Up until last year I’d never climbed in Wales. Quite an admission for someone who’s now been climbing for over three years. I suppose it’s because I’m a gritstone devotee, which is understandable as I live on the edge of the Peak District. Before going to Wales, I worked out that I’d done eleven climbs that weren’t on grit. This is the story of how I did a few more between sleeping, eating, drinking and sleeping.
The story starts on Stalybridge station, the Holyhead train pulling in with Tim leaning out of the window. Cool shadows hide his face. Heave the sack aboard and settle down to a journey of guidebook contemplation and scenery watching. Change at Llandudno Junction for Betws-y-Coed. A lift in the inevitable minibus to the end of the Pass, then in a fit of madness we walk to the youth hostel. Can’t be bothered walking down, so try the thumb again. No luck. Try standing with my arm in a sling. Nobody stops, and I tire of looking like a wally and take it off. This seems to help and we are soon down at the boulders. Set up the tent in what feels suspiciously like a bog, then cook and talk until it is too dark to see.
Day 1: starts with the easy option – the short walk up to the Hot. Diagonal features large in out plans. It starts raining as we gear up and it doesn’t look like stopping. Both of us look at the first pitch and decide it’s unjustifiable, so we make the courageous decision to head off down the road. Spend some time in the shop, then in the pub, watching the rain come down as we eat our chicken and chips and drink our Robbies.
Day 2: dawns bright and clear, but late. Takes a long time to warm up so we aren’t out of the tent until noon. Tim accuses me of being poikilothermic – a poik for short. Up to the Not again, sights set a little lower as we start up the Direct. Superb climbing – slabs feel like walking in Fires. Second stance, my turn again. Can’t decide whether the route goes straight up or to the right (the correct way). It’s called Direct so I go straight up. Trouble is, it ain’t 4c, so wobble back to the stance again. I propose Tim and second him, hard. Seconding the 5b pitch is easier – just rely on Fires on scrabbling feet and you’re past the hard bit.
Down Western Gully and round to the bottom again, trying to avoid the dead sheep by the stile. Look at the guide and decide to do Lorraine. It goes a lot quicker – easier, but less pro. One moment of grief, going for the mantleshelf without enough rope I almost pull myself off. Down to the tent as the day fades, then Irish stew and lots of sleep.
Day 5: follows on from 3 and 4, when not much happened except the sun shone and Tim did the Corner. The Mot again, less effort to get there than anywhere else. Object – Diagonal. Don’t feel like leading today, so Tim sets off on the initial traverse – only puts one runner in. I arrange a backrope, and have great difficulty flicking the sling off afterwards. Tim leads on. Later, a shout from above, and I’m off again. 5a seems OK, perhaps it’s true what we say about gritstone being a grade harder than the rest of the country. Rest of the climb is great, delightful, even the famous mantelshelf ain’t that hard. Coil the ropes and down Western Gully. at one point I lower myself down a steep section with both hands on a block of rock. Tim picks it up. C’est la vie.
Day 6: and up to the Cromlech for a change. Tim has a close look at the start of The Thing. I don’t even need to go close. Over lunch we change our minds and decide to do Plexus, back on the Mot. But it isn’t to be, for halfway down the scree Tim kicks a massive boulder on to my leg. Pain! I can’t feel my foot. Is it broken? Peeling returns slowly and I am able to put my weight on it. Result – a massive bruise and a bit of a gouge. Then a painful afternoon spent sunbathing, reading, and watching Tim on Superdirect with someone else.
Day 7: sees me fit enough to walk. Just. Up to Plexus. The sheep is getting very high, so it’s a deep breath and vault over the style. Gear up watching two blokes on Nexus – looks exciting. Ready, so I scuttle across the choss and belay below the first groove. Tim cruises past but slows at the first bulge. Then he’s hidden so I watch the cars and listen to the whistling up above he’s having to think about it, and I wonder how hard it is. Eventually the rope stops and Tim calls me up. Slabby and technical, no strain on the arms, I’m happy. Then it steepens and I slow down, close to my limit, but make the belay.
Again, it’s semi-hanging, but off good pegs. A chance to recover as Tim disappears around the overhang. Shortly it’s my turn, and I’m hammering at one of my stoppers under the overhang. Then it’s time for the crux. Shove a hand over the top and it finds a peg. Mustn’t use that, so I unclip it and find something else. Two convulsions later I’m over and charging up the slabs on an adrenalin high. Past Tim, collecting gear which doesn’t go in anyway. Never mind, it’s barely VS. Rock turns to heather so I belay and Tim comes up faster than the rope.
Tim knows a novel way down. We descent vertiginous vegetation and disintegrating choss. Is he trying to kill me? Get my revenge later. Cook him some two year old dehydrated vegetable stew. It’s pretty inedible, even with a whole packet of curry powder to liven it up.
Day 8: off to Tremadoc for scorching days in the sun and an epic on Geireagle. But that, as they say, is .html story.