I HAVE often wondered what they must think at the pub in Grantham – though they are not without their own peculiarities: the Leviathan landlady helped by a wizened grandad. and the assorted clientele silently bored near the juke. What do they think when on a winter Sunday night the door bursts open to admit a motley rabble, blooded and bedraggled, looking for all the world like a band of pantomime pirates? Scarcely a brow flickers as the bar is overwhelmed; the faint smell of peat hardly flares a nostril as fire and dartboard are monopolised. This after all is the C.U.M.C.
It all starts in the damp pre-dawn of Cambridge. A passer-by might almost take the subdued group in the shadow of the Senate House for gunpowder conspirators – especially if he were to glimpse a figure vainly trying to reach some gargoyle on a Caius archway. But presently the minibus arrives, friendly obscenities are exchanged, and the public-spirited distribute gear on the roof, while the cunning appropriate the few tolerable seats. The Meets Secretary does his mental arithmetic, roundly abusing latecomers, and the meet roars off.
The first lap is the time for meditation or slumber, depending on the extent of Saturday’s revelry. The drunkards lie in contorted positions, dreaming blissfully; the philosophical few remain awake – sometimes the driver too. The scene is uniformly grey. Mists cloak the fields and muffle the skeletal trees. The eye turns naturally to the dripping hedgerows and the pitiful ruffled grass at the road’s edge. Only the optimist fixes his gaze to the right, claiming to discern rose-pink streamers and the yellow glow of dawn.
The landmarks rush by silently. Gradually the sleepers sense the approach of food, and in cracked voices ask the time and place. For the last few miles almost everyone is awake, staring gloomily at the signs and the distant blue-topped café. With a final swerve the roundabout succumbs, the ’bus is parked, and the horde surges out to breakfast.
The café never closes, and early on a Sunday the custom is a queer mixture of the morning after and the night before. Sometimes great gangs of fishermen precede us in the queue, chatting animatedly in wellingtons and sou’westers, and often in the corners a few lead-eyed drivers doze and nod. Greasy eggs or lukewarm beans are not to everyone’s taste at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning, and some even scorn the orange tea. Most, however, overcome the flesh and put something away for the hardships to come, while the hardened cynics smack their lips with gusto. Papers and kit-kats amassed, discussion turns to climbing – where to go? Warmed by food, enthusiasm begins to rumble in its pit, but rarely stirs itself sufficiently. Decisions are shelved till a more pressing time, and the second lap begins. The atmosphere now is more mundane. The nervous or ambitious thumb the guidebook, the frustrated read "Reveille", the amiable chatter, the morose glower, the driver tries. Eventually circumstance forces a choice of crag, and we arrive at Stanage.
Beneath the rock the skirmishes begin. One wants to climb V. Diff., .html V.S. Perhaps both want to lead the same route, perhaps neither. Sometimes each conceives a strange desire to use the other’s rope. Novice meets make smaller demands on speed of thought, but require finer judgement. Pick a likely-looking innocent, beware the bulging lunch pack, but pounce on the gleaming rope.
Instruction is usually well-intentioned, long, and ineffectual: "Get the twist on the other hand. Round your waist, not your neck." "Clench it like this – if it hurts. it’s a good one." "Don’t fall off!" Novices are usually very understanding. When you grimace and explain that Stanage V. Diffs. are rather hard for their grade, they smile politely. When you indicate the holds you used but suggest that Tuf-boots might not stay on those particular rugosities, they wait patiently for further advice. They even appreciate the overwhelming priority of removing your nuts from the loathsome cracks they find themselves committed to.
Economy of effort is not a skill immediately acquired by novice climbers. Naturally, therefore, half a dozen well-chosen gritstone cracks weary them somewhat, and induce a welcome desire to rest and enjoy the bracing air of the moors. This being so, the experienced members of the meet join forces, reluctant to waste any of their costly opportunity to climb. Thus it comes about that towards the end of a novice meet the scene is identical to that on an ordinary meet. The club hards are to be seen in various positions on ludicrous overhanging crevices, while the passing gapers mock below. The stalwarts of the ranks are astonishingly finding yet .html anomaly in the guidebook severes, and the sane or female huddle under overhangs out of the wind, or on a fine day lie among the heather and millstones, savouring the wide hazy view to Kinder.
As dusk approaches the flocks start to leave. Eventually the last recalcitrant nut is coaxed out, the last marooned soloist rescued by top-rope, the last route abandoned for .html time, and the party reunited at the minibus. Eagerly at first the successes are recounted, then the aborts are revealed, and finally the secret lobs and swings are dragged out. Scars are exhibited; inevitably the guidebook is cursed. Once more the start of Verandah Buttress is pronounced desperate, and Black Slab declared harder than Via Media. One hears that Macnair has conquered such and such a redoubtable route, that Hird has solved some impossible boulder problem, that Guilliard’s neck has shrunk on yet .html challenge. It is all gloated over and repeated, and everyone shares vicariously in the glory or misery of the meet.
As the conversation becomes more desultory, hunger asserts itself. Mansfield and Newark seem to reappear continually along the road. At long last the eating place is reached, and Dittner inevitably wins the headlong rush to the counter. A dozen portions of "the lot plus chips", or equivalent, are bought, and in their afterglow satisfaction begins to spread like a blanket over the mind. With full stomach and pleasant anticipation of imminent ale, all those cracks and slabs become less ferocious – quite feasible in fact, if conditions had been suitable.
Then the pub in Grantham and after, tired limbs and light heads pile into the minibus dark for the final lap. The driver pretends to maintain a sober respect for the law, but the rest surrender themselves to the unerring musical instincts of the club. The repertoire is wide, the vocabulary broader. The sagas of heroic characters from the frozen north, the Highlands, Mobile, and many other lands are reverently narrated. The modest minority feel a sudden concern for the safety of the vehicle or are overcome by weariness.
And so back, to stagger out under Great St. Mary’s amongst the well-dressed church and party-goers. You limp away down Trinity Street, standing out like a sore thumb, but feeling like some hard man of the hills back from a great pilgrimage.