Apparently Portland is “the” place to go climbing on the central-south coast of England. Connected to Dorset by only a skinny finger of land, it offers long stretches of walk-in limestone cliffs with easy parking and lovely sea views.

We made a last-minute decision to join my brother’s climbing club trip, inhaled some bacon at Hill HQ, threw our gear into the car and headed to Portland. It was a fine day and we arrived at the Battleship Back Cliff area on the west side of the island late morning. After missing the concealed approach down the cliff, we found a fixed rope and scrambled down. On the way down we saw what looked like a red climbing helmet by the base of a rock near sea level. I scrabbled off to look for it/its owner but couldn’t see it again, and we carried on along the cliff to find Angus’s group.

They were climbing at The Block and The Veranda, two opposing walls which form a kind of open-roofed, wind-sheltered corridor. The routes on the landward-facing Block side were short and grades ranged from 4 to 6b+. The group had left a few ropes in the wall which, although annoying at a busy crag (which it wasn’t), was good as it meant we could fly up and down quickly. It was nice and chilled as Angus’s friends had mixed climbing experience, so there was lots of milling about/chatting/coaching/milling about. Ryan might like me to mention that he led a tricky 6a+ (hope you’re reading); I climbed four Block routes and a nice, high one on the Veranda side, then helped the club clean some gear before we lost daylight.

 

We scrabbled back to the car via a near via-ferrata type scramble/staircase, shoes slipping and clagging with clayey mud, said bye to the group (who were staying in Weymouth) and headed off to scout out a camping spot. We found a perfect place tucked between two bolted rock faces on Portland’s southeast side, went to a shop for cider and snacks, then found ourselves in the lovely and cosy Eight Kings pub in Southwell.

Well fed and watered*, we carried our gear into the cold and very windy dark, through brambles, over a gaping crevasse, down a steep, loose slope and round an awkward tight corner to the camping spot. We had the tent pitched and occupied in less than 15 minutes and spent the evening talking rubbish, drinking Old Rosie and feeling happily isolated from the world. Cold November nights spent confined under a thin bit of fabric are tragically underrated.

We laid in on Sunday morning, which I could cope with (I’m not a lay-in kind of person) because camping is worthwhile in its own right. The weather was finer than the previous day – clear and dry, but still windy. It was a lovely spot, a mini gorge tucked away from view and enclosed on all sides, accessible only by a narrow scramble around a corner and wild with brambles. The coastal path runs along the top of the seaward wall, but is just far enough back from the scrubby edge that the gorge is hidden. The view from that path was magnificent – colourful vegetation and scattered rocks covered the gradual slope down to the clear blue sea, and the pale cliffs of the Jurassic coast shone to the east in the low winter sun.

There was no need to look for climbs as the two opposing limestone walls of the gorge were bolted and climbable, so we harnessed up. We rattled through six short bolted routes in a couple of hours, swapping leads. We didn’t climb particularly hard but it was good to get through a handful of climbs. The only really memorable bit was the awkward position I managed to get myself into when I jammed both knees into a big, overhanging horizontal crack, leant back and practically dislocated a shoulder to clip a bolt above.

We finished with a fun, flakey route, which Ryan led and belayed from a top anchor, and were lured home by talk of a fire and Raclette at Hill HQ (thanks to lovely Cam). We returned with rosy cheeks and rock-battered hands, bitter at Monday’s imminence but pleased to have got back on real rock. Portland had shown us its climbing potential and needless to say we’ll be back.

 

*cidered