We looked at each other in the gloom of the car. It was still dark outside - and cold. I think we both felt that .html day on the fairly small, harmless bolted crags would have been nice after all, even though that's exactly what we'd been doing for almost two weeks. Instead, now, on our last day in Mallorca, we'd opted for a 300 meter traditional route for which we had practically no description.
The route we had in mind lay in the depths of a narrow gorge, an hour's walk from the comfort of the car. Alone, we might have changed our minds and gone for the joys of sport climbing, but together there was no way out. We'd been talking about doing this route ever since our arrival on the island. Sheepishly smiling, we got out of the car and set off in the light of our torches.
More by luck than by calculation we reached the belly of the gorge just as it was beginning to become light, and saw our proposed line snaking it's way cunningly around large overhangs. At this stage we were not too perturbed, though already we had a slight feeling of urgency.
The first pitch was a scramble, which succeeded far too prematurely in raising my hopes for what lay ahead. Funnily enough, we were not to be scrambling for the rest of the day. In fact, the third pitch almost repulsed us. It was not so much the difficulty of the climbing as yet, but the distinct lack of gear. What a clich that is, but all the same, completely justified. This was limestone, but very different to any I'd climbed before. First of all, it was rounded like grit, with none of those small positive holds you would expect. Secondly, and very disconcertingly, it was coated with a fine powder which did nothing to inspire confidence. Oh, and it was steep.
I'm sure I remember a few murmurings of retreat, but then Tom ran it out a bit more and miraculously came upon a fine wire placement (the first since my Scottish-winter-like belay). Leaving any doubts behind, he immediately launched over the overhang which was daunting us, leaving me in the classic belayer's position of nervously feeding out rope, part of me glad that my partner's leading, the other part probably more worried than the leader himself.
I suppose it is obvious, but it's interesting how once a problem's been solved, it is no longer a problem. This was how it was with that first overhang, which proved to be our first psychological barrier. Underneath it we felt very uncertain, but once above it our confidence increased and while we still had a long way to go, we somehow felt that the route was do-able. Or, in climbing terms: we had established ourselves on the face.
Now we were in spectacular territory. Far below us lay the gorge bed, and horizontally away from us was the other steep wall of the gorge which served as our measure of how far we had climbed. Up here the rock was much better - lovely and sharp with plenty of gear placements - and the position was amazing with overhangs all around. While our spirits rose and our smiles got wider, there was still of course that niggling doubt that always accompanies you on a big climb till the top. (Benightment was out of the question since our plane flew the next day and the rest of our climbing friends would, I hope, have been faced with a dilemma). Our doubt was made more acute by the fact that the little we did know about the route suggested that the last pitch was the most difficult. Gulp. Which of the overhangs above us was it to be?
Then came a choice: there were three ways. Either directly up over a very steep bulging wall, right up an overhanging corner, or left across an extremely exposed traverse. The decision was not hard to make - it was to be the traverse, which luckily, after a minor overhang ('Vdiff on Stanage' said Tom somewhat inaccurately from underneath), opened the way to the top.
Actually, to be more precise, we could see the way to the top, but, like seeing a rusty jar of ancient jam, we were not sure if we could 'open' it. The way up meant yet .html overhang - this time a short rising traverse which we could see led to a series of sun-drenched slabs and the top. We'd been in shade all day, so the incentive to move was strong. Tom, probably looking at my weary forearms and relishing the thought of getting to grips with what can only be described as his speciality, offered to lead. He made deceptively short work of the traverse and was soon whooping in the sun. I, however, found the pitch terrifying. It was certainly the hardest part of the climb, and forced me to make a committing one-armed layaway above the entire height of the cliff. 'Look down!', shouts Tom, and it really was impressive. But thankfully the angle soon eased, and then I too was in the sun.
One last, long and loose pitch saw us to the top, relieved and very happy. All that remained was a knackering scramble over an almost lunar landscape of rocky fins and spires, down to the bottom of the gorge and then back up the way we'd come to the car. Again, the timing was perfect - as we drove off night fell. It was an amazing end to a brilliant New Year's holiday.