IT was pouring down on the M.5, as it nearly always does everywhere on Friday nights. My windscreen wipers didn’t work. I pulled onto the hard shoulder and sat swearing until the AA man knocked on the window.
He was very helpful, but, as he explained, he couldn’t do anything without taking the dashboard completely to pieces.
"You’ll have to manage without. Are you going far?"
"Inverness."
From the look on his face I guessed that I must be the first person ever to go from Worcestershire to Northern Scotland.
The rain eventually stopped and I got to Manchester only about three hours late. Gordon, Bob and Eddie were on their fifth or sixth pints. Peter Rowat, frustrated from going to Carnmore again himself, was telling them what lines to climb, and how, and what to call them. and why. and no-one was listening. I bought his pack frame and gradually moved the others out of the Guild. Happily it didn’t rain again until we arrived.
Inverness was bought out of porridge and sticky milk and sausages and other goodies, and we reached Poolewe at opening time. It was drizzling and the mist was down over the sea.
"What are we waiting for?" asked Bob.
Tomorrow, we told him. So we cooked ourselves a midge risotto and slept in a horrible shed and miraculously tomorrow was dry. We drove inland up a road labelled "No Entry" and came after a couple of miles to a locked gate and nasty man. Regrettably we had no permits.
"You can’t park here."
Just like London. We unloaded the sacks and I took the car back onto the next estate where no-one was watching.
The walk into Carnmore is about seven miles, reasonably level and furnished with bits of path. The views of the Loch Maree hills, close up on one side, and countless lochans spread out on the other, are excellent. It would make a very pleasant afternoon, if you had nothing to carry – or, I suppose, if you were fit. For us it was hard work. Eddie was sure his sack was the heaviest. It was certainly the smallest, but then we had given him all the tins, so he might just have been right.
After about two hours, when my knees were beginning to sag, we came down to the Fionn Loch by the "Little Crag". This. the first real cliff we’d seen, was impressively steep, but it didn’t quite live up to Bob Keates’ four hundred feet. I wondered momentarily whether we could divide all his other figures by two.
Fortunately the Ghost Slabs round the corner were no disappointment, a thousand feet high at least. And by now we could see across the loch to the real thing, Carnmore Crag. Along the sandy shore, across the causeway, a last desperate uphill section – all of fifty feet – and we were at the barn.
Col. Whitbread’s shooting lodge looked attractive, but as uninvited guests we felt we could only use the stable. This, however, was very comfortable. Two feet of dry manure made a good mat- tress and there was even a table. We brewed up and looked at the crag. Almost five o’clock – just about time for a quick route, we thought. Gordon and Bob chose Dragon, and Eddie and I went to do Gob, as these looked to be the best of the existing routes that we knew of.
We rather forgot that the cliff was in two tiers and that both these routes were at the top. We had to do something to get up there, and just what Eddie and I did I’m not sure. It was a rather nondescript bit of rock which may well have been unclimbed. and it was quite pleasant. Steep granity rock, but none of the nasty featurelessness of Cornwall or Chamonix – lines of lovely pockets appeared at just the right moments. The crag was almost perfectly dry, the sun was still full on it. and the ledges were full of blue and yellow flowers – a change from plain Welsh grass.
Three pitches took us to the big bay in the middle of the crag. The top two were quite steep in places: not dramatic climbing, but it gave us some idea of what could be done on this accommodating rock.
Gob took a very satisfying geometric line: out along a big slot, up in a groove, left for a long pitch under the big roof, then through it by .html corner groove and up to the top. The rock confirmed our first impressions: pockets again, just as you needed them; otherwise mostly incut or sharp flat holds; lots of little runners. threads and spillikins and nut-holes; and a steepness that was enough but not uncivilised.
This, at any rate, was true of the middle of the upper wall. On either side, it was clear, things were a bit different. Out on the left, beyond Dragon, were some very steep grooves, the line of Abomination, a Creag Dhu route which looked decidedly uncivilised. Dragon too had its awkward bits, we were informed as we waited at the top of the crag at ten o’clock.
On the right-hand side of the upper crag was the dreaded Red Corner – dearly the last great problem of the cliff, and the focus of Peter Rowat’s daydreams for a whole year. He had abseiled down it the summer before, and despite losing all contact with both walls after the first ten feet, he was sure it would go free.
"It only overhangs twenty feet, and there’s a good fist-jamming crack – in the middle."
When Peter found he was unable to come with us, his enthusiasm reached even greater levels. He drew us a diagram indicating a "stance" in the middle, where a spidery creature crouched in a faint depression in the overhanging wall, attached by forces that were difficult to imagine. Geoff Cram, who had been up a few weeks earlier, had actually tried the corner and had soon formed his own opinion. Peter, however, was undaunted – on our behalf. He thought we might need a peg.
Faced by all this encouragement, we felt we had to try. Fortunately the corner was still wet, so we reckoned we had a couple of days grace.
But this is digressing. To return to the top of the crag at ten p.m., the striking thing was that we were still in shirtsleeves – and sunshine. Eddie and I just sat and looked – at the grass, the sky, the lochans, the colours, the crags. Rock everywhere. The slabs across the Dubh loch, in two big fans coming down from a black bulging upper tier, at least a thousand feet in all though some parts were a bit jungly. To their left in the shadows, a Big Black Wall, very steep, totally unclimbed and intriguing. On the near side, across the descent gully, was Torr na h’Iolaire with about four Grochans, one on top of the other, or so it appeared to a casual glance. (Looking up the old guide, we found that they were fairly gentle Grochans.) Further up the valley were more cliffs again, so we understood from Bob and Peter. It seemed that a week would not go very far.
When we had finished eating it was just too dark to read. We sat around, expecting it to get fully dark. When the halflight was still there at half past one we realised that it just wouldn’t, so we went to bed. For me one of the best things about Carnmore was being able to stay in bed till lunchtime and still get a full day’s climbing.
New routes were the form next day. I had a line on the upper crag, right up the middle, starting out of a cave between Dragon and Gob, crossing the Gob traverse and taking a slightly hopeful line through the big overhang. Gordon and Bob bad schemes away on the left.
Again it seemed a pity not to climb on the lower tier, so Eddie and I found a nice little line there – to warm up on, we thought. On the right of the lower tier was a set of overlapping slabs, the site of .html of Peter’s good ideas. His drawing showed an eight foot roof, split by a hairline crack and labelled "crux, may need a peg". Fortunately we found a cunning traverse, above this roof and below the next, which solved things very neatly. It led off along a steep flake, whose edge formed monstrous jugs. then a peculiar wall where the pockets only just sufficed and gave some superb moves: great fingery swings alternating with delicate balancy foot-shufflings. A peculiar step round a minor overlap led onto the lip of the big lower roof, which had appeared from the start to be a pretty thin slab. When I reached it the benevolent pockets were so big that it was no more than an exposed walk.
I belayed on a tongue of flowery grass in the central groove and Eddie came up and led through. Thirty feet above was .html overlap with a groove above it. The slabs between looked a bit bare but again the pockets kept turning up. A good move over the overlap and out right onto the top slabs in sunshine and flowers; it was good to be alive. We called the route Penny Lane: it had a sort of dreamy quality.
We had expected to go straight on from here to the upper tier, but now .html crag. which we hadn’t even noticed, forced itself upon us: the Grey Wall. A little line was found up a cracked arête – very steep, this one, but so well supplied with jugs that it was quite reasonable. Eddie’s pitch was really steep with some peculiar flakes that were not obviously attached to anything but still perfectly solid. Again the cliff was accommodating.
This brought us out below the Red Corner, still wet, so we traversed across into the lush shadowy grass below my line. By now it was five o’clock – but what did it matter?
The crack started as a cave, twenty feet high and with no obvious big holds to get you out at the top. As a first approach, we thought we’d traverse in from the left just above the cave, so we climbed up a dirty groove to reach a stance on a heather ledge next to Dragon. Eddie took a belay and I looked at the options.
The lowest traverse line was reasonable at first, but it soon gave out into steep blankness where the wall heeled over into the cave. Ten feet higher was .html line and this looked much better. Again the rock was perfect: just on balance, little sharp flinty holds, and still in sunshine.
I moved out onto a rib, but here for once Carnmore let me down. I wanted to step down. then across right to a ledge, but there were no handholds, and it was a very big step. It was such a pity – two moves, and I was sure it would be reasonable again. I could see spikes and nice ledges.
On such a helpful crag there had to be a solution. I looked around and saw a big natural thread, just sticking out of the wall about twenty feet above me. If I can fix a runner there. I thought. a little tension might do it. I climbed up a vague crack to the higher level and got hold of the thread. Half of it broke off in my hand but the other half made a spike and seemed quite solid. I went down again. and further down on the rope to the vital foothold. Moving right to the ledges was very odd. Tension had to be supplemented by fingernail-sized underpulls behind a little roof to prevent me swinging out. Eddie juggled the ropes very expertly and I reached a resting place.
The next section was easier. then a short awkward wall led to the main break and I found myself bridged across the top of the cave. contorted to avoid some unsupported blocks. Coming straight up did look hard.
From here to the traverse line of Gob was about eighty feet. The crack was never desperate but it stayed interesting all the way. I passed one enormous loose block. narrowly escaped pulling it off in my arms, and then resisted temptation – one of the ropes was directly below it, and it was mine. The stance at the top was two footholds and a peg crack, and there was about six feet of rope left.
At this point I remembered that Eddie had no hammer, (In fact he had no gear at all, except a sort of suspender belt full of loops and rings to hold all the pegs and karabiners he hadn’t got. He had no P.A.s either – he regretted that.) He tried knocking out the belay peg with stones, but he could only find little ones, so he had to leave it.
It seemed a good idea for him to put the rope directly round the spike to avoid leaving a sling. Unfortunately it stuck, and he found himself in mid-traverse. unable to move and being sworn at. His reply was short and to the point. He had to go back and leave a sling, but when he came across again he was so shattered he swung off altogether and a big pull just averted disaster. He shifted the loose block, leaving a crater in the grass and a smell of burning whatsit in the air. It nearly hit the barn.
By the time Eddie reached the stance it was half past eight. Bob and Gordon. out of sight round the corner, had already finished. I was feeling pretty tired but I was sure that if we didn’t finish the route that night, the weather or some other fate would prevent us coming back. So we looked at the next pitch, a short corner, continuing the crack line and splitting the big roof, which here was offset a few feet.
From the stance I could step up a couple of moves. Out to the right was a niche, in the back of the corner, which seemed to be a good resting place. Its floor was formed by a block, and if I could reach that I was halfway there, A tape sling on a spikelet gained me a couple of feet – I was almost level with the block but too far to the left. Five or six times I came down, reknotted the sling to a slightly different length, and tried again. Really this was pointless as there was nothing at all to go for. But I was tired in mind as well as fingers and I hadn’t any other ideas.
Finally the crucial handhold broke as I was moving up, and I very nearly fell off. The shock woke me up and I came down to the stance for a think. I could still see no way of progressing free, so I tried to place a peg, in a crack below the block and miles to the right of my sling. Frantic leanings-over brought this just within reach, and, in peril of turning upside down, I clawed away a mass of green hair – reminiscent of Anglesey – and poked the peg in. Attempts to hold it and hit it at the same time were almost disastrous, but eventually it went right in.
As I hadn’t been able to see the peg crack at all I just had to move across on hope. Fortunately the crack was good. and I reached the block. The promised resting place was useless so I moved on towards the arête on very small footholds.
Just before the arête the holds became a bit too small but by then I was committed, mentally at least. I pulled out on some indifferent things and stepped onto a very poor hold on the edge. Calves were quivering, and I groped urgently for a big jug. The cliff didn’t fail me a third time – my hand fell into a beauty, and I was up.
This time I could lower the hammer to Eddie, so we lost no more gear. I hauled the sack up before he came so he didn’t find this pitch too bad. He’d compared the previous pitch to Vector, but wearing boots and carrying the sack (which contained my boots) may have influenced him.
The top pitch was easy, even for cramped arms. and we emerged at ten-thirty to see a Brocken spectre on a patch of mist in the gully. We coiled the ropes and screeched down through the mist to supper and endless brews and competitive exaggerations.
After a day like this we couldn’t help an anticlimax. Again we got up at lunchtime and again we looked at the Red Corner. But it was still wet. and besides, the day was cold and windy. Bob and Gordon went up again and found two more lines near to our first two of the day before. (It is rumoured that their route on the Grey Wall is impossible if you’re shorter than six feet three.) We went to look for the Gritstone Buttresses of A’Mhaighdean, and found them, after a long search, situated at the top of an almighty grass slope. We, of course, were at the bottom.
The line we tried was a good one – a corner leading up to a bit of a roof and continuing above, but here, although the geometry of the cliff was again satisfying, the rock was nasty: brittle conglomerate like perverted inedible treacle toffee. We were foiled by the roof – there just wasn’t quite enough over the top – and we had to be content with a big bottleneck chimney in the middle of the crag, into which we cunningly traversed, avoiding the bottle part. We didn’t fancy any more and it was freezing cold, so we went for a walk.
When we returned to the barn the clans were gathering. One kilted hairy Scotsman had lit a fire out in the open, in scorn of our primuses. It transpired that he was no less than a full member of the S.M.C.
As we cooked our supper the big guns appeared: John Cunningham, Ronnie Marshall and two apprentices. You could almost see the Red Corner shaking as they looked at it. We made plans to start at dawn, but the weather beat everyone. It rained steadily for three days. and when it stopped alcohol starvation drove us all home. I read "A Town Like Alice" at least twice before it was needed for more urgent purposes.
Those three days were by no means wasted. There was some interesting verbal fencing over the merits and grades of Wales and Glencoe, (if you’re interested, the Bat is "a wee bit harder than Sickle",) and first hand accounts of great steigs in the Coe, I’ve been trying ever since to imitate Cunningham imitating Whillans.
And it isn’t every week that you get the chance to lie undisturbed in a dung-heap for three days.