THE days grew colder and the nights longer as the winter term faded out in a confused daze of hangovers and flashbacks. We’d knocked up one or two climbs that term – nothing harder than X.S., but even so we were flying high, apart from a downer on a really plum buttress in Derbyshire. We had one more weekend’s climbing left before we went truckin’ up to the land of the frozen North where men are men and ice tools a pervert’s best friend. So it was that Mike and I found ourselves speeding on the M.4 down to Bristol, where high quality limestone routes beckon inexorably. It also happens to be home; and dossing at home requires an excess of everything, starting with drinking and ending with sleeping.
We finally came down to reality at six in the morning and consumed large quantities of bacon and even grease. We were ready for anything we could lay our hands on – anything except rock. But we was too far gone – hooked at sixteen, jamming grit at seventeen and mainlining limestone at twenty – we couldn’t get enough. Mike was worse – he was an aid freak – hashies, rurps and microdots his staple diet. They said he even dossed in ets.
We’d intended to score a couple of routes and the big thing at the moment was the Street down at Cheddar Village. We’d heard of blokes psyching out and going temporarily schizoid on it. So it required some respect. We’d trained hard for it, mind, a couple of pull-ups every day after closing time and a quick sprint back to the college bar. In short, we were in prime physical condition.
The car finally made it to the car park in the Cheddar Gorge – our camp IV. Above, the aptly named High Rock towered, The line was there, but so were two other guys heading for the same emotional experiences. We roped up an hour and a half later. Ascendeurs we decided were out – "We can get high enough without them," declared Mike. The first two pitches were good – we weren’t getting much of a buzz, but Mike swears he saw a couple of brass monkeys hovering around. The third was a mind snapper – O.K. to the overlap in the wall but the number of attempts at laybacking it saw the legs shaking and the arms turning gelatinous. "Christ," I thought, "we’ve overreached ourselves, this is hard stuff." But then I felt something slip into my hand – two ounces of raw steel – which I gratefully accepted. A real tranquilizer. Ethically indefensible. but Men of Straw will understand and perhaps forgive. Besides, we’re into this door lintel scene now. Above an overhanging chimney was a mandy by comparison and led to a wistful airy stance leaning out over the last one. I sat down and had a smoke – it seemed a natural thing to do – while Mike climbed. He too used the aid and seemed in a bad way. "Hey," he said, "those cats down there were really cutting us up about that peg." "No hassle. Mike," I told him, "Cool cats can’t climb, so forget it." However, we’d both decided that the experience was too powerful. By now we’d been on the wall for four hours... impending darkness... guys in front... escape lay to the right...
... Forty-eight hours later we were back. Meanwhile we’d suffered badly from the withdrawal. Two bummers at Avon the day before didn’t help. Was this the end of a Great Climbing Partnership? However, we’d come with a well-prepared stash – coke for when the going got tough and glucose tablets for energy, The place was deserted – certainly a change from those damned strawberry-pickin’ tourists. We shot ourselves up three pitches, M pausing only for a trundle: a massive chock blasted the tarmac with calcitic fragments. Now the Shield pitch, emblazoned with its crack and unforgettable hand traverse. Stepping out into the unknown, it felt as though we were on a magic carpet trip headlong for the realms of unreality. We couldn’t go down, so point me at the sky. Dropped a couple of tabs to keep the glycogen out of sight. Odd this, a great feeling of expectancy coupled with nervous excitement. The final dihedral – jamming, bridging, finger pulls – it was all there. Fingers dancing over the rock poised for the grand forte... a wave of euphoria... floating upwards... chimney... ferocious jam... blood... a ledge and soft serenity. The sun, setting now, illuminates the bastions across the road with pale golden ether as Mike surges up. "This limestone so cool, eh?" I said, "pure and precious as gold." "Yeah," he agreed, "Moroccan Gold."
One more pitch but the trip was over, lost into the recesses of the memory.