I have, at last, found the inspiration to write an article for this year's journal which I hope will be in Tom's pigeon hole in time for inclusion. I was thinking today of the past year of CUMC activities and decided that it would be a shame if the most festive of the year's meets was not written up....
Quite amazingly the dinner meet seemed to be extremely well organised despite the fact that Tim was almost solely responsible for it. Transport was the only problem but in the end everyone who needed to squeezed into the minibus on the Friday night for the ride up to Derbyshire. A few old faces turned up to reminisce and regret having left the club. Sensible Al miraculously met up with us at the Marquis of Granby on Friday night, Chris "big boots" Lear met up with us in Cambridge and set about being as traditional as only Chris can and Martin appeared from somewhere for the meal and disappeared back there before he could be persuaded to play any silly games.
I am afraid to say that my efforts to persuade the staff of the Hotel that we should be permitted to camp in their gardens on Friday as well as Saturday night were not successful. The Bar Man seemed all too keen for me to pitch my tent in the gardens(!), but when the Manageress discovered that there were 12 of us no amount of charming could change her mind.("You do realise that we are a hotel and it is our business to sell accommodation?") Even promising to drink ourselves silly in the bar that night and eat 10 huge breakfasts each made no difference. In the end we settled down for the night in Froggatt barn after a few pints in the nearby public house.
The next morning we met the rest of the party who had decided to stay those extra few hours in Cambridge in order to get the studying in. All twenty seven of us climbed at the bit of Stanage that is near the Plantation and many fine routes were completed. Chris, of course, did not take his big boots off and spent happy hours being traditional. Russ and Dave H. did a heroic Goliath's Groove and half way up rescued the club's own walking muscle Stu from Archangel. The excesses of the Saturday night seem to have erased the details of the day from my mind but I still have a gritstone scar on my wrist from falling off with only a wrist jam to hold me on so I must have done something.
We were back at the bus by seven because Dave T. had told us to. ("The bus leaves at 7pm and that's final"). Because of this there were no epic benightments, emergency bivvies, huddling together in one sleeping bag and that kind of thing which I expect everyone else's articles are littered with. Dave H. and Russ were about 10 minutes late and we were getting slightly concerned that we would miss our dinner but even that doesn't really count as a tale of terror. The dinner was held in a room at the Marquis of Granby in Bamford. It seemed a really up-market kind of hotel and not the kind of place that I thought would welcome a herd of climbers (especially after my run-in with the Manageress), but they did not flinch when we erected the tents in the rose garden and trooped into the bar in ron-hills and tracky bottoms. Come to think of it, the quantities of beer sold to us that night probably more than made up for the inconveniences of a few people trying to find the toilet in the middle of the night to throw up into.
Our extra special guest speaker was Ken Wilson, that enemy of bolts and lycra, who introduced our very own president Tim to the joys of rock climbing many years ago. After we had sat down I was removed from my original table to be some 'female company' on the important table. "OH NO!", I thought "I am going to have to put on my charming hat ...poo", but I had needn't have feared because after a while I discovered that there is nothing that Ken likes more than a good argument. I had a great time being disagreeable and discussing such things as the provision of a full size Burbage Edge for climbers in Cambridge which would be free for entry and totally financially, environmentally and politically viable. Jon Lee the fun-loving post-grad got the low down on every chimney climb worth doing in Europe (Jon only climbs completely esoteric routes or chimneys), and Martin and Tom B. were in their element chatting away about routes and routes and routes. The subject was changed to Arctic exploration (HOORAY!!) and when Ken said "So have and women actually been to the North or South Poles under their own steam?" I really started having fun(!).
The speech was both a celebration of the CUMC's past and an exhortation to prevent the spread of that disease called bolting. It was delivered with a vehement passion and every word was fully meant. Ken has had much contact with the CUMC in the past and it is well worth reading his speech which is was published in ÔHigh' (No. 154).
Prize giving followed with lots of prizes for noticeable feats performed by members over the past year. These included the "shark" prize for Russ and Cynth for at last finding himself a suitable lady-friend and the "coldest bollocks" award for Tom Bridgeland's noteworthy moony last winter in the Alps that I captured on film (ask me for the photo if you want to see it- Tim's bum is in it too). Many toy cars were given out as prizes for those people that had crashed or otherwise damaged a car or bus during the most financially disastrous year the club has seen for a while.
After drink upon drink in the bar we were kicked out to continue our festivities in the gardens. Feats of strength, endurance, balance and downright stupidness were performed on the climbing frame with many a climber's manhood nearly damaged in a very nasty way. Silly games followed with Sensible Al as Games-Master...... spin round a lot looking at the sky and then do a running race, spin round a lot and then do a wheelbarrow race. Needless to say, our balance wasn't up to its usual climbing standard!
I crept into my tent at goodness-knows-what-hour having had a totally excellent day and night and dreading the return to Cambridge the following morning to study for my 'tests'. Needless to say, most of the CUMC climbed again on Sunday regardless of both hangovers and overhangs.