform to take a photo; confirmation and a memento of his new route.  After a moment he lowers down, cleans the gear and takes the swing into space, floating for a moment above the foamy sea before gravity swings him back onto dry land.

Now it’s my turn. For a short while I can lose myself in the comfort of the pre-climb routine – ropes, gear, helmet, shoes, chalk – and forget about the pressure of the ‘tick’, stop worrying about how it’ll feel to be on lead with the safety of the top-rope notable only by its absence. Then I step off the ground and automatically relax, it’s just climbing after all. The first section passes easily and at the rest under the roof I realise I’m grinning, I feel comfortable leading, in control, alive. I take a deep breath and swing out across the lip of the roof and up the moves above it, I refrain from worrying about the potentially unpleasant fall onto the gear placed below the roof – the decision to take the risk had been made on the ground, a lifetime ago.

I place a small wire, seat it, clip it to my left rope and carry on, a few moves and then two cams, yellow one first, then red. Now for the crux, one hard move with the cams at my feet, a blind cam slot then another hard move but my body works on autopilot, it has done this before. The meat of the route is now over just a few more well practised moves, a wire and an unpractised top-out; I tell myself not to relax, not to panic, just to climb...

High as a kite I sit on the top and watch the waves.

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.