Tag: adventure

Three Peaks Challenge, June 2019

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Three Peaks

Next weekend I’ll be taking on the Three Peaks Challenge with a group of thirteen friends. The challenge consists of climbing Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon, the highest mountains in Scotland, England and Wales, in 24 hours. We’re heading up on Friday 21st and returning Monday 24th June.

Five minutes of googling showed us that regardless of fitness and mountaineering experience, everyone seems to find this tough. Occasionally someone posts a link on our group chat to a story detailing how a group of ultramarathoners failed to complete all three summits, or how an experienced hiker recently perished on Ben Nevis.

There are several factors entirely out of our control which could jeopardise our success. The 24-hour time limit includes travelling time, so we’re subject to traffic conditions and the reliability of our minibus. We can’t choose the weather conditions. Even the most competent hikers get injured. These mountains can get busy – queues to the top of Snowdon are becoming very common. Little, unexpected things can happen – water containers leak, laces snap, someone comes down with food poisoning.

On top of this, we’re pretty fit (we’ve done several “training hikes” together, which I’m yet to post about but had great fun on) but the fact we’re such a big group could go against us. If just one of us gets injured on Ben Nevis or Scafell Pike, we all have to wait as we only have one minibus. Which may resemble a tin of damp, twitchy*, achy sardines as we attempt to sleep between summits, cuddling our gear and buzzing with adrenaline.

Adversity aside, I feel good about this. Maybe I’m naïve, optimistic and overenthusiastic about mountains, because I think it’ll be a lot of fun.

But that’s not the point. We’re taking on this silly, painfully difficult, potentially self-destructive challenge to raise money for an incredible cause – Friends of PICU, a charity which supports the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit at Southampton University Hospital.

*because of the adrenaline, not because Bertie has tourettes…

From a training hike up Snowdon, March ’19
Box Hill, Surrey, January ’19

Nora’s Story and Our Cause

This whole crazy thing has been organised by my lovely friends Charley and David. In August last year, their baby daughter Eleanor was diagnosed suddenly with bronchiolitis. Her little lungs couldn’t cope and she was rushed to hospital. She was put on oxygen, but her condition deteriorated and she stopped breathing, turning blue and lifeless as Charley watched helplessly.

In Charley’s words, “the room filled with people and she was taken from me immediately receiving CPR and masked oxygen. They let me hold her tiny hand, then we’re on the move to theatre 2 floors up. I was allowed to stay with her whilst they worked on keeping her alive. They managed to keep her going long enough to put her onto a ventilator to breathe for her, this is how they would keep her until her lungs became strong enough to work on their own.”64222665_1207279716120758_2821219001466617856_n

“I remember every detail, every face and it seemed to last a lifetime. I then got the news that we would need to transfer her to the PICU in Southampton. I was terrified, I didn’t want to move her in case something happened. I didn’t want to leave her anywhere.”

The Paediatric Intensive Care Unit provides first class care and treatment to over 900 critically ill children from the South of England and Channel Islands every year.

Here’s Charley’s account of Eleanor’s experience at the unit:

 “PICU have their own ambulances and arrived so quickly. They introduced themselves, always talking to us and Eleanor and assured me I could be with her at all times. They transferred her onto a portable ventilator and we arrived in PICU that night. The staff were amazing and she had a nurse with her 24/7 who never left her side and allowed me to do the same. They provided a room across the corridor to stay in and encouraged us to go and rest but equally were happy for me to stay by her side, I couldn’t bear taking my eyes off her on the machines.”

“During our stay the nurses and doctors were exceptional, dedicated and kept us informed at all stages, they let me stay for everything including changing her tubes and letting me clean her. They took footprints and made birthday catds for family whose birthdays came and went. They made the hardest time in our lives that bit easier. Each baby and child admitted got their own handmade blanket and a Friends of PICU “Ellie” elephant to keep, which we still have to remember how lucky we are.”

“We were one of the lucky families that got to take our little girl home, many families whilst we were there did not get that chance but they were very respectful to those families and others by ensuring their privacy at all times. Eleanor had a gruelling few weeks ahead of her once awake, enduring feeding tubes and relearning how to drink again but finally her battle was over and we got to go home!”

“Without this service, of which we knew nothing about before this, we wouldn’t be telling the same story.”

Friends of PICU is the charity whose support keeps this unit running. It pays for vital equipment and services which are not otherwise funded, including specialist ambulances, beds, family accommodation, medical equipment, furniture and toys. Every child admitted will benefit from the work of this charity, and without its support many children would have missed out on lifesaving treatment.

So that’s why we’re doing the Three Peaks Challenge – to raise money for Friends of PICU. We are eternally grateful for every little donation, no matter how small, to this incredible cause.

If you’ve ever a) had children, b) known a child or c) been a child, please support Friends of PICU by clicking the link below and donating what you can. The benefits are twofold: it’ll help very sick children and their families, and alleviate our pain and suffering as we force our weary legs onwards and upwards (then back downwards).

Click here – Three Peaks Fundraising Page

More Three Peaks related posts to follow…

Thank you.

Naomi xxx

PS. Special thanks to Charley and Dave for organising, Riyad for offering to be our designated driver, and everyone else for the (anticipated) wonderful company!

 

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Charley leading the team up Snowdon on a training hike

Great Gable, Lake District

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I had one three-quarter day left in the Lakes and wanted to climb Great Gable or Bowfell. I decided on Great Gable as I could start at Seathwaite; I’d never approached these fells from the north, and as lovely as Wasdale is I wanted to see somewhere new.

I drove from Coniston and parked along the road just down from Seathwaite. I fell in love with the little cottages and farmyard feel of the hamlet, with its roaming chickens, stone walls and sleepy dogs. It sits nestled quietly in a valley carpeted by lush, green fields beneath wild, rocky ridges, alive with the sound of whispering rivers and rushing waterfalls, and feels a bit “F-you society”. Perfect.

I took the Gillercomb route as I’d read something that recommended it. I climbed the steep path which goes up the east side of the valley, through fields, over rocks and past a waterfall, and found myself on a gently ascending moorland plateau covered in the sandy-yellow grass that only grows in wild places. It rained but I didn’t mind; it meant I had the mountain (almost) to myself.

It got steeper and at the top of a ridge I made the mistake that I’ve made too many times before – to assume. This time I decided that the thick, green footpath on the map must be the obvious, well-trodden footpath on the ground at the top of the slope I’d just climbed, and that I was at spot x. I turned left, and it turns out I’d been a short distance from spot x at spot y, as I found myself inadvertently summiting a different hill – Base Brown.

Exasperated, I backtracked along the ridge and tramped up Great Gable’s little sister, Green Gable. After a quick detour to the fog-shrouded summit cairn, I descended the path south west and reached “windy gap”, a narrow gulley between the steep shoulders of the two Gables. It couldn’t be more aptly named – it was like all the wind in Cumbria was concentrated into that little gap, where it rushed and howled relentlessly as if it were trying to turn me into a squawking little human kite.

I escaped the noise and wind-beating by scrabbling round the side of Great Gable, which loomed ominously over me like a steep, rocky monster, shrouded in thick cloud. Then the all-too-common near-summit occurrence reared its smug, ugly head: the path became indistinguishable from the rock-strewn, scrambley mountainside. Footing was quite poor; steep, wet and loose, and I narrowly avoided a rockfall which, although small, would have knocked me a long, bone-breakingly hard way down the near-sheer edge.

I decided to stop searching for the path and climb directly upwards. Perilous but the right decision, as I realised when a tall cairn suddenly appeared through the fog. Relieved, I followed a series of just-visible cairns to the summit, which is marked only by a mountaineers’ memorial.

I descended back to windy gap via the proper path, then turned right to head back down Stye Head. I love a circular hike. This path is more well-trodden than Gillercomb, passes an attractive tarn and runs parallel to a crystal clear river down a long, gentle valley into Seathwaite. I arrived back at the van wet, triumphant and sad that I had to leave the Lakes.

Then I drove to Manchester for work the following day, which is not worth writing about in itself… But after a few days in the mountains a hotel shower felt indulgent!

Ultramarathon Two

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My impulsive personality has got the better of me again. Last year I blagged my way through an ultramarathon, intending to push myself to breaking point. I pretty much did, but the fact that I made it over the finish line has been nagging at me since. I figured that if I was still limping along after 50 miles, I’d failed. So yesterday I googled ultramarathons in Scotland (my favourite place) and signed up to another one.

I tried to reason with myself. I hurt my knee last time (well I hurt everything, but my left knee was worst), couldn’t walk for a few days and couldn’t run for a fair while. I lost toenails, skin and blood.

I was incredibly lucky to complete the run, and I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the lovely, supportive, experienced runners that I happened to befriend on the way. Somehow I didn’t get blisters, thigh chafe, shin splints or lost, despite having brand new, untested and unbroken in shoes, and conditions were perfect – clear, dry and not too warm.

In short, I owe that day’s success to a multitude of tiny little factors that came together to see me over the finish line. It was like the stars aligned and some higher power steered every detail in just the right direction, forgiving me for my sins and charging me with some kind of divine debt (an afterthought – I have a lot of praying to do).

Which is why I feel okay about this next run – like last time, and I’m not just saying it, I don’t expect to finish. I’m fairly fit for an average person, but I’m not super fit. I haven’t trained. 50 miles is the furthest distance I’ve ever run, 15 miles is the second furthest. Having zero expectations is the best way to approach pretty much everything, so I’m happy to cross the start line knowing that if I collapse after 20 miles, it’s okay.

The run (I’m not using the word “race” as that suggests competition, and there’s no way my ability comes even close to that of the second least capable entrant) is 71 miles long, along offroad trails from Fort William on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands to Inverness on Scotland’s east coast. I have 22 hours to complete it unsupported (ie. with no help), it starts at 1am on Saturday 6th July, and the name “Great Glen Ultra” suggests there’s a fair amount of “up”.

My plan is to turn up, enjoy the scenery and see how far I get. If I make 20 miles I’ll be content, 30 miles I’ll be happy, 50 miles I’ll be elated and 71 miles I’ll be being carried (alive or otherwise).

Really it’s just an excuse to go back to the Highlands.

The Old Man of Coniston (Lake District)

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This was possibly the most heroic day of my life. It was an emotional rollercoaster that took me from 4am surrounded by wedding-drunk friends in a Blackpool kebab shop to three hours’ sleep in a hotel car park to 4pm alone at the top of a mountain.

Given the previous night’s antics, I never really expected to bag any summits that day. I left the wedding place around midday and headed to the Lakes, lonely and a little worse for wear. I had half-formed ideas about climbing the Old Man of Coniston and/or Great Gable before heading up to Scotland, so I found a quiet parking spot in Coniston and submitted to the pull of the mountain. Despite the dwindling day, hangover and rain, I couldn’t resist.

I chose a straightforward up-and-down route along the old miner’s track from Coniston, recommended by the internet. It started in an incredibly scenic valley; on my left was a hillside covered by a sea of bluebells which led steeply down to a stream flanked by bright, almost luminescent green oaks and birches. The water ran between rushing, white waterfalls and clear blue pools, and on another day I’d have jumped in like a graceful nymph gollum.

I crossed a bridge and continued along the valley, which opened up to form a wide U-shape backed by low, homely-looking ridges. An odd description but it fits – a few whitewashed miner’s cottages are nestled cosily in the low, flat plain in the middle, fronted by a wide, shallow, rocky river, and the peaks aren’t jagged or intimidating like some of the high fells. Because of this and its proximity to Coniston, this place feels wild without being isolated.

The track continued along the left bank of the valley, then got steeper, rockier and twistier as it curved around the side of a hill. Old machinery has been abandoned along the route, and the stone ruins of mining buildings remain overlooking the scrubby, heathery, rocky landscape in front of Coniston. It didn’t really feel like a proper mountain until I got to the tarn north of the summit, which the steep, long ridge loomed ominously over. From there the path got a bit more serious and it finally felt like I was climbing a mountain.

After a brief half-scramble I reached the plateau at the top and headed for a stone igloo-shaped thing. Then the Lake District repeated what it did when I summitted Helvellyn last year – caught me off guard and took my breath away. Layers of hazy blue mountains emerged from the horizon,  basking in the sultry glow coming from the moody, grey-gold sky. The view was panoramic, from the flat, glassy sea beyond wide salt plains to the west, through the rich, green pastures to the south to the mysterious, inviting mountains to the north east. The sheep were my only company and in that moment I was in heaven. The hangover was a distant memory.

After enjoying the lonely summit long enough to feel the cold, I defaulted to the Black Bull at Coniston. I flew back down the mountain, exhilarated to have defied the odds and made it up there, got the bed ready and wandered round the town before treating myself to a drink in the pub. I got funny looks from the locals but I’m used to that, and I set about planning the next day’s hike up Great Gable… Next post coming soon!

Endnote – I love all mountains but for some reason I particularly enjoyed this one. It could have been the fact that I had no expectations as I hadn’t expected to hike that day, the interesting and visible mining history, the variety of scenery, the fact I didn’t beast myself (for once) or the solitude, but I’d recommend this route to anyone and everyone – it’s beautiful, good fun and very do-able.

Ingleborough and Malham Tarn (Yorkshire Dales)

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Monday 6th May 2019

Ingleborough

Blencathra and Skiddaw had whetted my appetite for mountains (not that it ever needs whetting), so we were up earlyish to climb Ingleborough in the Yorkshire Dales. We’d done the highest Dales summit, Whernside, a few years ago but I subsequently read that Ingleborough is more of a “must-do”. I didn’t do much research and we had a wedding near Blackpool to attend that evening, so we settled for what I’d call the “donkey track” that starts near the Old Hill Inn north of the mountain.

It was a very straightforward path that took us through sheep fields strewn with odd, low limestone walls, then over tufty, heathery ground to the base of the hill. Ingleborough is a long, steep-sided, yellow-green-grey lump whose distinctive lion’s back/loaf of bread shape dominates the valley. The climb up the steep north side was short and sharp; a few minutes of thigh-burning rocky ascent showed me that my legs had registered the previous day’s exploits, and I was puffing like a magic dragon towards the top.

From there, the summit was just a short walk west along the gently inclining plateau. We sat in the shelter thing at the top so I could marvel once again at the speed at which my jetboil makes me a cup of tea, took an obligatory trig point photo and headed back down a grassy path that runs parallel to the one we came up, taking in the rolling, yellow-green dales and quiet valleys. At the bottom of the steep bit we guessed our way back through fields of sheep and rocks and got back to the van early afternoon.

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Malham Tarn

I wanted to see Malham Tarn for no better reason than I’d heard of it. We drove across the dales past rolling hills, drystone walls and escaped sheep, parked up and wandered over to the tarn. It was a pretty spot and fairly busy, but I’m not sure why I’d heard of it before as I wouldn’t call it spectacular. However, I did spot a climbable-looking rock face and plenty of camping spots so it may be worth more consideration.

We walked around the tufty moorland before hurrying back to get to the wedding reception, via a shop and a friend’s hotel shower. It was great fun (feat. tequila, spacehoppers, a caricaturist and an inflatable kangaroo), and that day (night) ended majestically at 4am in a Blackpool kebab shop. I’ll spare any more detail.

2 Mountains, 1 Day: Blencathra and Skiddaw (Lake District)

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Sunday 5th May 2019

Woke up in the Lake District expecting to do one mountain, fell asleep after two and a pint (or two). *Borat voice* Great success!

Blencathra circuit via Sharp Edge

We parked at the White Horse Inn at Scales and set off up Blencathra. The start was quite steep and we had de-layered in a few minutes, laughing about our frailty. The gradient eased and we followed the curve of the hill round to Sharp Edge, a rocky arête that flanks the north side of the smooth, black Scales Tarn. The scramble was quite easy, apart from the odd bit of slippery rock, and we were soon on the “spine” of Blencathra which we followed round to the summit.

There’s an Ordnance Survey Trigonometrical Station at the top, a big concrete doughnut which – according to some fell runners – replaced the previous doughnut, which got stolen. Annoying but a solid beer trophy. The summit overlooks a lush, cultivated valley to the south and a sandy-yellow moor to the north. Rolling hills spread to the horizon in the east and layers of jagged, hazy blue mountains loom over Derwentwater to the west. It’s pretty.59885520_412628992908174_6610435511607623680_n

We walked along the saddleback and descended down the steep path to the flat farmland at the base of the ridge. The walk back was very tranquil; we stopped for a picnic on a rock, petted a couple of curious cows, scrambled over Blease Gill, Gate Gill, Doddick Gill and Scaley Beck and enjoyed the sound of nothing but running water, birds  and silence.

We popped into the White Horse for an early afternoon drink while I persuaded Bertie that we should do Skiddaw via Longside Edge/Ullock Pike, supposedly the “best” approach. Persuasion successful, we drove the short distance and parked by the Ravenstone Manor Hotel, near Bassenthwaite Lake.

Skiddaw via Longside Edge

The first half hour or so was a killer. A relentless, steep incline, first through woods then over heathery moor. It eased a little as we made our way along the long, undulating Longside Edge, covered in rocks and heather, and I could see why Wainwright recommended this way.

The landscape opened up ahead and on our right hand side, stretching from dark Bassenthwaite Lake and Derwentwater out over open, green fields to the great blue fells towering over each other on the horizon. On our left was Skiddaw, a great, grey lump that looked intimidatingly steep and distant as it loomed over the coarse, scrubby valley cradled by Longside Edge. Behind us the ridge sloped down to a flat, open expanse of farmland that stretched out to the calm shores of the north west coast, and it must have been the south west tip of Scotland that emerged invitingly through the sea haze.

We followed the curve of the Edge round and eventually reached Skiddaw. The climb was long, steep and loose, untouched by vegetation and surfaced by loose plates of slatey mudstone that made it feel like some desolate, alien planet. We pushed on up (Bert managed despite bad hips, knees, ankles etc, poor old thing), basked in the glorious air that surrounds every trig point, and half walked, half skidded down the steep slope and back the same way we came.

Unusually (but perhaps unsurprisingly, given the distance/altitude covered and hunger/thirst worked up) Longside Edge seemed longer on the way back. Fortunately it was still stunning. Eventually we made it back to the van, somehow without killing each other, peeled off the sweaty layers and made our desperate way to some unknown Keswick pub.

Pub

True to form, classy old me resorted to Wetherspoons for cheap, greasy food and cheap, alcoholey drink. It was so busy that we couldn’t get a table, so we stumbled into the cosy, unpretentious, also-busy Golden Lion on the high street and indulged in the tastiest average pizzas I’ve ever come across. I was drunk after half a cider but I had two anyway, so Bertie drove us across to the Yorkshire Dales in preparation for day two’s mountain – Ingleborough. More to follow…

Snowdonia, Feb ’19: Llangollen, Tryfan and the Glyders

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Sat 2nd Feb – Llangollen56664564_2300276663626783_9008059420726263808_n

I woke in the snow-coated Shropshire Hills and slipped out of the van in time to catch a beautiful sunrise over Shrewsbury. We got to Go Outdoors for when it opened, spent way more money than intended and enjoyed a sunny drive across the Welsh border into Llangollen, where we met our friend Mike.

Llangollen didn’t look anything special as we approached it, but it grew on me after a walk around and a stop in a quirky little coffee shop. My favourite part was the [over-photographed] river Dee seen from Llangollen Bridge; the channel is wide and fast-flowing, and it took half a short conversation with Mike for me to add white water kayaking to my “priorities” list.

Then we went to Mike’s cottage, which is a country mile from phone signal and nestled deep in an ancient woodland whose silence is broken only by the rushing of the stream that runs past the front door. It’s even more idyllic than it sounds. We walked around the wood, which seemed suspended in time with its frost-covered moss, fern, hazel and oak, and breathed in the crisp air of the Llangollen Valley.

It was the first day of the Six Nations, so we reluctantly left Mike’s and not-so-reluctantly went to a Betwys-y-Coed pub in time to see England destroy Ireland. We practically reached across the Irish Sea and capsized the whole country. As a natural consequence I got drunk and friendly (Bertie drove), and by the time I was kicked out I’d befriended (to Bert’s eye-rolling exasperation/bemusement, and to the point of exchanging numbers) a pair of West Midlanders and a group of Bristolians.

Sun 3rd Feb – Tryfan, Glyder Fach, Glyder Fawr

I woke a little “dehydrated” in a car park by Llyn Ogwen. We set off bright and early, all kitted up and super keen to summit Tryfan before seeing the Mordor-like rocks at Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach.

It was suspiciously clear and dry. We headed east towards Tryfan, and it was obvious from the beginning that the “footpath” was actually more of a “foot, hand, knee and elbow-path”. We hauled our cumbersome selves up the rocks, laden with rucksacks, layers, ice axes (thanks Mike) and cheap crampons.

The path was next to impossible to follow, so as the snow thickened we followed the crampon tracks in roughly the right direction (up). The scrambling got more extreme – we had to de-bag and take it in turns, pulling off some technical-ish climbing moves as we jammed and hauled ourselves up the rock. As the more confident (not necessarily competent) climber I ended up carrying two backpacks, and I pretty much forced Bertie onwards (upwards) when he threatened to turn around; he knew I’d have carried on anyway.

We finally got to Adam and Eve, the two rocks that stand at the summit. It was windy, foggy and sub-freezing by this point, and we indulged in a (butterless, stale, sad) jam sandwich before half scrambling, half sliding down the south side of the mountain towards the Glyders.

We argued about which way to go and ended up tramping grumpily down, along and up a snowy, wet valley. There were hikers dotted about for a while, then – as we got higher – there weren’t hikers. We followed the curving ridge up to the right as visibility worsened, until the gradient (eventually) became slightly less steep. Which was still quite steep.

As the ground levelled out a little more we knew we were on the right track – the Glyder ridge. That felt like possibly the longest stretch of my life, save for the ultramarathon and maybe Lochnagar. My trousers and boots were soaked through but luckily my top half only reached “damp” status thanks to my lovely [men’s] Mammut Kento waterproof.

This ridge took more mental strength than physical. It was a very lonely place; the wind whipped every inch of bare skin and made it impossible to talk, and all I could see for a long, long time was thick cloud, jagged rock and my own eyelashes as I squinted against the cold, hard sleet. I remember thinking about how people sometimes say “I don’t know how you can do things like that” [eg. scrambling/hiking for miles in horrible mountain conditions]. To answer – I throw myself into various silly/uncomfortable/dangerous situations, which is easy to do, then realise that my only choice is to push through and finish the job or curl up in a ball and die there. It’s literally that simple. I also remember thinking “why am I like this”, “do I even like doing this”, “is there something wrong with me”… etc.

Glyder Fawr and Glyder Fach were ominously, toweringly impressive as they loomed jaggedly out of the fog – I could have been in Mordor. Usually I’d get super excited about the cool rock formations, but I was busy thinking of pubs and warm fires; I’d love to go back in better weather.

Eventually we “completed” the ridge and headed down. Even with crampons on I managed to end up off my feet and accelerating down the mega steep, icy slope – imagine a seal on a waterslide – before somehow executing an ice axe arrest and coming to an undignified stop.

The next problem was the unpredictable terrain. One step would be on solid ice, the next into ankle-deep mud concealed by knee-deep snow. Wet, grumpy and tired (but secretly kind of exhilarated), we were relieved to see the curved sides and rugged terrain of the beautiful Ogwen valley emerge from under the cloud, and we lumbered eagerly down towards the still, black waters of Llyn Idwal.

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The snow cleared, crampons came off and we were suddenly on the clear, slabby path along the east bank of Llyn Idwal. Wellie-wearing, handbag-clutching humans appeared, and the thought of turning round and heading back up the ridge crossed my mind. But I didn’t, and we made it back to the van after a long, squelchy plod. Most of the gear we took stayed at least damp for the rest of the trip, and it took a long time to thaw our saturated bodies. I still don’t think I’ve dried properly.

Anyone who knows me knows what happened next. Ty Gwyn just outside Betws-y-Coed is a lovely firelit, wood-beamed, wonky-floored pub. I was drunk as soon as I breathed in the air.

Two Wet Climbers

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Great days usually have three things in common: a remote location, a risk of death and a pub finish. Exhibit A – last Saturday…55576787_766649270376210_9170423551180668928_n

We got to West Lulworth earlyish and lugged our gear to Stair Hole, a small cove just round the corner from the more well-known Lulworth Cove. It’s a stunning place, with a secluded beach surrounded by zebra cliffs and could-be-caribbean turquoise water.

We dumped bags on the stony beach and waded across the knee-high water to the big lump of very climbable-looking rock. We scrambled up to the top like kids in a playground, searching unsuccessfully for a route before setting up an anchor and making one up.

Bored of messing around, we scrambled back to sea level. I went an awkward way and had to backtrack, but not before watching a handful of melon-sized rocks tumble past where I’d been standing just a few moments before. A sobering reality check.

We kitted up and committed to The Maypole, a circular trad traverse which should have been a doable HVS 5b. I enjoyed leading the second, third and fourth pitches; the gradient was mostly okay, there were some decent holds and it was super grippy, although it was weird rock – sharp and “horny”, with very few cracks for jamming or placing gear.

The route can be done as a deep water solo, which I would love on a warmer, sunnier day as it would mean less faffing and more climbing. I enjoyed traversing but I was aware of the need to place loads of gear so we wouldn’t swing too much if we fell. I’m glad we didn’t fall as I didn’t place much.

At belay point five (after a quick backtrack to retrieve a stuck nut) we looked at the next section and commented on how straightforward it looked. As if I’d never learnt that lesson before. I lowered down towards the water from the bolted belay, suddenly realising how much the rock leaned over me and how few foot placements there were.

There were two potential ways to get through the cave: up the only crack in the rock or practically touching the water along the coming-out-at-you slab. I tried both and learnt a formula: awkward belay angle + lack of placement + pumped forearms – elevation above water = wet climber. I could feel my partner laughing at me as I flapped about, searching for purchase on the rock and whinging about wet socks.

Then it was his turn, which was pretty much a carbon copy of mine. Being the safer climber and all-round better person, he decided it was his job to get us out. He employed the unconventional method of lassoing a horn of rock past the nasty coming-out-at-you slab, which – when I suggested tying a nut to the sling for a bit of weight (not just a pretty face) – actually worked.

By this time he was out of sight round the corner, so I just responded to his muffled grunts of “slack” and “take”. Eventually he decided that the only way back involved swimming, so I fed him the rope and hoped his drowning noises were for dramatic effect. Fortunately he made it to the beach, and I later found out that he was nearly pulled down by the weight of his jacket and harness.56177033_395067664380598_8633818574965702656_n

Knowing you’re going to get wet and cold when you really don’t want to is horrible. I climbed down as much as I could, struggling to remove the nuts, and resigned myself to the water after fumbling around trying to put my phone in my helmet so it could float safely back to shore. Which didn’t work, as I got tired holding onto the rock and dropped (luckily) my helmet.

Going in was terrible. I was desperate to not ruin my phone and lose all my pictures, so I’d stuffed it as high up in the front of my top as I could manage. I tried staying on my back and failed – I probably looked like I was drowning. The weight of my down jacket and a harness full of metal really dragged me down, and the “swim” back was unpleasant – although I managed to collect my floating helmet.

Back on the shore my partner was shaking and I was distraught at the fact we’d left a load of gear in the wall. Being poor and stingy, I insisted on swimming back to get it; again, mega unpleasant, but well worth it for the sake of a handful of nuts, slings and draws. Meanwhile, onlookers enjoyed the show – not one person seemed concerned!

Wet, cold, hungry and in dire need of hydration (by tea and cider), we shivered back to the van. But it could have been worse – we could have lost a lot of stuff, or died. Just like all other great days, this one finished happily ever after… in the pub.

I can’t wait to climb again.

Adventuring West: A Weekend of Climbing, Surfing and Pub-hopping

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Last weekend I learnt about cold water, wet rock and hard drink.

Bude

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Sunrise at Seatown

We left for Cornwall on Thursday evening and stopped overnight in Dorset, where we were spoiled by a stunning seaside sunrise at Seatown. We arrived in Bude late morning, by which time the mist had lifted to reveal clear blue skies and the air had a deliciously spring-like warmth. Keen to make the most of the weather, we decided to jump straight into the water.

I was so excited to be back in the sea that I quickly forgot two things: the cold and how to surf. Within minutes I had 1) snapped the leash, 2) realised that I’d seriously under-waxed the board (so amateur), and 3) got annoyed that I wasn’t instantly the most competent surfer in North Cornwall.

Also, the feeling of rough sand between semi-numb toes was unpleasant enough for me to regret leaving the surf boots in the van (idiot). The strong cross-current at Summerleaze beach meant that I took five painfully slow steps sideways for every metre gained paddling out, and I only stood up a [small] handful of times after several poorly judged attempts. Despite a terrible performance, I had a great time in the sea.

After a couple of hours of grinning at caught waves and swearing at missed ones, I lumbered (there’s nothing graceful about carrying a surfboard in a cross-wind) inland to my water bottle to dilute the gallons of saltwater I’d swallowed. Frustrated by the current and battered by the unrelenting sea, we heard the clock strike beer o’clock and thought it unholy to be late for mid-afternoon mass.

Refuelled and rehydrated, our little group went exploring the pretty, bustling streets of Bude. It reminded me of Perranporth – something to do with the layout and the mix of touristy shops and quirky little pubs and cafes.

The first place I fell in love with was the North Coast wine shop/bar. As I sipped craft cider, people-watched out the big windows and basked in the hazy late afternoon sun, I thought I’d died and snuck into heaven. The second place was the Barrel at Bude, a tiny, dark, timeless pub which implements fines for mobile phone use and serves “proper cider”. I’m not a great drinker but I do put a lot of effort in, and this cider set me on a downward trajectory that was intensified by a couple of cocktails back at the North Coast place. Needless to say that falling in love that night proved just short of fatal.

Hartland Heritage Coast

I woke up the next morning fully aware that I’d once again proved to be “that friend” that can’t be taken anywhere, disappointed with myself but hugely grateful to have been returned to my van. A pint of tea later and we drove to the Hartland Heritage Coast to blow out the cobwebs with a coastal climb.

That didn’t exactly go as planned; first we ended up in a farmyard down a dead-end road, then halfway down a steep, scree-covered cliff, then we realised that the climb we wanted to do (Wrecker’s Slab) was a few miles along the coast. Unfazed, we hiked along the South West Coast Path and stopped overlooking Vicarage Cliff. Although the rock looked lovely, it was totally inaccessible for a few hours around high tide and – consistent with our luck – high tide was about 1pm.

Despite being a little hungover and gutted about our failed climbing plans, the beauty of the rugged cliffs, moody sky and vast, boatless sea wasn’t wasted on us. We dumped our kit and went exploring, breathing in the salty, tangy air, dipping toes in the crystal clear stream and watching the sea crash relentlessly over jagged rocks and deserted, grey beach as we recovered on the soft, tufty grass. Heads cleared, we hiked back to Morwenstow via Hawker’s Hut, a lovely little driftwood folly, and went for one in The Bush. Lovely pub, great sandwiches, 10/10.

Sheepstor

Determined to climb, we drove to Dartmoor mid-afternoon and hiked up to Sheepstor. It was damp, foggy and exposed, but despite wet rock and dwindling light we managed a humble route (“Sheltered Crack”) up the tor. On a dry day the granite would have been lovely and grippy, with loads of gear placement, but being a) February and b) England it was slippery and algae-covered. One to return to…

It turns out that circumnavigating a foggy, rock-strewn tor in search of the biggest rock face is pretty disorienting. Fortunately the group had enough skill and (in my case) experience of being lost to get back to the car park before dark. Pleased to have a climb under our belts, we drove across the vast, open moorland to the Warren House Inn, where we spent a lovely evening enjoying a few gentle drinks and some great company.

Dewerstone

Sunday morning’s weather looked grey and mizzley, so we didn’t have high hopes for a decent climb. We optimistically headed south to climb the Dewerstone, one of the area’s best-known climbing spots. It’s a 50ish metre slab of rock in a fairytale-like wood, penetrated by a clear, rocky river and full of moss-covered trees. The rock was very damp at the base of the climb and the weekend’s alco-toll meant that we weren’t in peak physical condition, so we chose a very do-able route – “Mucky Gully”.

It was a really enjoyable climb because of the variety it offered – good holds, bridging and jamming – and its sheltered position. The rock was slippery at the bottom, but dry and really grippy from about halfway up. I had it easy as I seconded the climb so I can’t say how it was to lead, but we did it in three pitches to avoid running out of gear, particularly big stuff. By the time we reached the second pitch the sun had come out, and the view over the mossy woodland was lovely.

Having taken our time to enjoy the climb, we wandered back through the woods and headed homeward across the moor. I stopped briefly at Widecombe (pretty town, the Old Inn is okay but unremarkable), admired Haytor on the way past and exited Dartmoor reluctantly, drawn home only by the lure of a roast dinner and the unshakable burden of responsibilities. A near-perfect weekend.

Ice Climbing for Idiots

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What I learned from a session at Ice Factor, the world’s largest indoor ice climbing centre. Kinlochleven, Highlands, Scotland. To set the scene, just picture being inside a 40ft freezer.

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Ice climbing is climbing up a wall covered in or made of ice. At its most basic, the kit consists of a helmet, two handheld ice axes, a harness, ropes, a belay device and aggressive-looking crampons attached to winter boots. As we stumbled across the floor of “the freezer” all kitted up, our instructor advised us to walk as if there was a football between our feet, which was a great tip that stopped me nearly treading on my own cumbersomely-cramponned feet and faceplanting the ice.

Feet – Using Crampons

We started by practising front pointing, the basic foot technique used to climb ice walls. It involves deciding on a good foot placement – a divot or strong bit of ice – and firmly jamming the toe spike(s) into it, square on. Having got used to rock climbing, which involves the feet usually being turned outwards or inwards, this felt weird – I had to consciously stop myself searching for purchase with the inside edge of my foot.

Regarding body position, you’re supposed to keep your feet level (harder than it sounds) and wide-but-not-too-wide (helpful I know), knees close to the wall and slightly bent. Imagine your feet form two points of a triangle and your body the other point – 50442196_1979578599017896_1329863299524722688_nyou’re supposedly more stable this way. It’s quite an unnatural stance and it was hard to trust that the crampons would hold my weight, although I quite enjoyed ramming the front spike into the ice as you can kick it quite hard.

Hands – Using Ice Axes

Then we practised using ice axes. The trick is to either find a solid indentation made by previous climbers  and “hook” the tip in there, or to find a good spot to swing the axe at and make your own “hold”. You want to aim for a spot as far up as is within comfortable reach, so you can make progress without overstretching.

The hardest part is hitting the exact spot you aim for squarely, so any regular wood-chopping axe-wielders will be at an advantage; it’s really satisfying when you hit the spot, and you can swing the axe quite hard. Top tip: improve accuracy and relieve stress by imagining the face of someone you really, really dislike on the spot you want to hit (Trump did it for me – never a sentence I thought I’d say).

Putting it Together

Full of unwarranted confidence, we tied in and put what we’d learned together. I probably resembled a climbing version of Bambi on ice, all limbs and little co-ordination. It took concentration to move the right arm/leg at the right time, as the process of moving up seemed more methodical and less “artistic” than rock climbing; I kept wanting to stick a leg out to the side, or move one arm when I should be moving the other. It seems painstakingly slow to begin with, as you move your feet up just inches at a time.

Fortunately I got my limbs working with each other before long and settled into a [messy] rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, repeat. Like rock climbing, the majority of the effort comes from the legs, so foot placement in particular should be solid; the axes are really just to stop your body falling away from the wall. The lack of obvious holds (usually present in rock climbing) was odd, but in a way it was easier to find placements on ice as the sharp axe/crampons can be jammed pretty much anywhere.

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The sketchiest bit was topping out, ie. going over the lip at the top of the climb. When the wall is in front of your face it’s quite easy to see placements, but where it angles away from you it feels like you’re blindly swinging the axes or jamming your feet and hoping for the best. But if you’re okay with heights, don’t mind the possibility of falling (why climb otherwise?) and trust your belayer (why climb otherwise?) you’ll be fine.

My Conclusion

Ice climbing is great fun. It seems to lack the creativity of rock climbing as you can “mould” a path in the ice yourself; by way of comparison, there’s no such thing as making new holds in solid rock using brute force and pointy things, so you have to contort your body to whatever shape the rock dictates. However, I’m probably silly to keep comparing it to rock climbing as it’s so entirely different. Ice climbing is a formidable activity in its own right that could take you places otherwise inaccessible, which is surely more than good enough to warrant giving it a go.