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Spirit of the Age: Royal Robbins.

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 Chuck Pratt and Royal Robbins El Cap Spire,the Salathé Wall,El Capitan,Yosemite Valley, California.(September 1961)

Once upon a time a new generation of climbers saw that it had stumbled into Paradise. On every side there were boulders, crags, spires, domes and walls, mostly untouched. There was even the World's best cliff, a solid square mile of rock, and closer to the road than Dinas Cromlech. The sun hardly ever stopped shining. This was in California in the '50s.


The story of those explorers is well-known. Amongst them the most driven and ambitious, which is what counts in rock-climbing, were Royal Robbins and Warren Harding. Robbins succeeded on Half Dome and the SaIathe Wall.
Harding got The Nose and the Leaning Tower. Robbins was the more competi­tive of the two and went to considerable lengths to show Harding and everybody else just how Harding's climbs should have been done. But the two seem inseparable, really, and if Harding hadn't existed Robbins would have had to invent him. Eventually Harding produced his own zany memoir, Downward Bound. Now here is Robbins's story, as told by Pat Ament.
 
I'm forced to guess that Ament has great charisma, or is especially lovable or something. He's not so good a writer as Robbins himself, or as the boulder problemist, John Gill, each notable for lucidity, polish, intelligence, even wit. Yet both had chosen to put their lives in Ament's hands. Of course, a younger disciple will say nicer things about you than you could, with propriety, say about yourself.

I've never opened a climbing biography with greater interest. Ament feels privileged to have known and climbed with Robbins, and who wouldn't and he conceded that his approach is reverential. Ament is a wild, loose writer, often carried away by his extreme enthusiasm so that the language is sometimes inflated. The reader may judge for himself. In discussing Robbins and his influence upon others he uses such terms and phrases as: purity of ideal; spiritual progress; maximum personal growth; incisive mind; ideologi­cally brilliant; the power of his percep­tions; intelligence polished to the texture of granite; and so on. These words are immoderate and inappropriate to the sphere of play. Occasionally his logic, too, gets itself into fixes.
 
The descriptions of climbs are often surprisingly uninformative and flat. The account of the historically important second ascent of The Nose names only two features in the course of the seven day expedition. An outsider, I notice occasional mistakes of fact and presum­ably insiders will notice many more. I get the impression that the viewpoint is decidedly partisan and major figures outside the Robbins's circle tend to be dismissed or patronised. Ament remarks that Harding 'had almost always kept his resentment disguised'. That's ungracious and it's hard to see how it might be substantiated. From his own writings and from a single casual encounter, I can't imagine Harding as the type to weary himself with the burden of resentment. However, I write at a distance of 10,000 miles.


I can see the difficulties Ament faced. Robbins has a lot of climbs under his swami belt and brevity or selectivity becomes necessary. (Indeed he made interesting ascents not even named; for instance, the north arete of El Bisbe at Montserrat in Spain, accomplished, surprisingly, before any British party had climbed on the mountain). And it appears to me that he's a much more complex character than any of his great contempo­raries. He's so tightly buttoned that one suspects the presence of stress behind the cool facade.

Despite these complaints I found the book fascinating. It would be nice to see an objective history of Californian climbing written by someone unin­volved, but in the meantime all rock-climbers should read this biography. Who'd have guessed that Robbins had had such an unsettling childhood? Or that at the age of 27 he'd still be obliged to hitch-hike across America en route for Europe? Or that, quite recently, the guru of American climbing would have difficulty in getting an anti-bolt article published in American climbing maga­zines?

The text is greatly fortified by over 200 photographs, all in black and white, and stronger for that. They include some professional studies of the big walls but mostly they're revealing casual shots of climbing and people. The captions are occasionally dismaying and it will be observed that in one or two of the portraits the hero's patience is danger­ously close to snapping. However, for me, this collection brought the era to life to a degree unattainable by colour glossies.

Robbins and Harding ran into serious problems. They were too successful too young. They kept soldiering on and they produced countless magnificent climbs but none of these could have the same impact as the first great experimental pushes into the unknown. Twelve years after his first route on Half Dome, Robbins went back for an eight-day effort there, and 12 years after his first route on El Cap, Harding returned for a 27 day epic. Despite all the intervening arguments on bolting, each used more material than on his original climb. Soon, though still children really, they'd done so much climbing that they began to feel very old. And the new experts arriving looked younger every year.
 
So where have all the soldiers gone? Well, mostly they found themselves raising families, starting businesses and searching for new interests.
Robbins turned his energies into the first descents of rocky rivers and he joined the Modesto Rotary Club. Tom Frost became a devout Mormon, Layton Kor a Jehovah's Witness. And one afternoon in 1983, sitting in his kayak on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, Robbins himself felt somewhere behind his right shoulder 'the unmistakable presence of God'. Everybody seems to be living happily ever after.



Harold Drasdo: 1993


Postcard from Pembroke.....

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Lentil powered Barry Owen on Midnight Express: Steve Ashton
 
My friend Barry Owen has never forgiven me for sneaking off to climb White Slab on Cloggy with someone else. That was 13 years ago, and like the unfaithful husband I've carried the guilt ever since. "Oh you enjoyed it did you?" he would say. "Don't worry about me, just you go off and do our routes with anyone you like. I won't be the one accused of holding you back." It was our golden age when crags were dry, summers long, and 5c lay near the edge of the known universe. Since going our separate ways he's climbed in Alaska, New Zealand, Australia, China, while for my part I've been to Windgather, Twistleton, Bochlwyd Buttress...

Yet I have no regrets. Exotic travel has aged him prematurely — he's already wrinkling up around the edges — while I've remained as fresh as a growing fruit.
This summer, for old time's sake, he offered to show me the delights of South Pembrokeshire. I'd been once before, to St Govan's, and found the routes over-graded, non-tidal and covered in big jugs. Paradise in fact. "Yes please," I said, rubbing my hands together like an innocent invited to an orgy. "I can fit you in during the first week in August," he said, flicking through his diary, "any later would conflict with Germany,and then of course there's Yosemite later in the month."' It was a good time for me too, slotting neatly between Parents' Evening and Capel Curig Car Boot Sale.We drove through Wales in afternoon rain, pinning hopes to a weather forecast of brighter tomorrow. 

At Llandissilio where we'd stopped to buy provisions, (chiefly because it was on a hill,the starter motor having clapped out) Barry put his hand on my shoulder and whispered his little secret into my ear. I was looking in a butcher's window at the time,slavering over a juicyassorted display of dead animals.) 'I'm a veggie he said'. We bought lentils, pasta, peppers and several-and I mean several-rolls of bog paper. I feared this culinary bombshell would reverberate throughout the week. Barry supplied the tent. No pegs. Was he afraid he might accidentally skewer a worm? We used screwdrivers from the tool bag instead. Barry wanted to know why I had six screwdrivers in the boot and yet a knackered starter motor under the bonnet?
Our first day began with over-graded, non-tidal routes covered in big jugs. All right. This is what we've come for. It ended with a tension traverse on the abseil rope to reach a spray spattered hanging stance below an under-graded and poorly protected fingertip wall while tide and dusk approached fast and simultaneously. Welcome to Pembroke. Next morning I fixed the starter motor while Barry listened to the cricket scores on the radio (these two tasks assume equal importance in his twisted mind). Mobile again, we drove to Lydstep and abseiled into Frontier Zawn on an ebbing tide. Among the boulders littering the zawn floor I found the partially decomposed body of a whippet. Probably an unwanted pet (most are). I also found a beach-ball, which I proceeded to punch against the wall.

"Excuse me, but that's our ball". I had hoped it might be a mermaid giving me the come-on, then I saw the face of a mature lady peering over the cliff-top. The situation demanded that I reply with cutting wit. "So?" I said, after a bit of thought. "So can we have it back please?" At that moment the little brat who had kicked the ball appeared alongside her, not without some risk of doing a whippet.
"I wish my brother Colin was here", he wailed, "he'd be able to climb down and get my ball." Yeah, you little runt, but Colin ain't here, is he? I tied the ball to the end of the abseil rope for Barry to haul up. Colin's brother cheered. Barry hauled some more. The ball got stuck. And I mean stuck; it wouldn't go up and it wouldn't go down. In his efforts to free it, he flicked out one of his contact lenses, which blew off and landed in an acre of bracken. With one final tug ball untied itself and fell into the zawn, where the whippet gave it a posthumous header into a rock pool.


Pigs on the wing: SA

Barry abseiled down promising to do what he could. Then Colin's mother had a bright idea and threw a child's pink rucksack into the zawn so Barry could carry the ball up on his back. He looked a right pillock, stemming up the dihedrels in a sun hat and shorts, a pink diddy pack over his shoulders and a myopic squint in his eye. He'll do anything to impress women.Then it was back to camp for a spare lens and a quickie to round off the evening. What better than The Hole on Trevallen Cliff? After a cracking little wall start I disappeared up the eponymous feature like a ferret up a drainpipe. Best thread runner in Wales. After that we tucked into a bucketful of lentils, courgettes, pasta and peppers, washed down with several —and I mean several — pints of best at the boozer.
 
It didn't rain the next day either. A pity, because I'd already used up a week's worth of stamina. Barry, conversely, was just starting to ripple. We made up for this discrepancy in performance by a judicious choice of routes. Thus while Barry bridged across a shorts-ripping gulch on to the precarious support of a greasy finger hold on his lead of Midnight Express, I wrapped elbows around jugs and threaded capstans on my lead of Malice Aforethought. Our arrangement went awry on the appropriately named Pigs on the Wing, a girdle of Triple Overhang Buttress. Pumped before the end of my pitch, I took a hanging stance under the roof in a position of maximum exposure. Barry's eyes popped out of his head when he came lurching round the corner and saw what I was up to. "I'm not happy," I said. He took this to mean the belays were rubbish and his eyes protruded so far I was in some doubt whether they would go back in.

In fact I was suspended from a Friend 2 and 3, a Rock 6, a Hex 5, and a number 4 Wallnut, all bombproof. Barry gave them an approving tug and brightened up considerably. "This is not the man I knew; do your children know their Dad has grown up a wimp?" he chided, gleefully embarking on the remaining 80ft of overhanging hand-traverse. At the end of it he hung from one hand and shouted, "Take my picture" But I was too busy working out the consequences of a 150ft pendulum should I slip and rip out all the gear...... Minced beef!

Talking of minced beef, for supper we had lentils, courgettes, pasta, peppers... Then it was down the boozer again for several — and I mean several — pints of the landlord's best, "and hold the lemonade top, my goodfellow". By Jove, he'd have us drinking from pint glasses by the end of the week. We must have had a few because on the walk back we gazed up at the stars and speculated about the meaning of life. Always a bad sign.

Next day the army were pooping off at at the day-glo practice target on the range (do the enemy really paint their tanks bright orange for ease of recognition?), so we diverted to Mowing Word where Barry had promised me Heart of Darkness and New Morning as a special treat. Barry abseiled down the tied-off spare rope. I abseiled down after him. We stood side by side on the starting ledge above the sea. Can you spot the difference? Yes, Barry had a coil of rope over his shoulder. I said I'd muddle through on a single nine."Can't miss it," Barry said, sending me off around the arete, 'a hundred foot traverse along the break — most obvious line on the crag.' It was obvious all right: a mirror image of Pigs on the bloody Wing without footholds. I took a deep breath and launched out across the undercut, overhung wall, hand-traversing like a frantic ape, hanging from jams to place gear and deeply regretting leaving Barry with the prusik loops. After 60ft I came to a bridging rest in a corner from where I could look back across the concave wall. Whoops. Twenty feet above my hand-traverse was the true line of Heart of Darkness — a seaside saunter across a line of huge hand and foot holds. What a dick.


Daydreams:SA

Barry's head appeared round the arete and the full impact of my mistake hit him square in the face: "What have you done, what have you done?" he groaned. He lunged across from jug to jug, pretending for my sake to find it difficult. "Hideous, hideous!" he cried, clearly enjoying every minute of it. After only three routes Barry unexpectedly announced that the day's quota had been filled. "Saving myself for tomorrow," he announced ominously. That night as I munched through another bowl of lentils, courgettes, pasta and peppers, I prayed for us to be struck down by a debilitating bowel complaint. Then we went to the pub for several beers — and I mean several —and on the way back we looked up at the stars and speculated on the meaning of life all over again. And after that I was ready for anything.
 
`Anything' was Mewsford. After abseiling from the flagpole, down and down and down, I looked up at the line of Daydreams from the sloping platform and concluded that here was a route possessed of none of the qualities that had brought me to Pembroke. I was on holiday, dammit. I could have been lying on Broad Haven beach surrounded by gorgeous girls; but no, I was cowering below Mewsford Point in the company of a wrinkly man with peculiar eating habits and a death wish.

It was hot — very, very hot — and the crux of my introductory pitch involved pulling up on a sloping pinch grip. I placed six wire runners and piled enough chalk on the pinch to turn it into a supportive, anatomically shaped knob. That was the easy bit. Now I had to watch Barry inch his way up the slanting delicacy of the main pitch while an inshore rescue boat kept station below. Were they expecting trouble? In the event Barry climbed the pitch like a well-oiled piece of machinery.
He was already celebrating when I arrived at the stance. I suggested this might be a little presumptuous given that I had one more pitch to lead. He sent me off with a cheery wave, utterly convinced of my crack climbing ability ever since the day I grovelled up Matinee at the Roaches. I got up the first crack but was stopped dead by the second —an offwidth splitting a roof. I tried everything, but still couldn't reach through to the jug above. In the end I took off my helmet so I could wedge my head inside the crack to gain a vital three inches.

Off route on Heart of Darkness:SA

I left the helmet clipped to a runner and finished with a bit of softly-softly up a pile of solidified mud and rubble. Barry came up muttering about helmets and beach-balls but inwardly enchanted with his Daydreams. Secretly I'd promised myself this would be the final route if God saw fit to spare our lives. So had Barry. We shared our secret and sat awhile on the flagpole base — he frayed at the edges like an overcooked pasta shell, me lean and wholesome like a piece of prime beef.



Steve Ashton: First published in HIGH 189.



Special offer from the author.For one weekend only (SAT/SUN 22nd-23rd February) Download Steve's darkly humorous novel Black Nab and Diddly Squats Encyclopedia of mountaineering- FREE!!! Just click on the Amazon links below and enter eBook heaven!



Out to Lunch

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The line of Tom Leppert's HVS!!!:' Out to Lunch'
A ‘ping’ from my inbox announces Tom Leppert’s email. Glyder Fach New Routes it says. Our paths had crossed a week earlier, one sunny evening below the Milestone Buttress, when he and Pete Anderson hove into view. This chance encounter with the author of the 1982 Ogwen guidebook was too good an opportunity to miss. I knew he’d done some new climbs on the East Buttress of Glyder Fach’s Main Cliff and was keen to pick his brain. As it turned out, he and Pete had done another that very afternoon.

“Quite a nice line,” said Tom, “about HVS.” Was it my imagination or did Pete’s eyebrow arch imperceptibly? “I’ll send you the details,” Tom said as they shouldered their sacks and made for the path down to the road. I scrolled down the page: Quixote, Senile Saunter, Out to Lunch, The Deviant, Deviation. Evidently he’d been busy.
                                                                 

The Luncheon Stone feels cold through the seat of my trousers as we sort out the rack. It’s too early for the sun to be on the crag, and a grey overcast holds down the air temperature. I hand John the crib sheet of Tom’s route descriptions. “How about this Out to Lunch?” he says.

Out to lunch, out to lunch, I could do with being out to lunch. Breakfast was four hours ago and my stomach is rumbling noisily. I keep my fleece on as he leads off up the corner of pitch one, placing a cam and cleaning out the crack with his nut key. When my turn comes I’m cold and stiff. Clumsily I step up to reach the cam, but can’t. As so often in the past, John’s superior reach has taken him past a difficult move, where I struggle to gain height on inferior holds. By the time I join him on the ledge the circulation is returning to my fingers. Warmer now, we lead through on the middle pitches, and belay on the ledge below the Hand Traverse of Direct Route.

Above us rises a long slab with a slender flake on its left edge. Tom’s nuances taunt me from the crib sheet: a ‘step’ on the final steep nose has to be gained ‘with conviction,’ then ‘a hard final pull’ remains before topping out.“Sounds ominous,” I say to John, and it’s my lead. The slab lures me in, seductively. Above the flake, small edges entice me on, drawing me like an amorous spider irresistibly to his mate, yet sensing peril lies ahead. Now the angle steepens; the slab goes concave, sweeping up into the final faceted nose. In front of me, Tom’s ‘step’ is no more than a scooped foothold, and below, the tape on the flake seems a long way off.

 Clearly some ‘conviction’ is required. A shallow nick beside the ‘step’ takes a sideways wire, but I’m not convinced it will stay in. Just do it first time, I tell myself, it won’t be that bad – it’s only supposed to be Hard VS. Leaning leftwards, I get a foot on the ‘step’ and stand up carefully, holding myself in balance with side holds. As expected, the move isn’t bad once I commit, but I wouldn’t care to reverse it, and know at once the trap is sprung. Now the ‘hard final pull.’ Easier angled rock lies tantalizingly close. I glance down at John. The tape on the flake looks even more distant now, and my right-hand rope is pulling disconcertingly on the poor wire.

“Could do with a decent runner,” I shout, pointlessly stating the obvious. The rock defies me: compact, impassive, and devoid of cracks. It’s down to ‘conviction’ again. The way lies up and rightwards, across the bridge of the nose, but this time I need a good look at it, or three or four good looks at it, before I commit. Up and down, up and down, balancing up from the ‘step’ to the small holds on the nose, then scuttling back, like a fledgling psyching up to take to its wings. Next time. Balance up again. I can see the holds I’m going for. Now commit. Push off with the left foot, right foot on a smear, pull hard and ease my body weight across. A tinkle is heard as the wire lifts out, but I’ve got the good holds and it doesn’t matter.

“Bold little number,” John says as he comes over the top.
“You’re not kidding. Sand-bagged again. Wait till I see Mr Leppert.”

Out to Lunch-E3-5c: Glyder Fach. P 169 CC Ogwen Guide

Mike Bailey: 2014

The Atholl Expedition...Review

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The Atholl Expedition is Alex Roddie’s follow up to his well received ‘The Only Genuine Jones’ although a short novella-Crowley’s Revenge- preceded this latest work.

This was something of a rare excursion for me in the field of mountain based literature in that I don’t tend to read that much fiction these days. Certainly not works set in the first part of the 19th century. However, I was aware that Alex is someone who had immersed himself in the culture and social history of the period, and furthermore, as  the original ‘Glencoe Mountaineer’, he had a deep passion and appreciation of all aspects of Scottish mountaineering. The signs and feedback were overwhelmingly positive, so with great expectations I sallied forth into the Cairngorms with Alex as my guide.

The Atholl Expedition is essentially centred around the passions which drive men to undertake challenges and adventures which are physically and emotionally charged with risk and an uncertain outcome. The book is concentrated around two contrasting variations of that theme. The first, to stalk and kill  the great stag, ‘Damh-mor’. A  living Monarch of the Glen; a creature of flesh and myth pursued by the Prince Consort Albert and his retinue. A quest that will take them far beyond the confines of the Atholl estate, and into the vastness of the wild Cairngorm mountain range where winter storms, hunger and physical exhaustion await. The second quest sees Professor Forbes- a real life Victorian glacierologist- gambling his fragile health on the discovery of a mysterious lost glacier which had somehow remained undetected in a remote corrie high up amongst the endless folds and depressions within the vast Cairngorm range.

With remarkable prescience, just as the book was being released, the news pages in the UK were detailing scientific reports that glaciers may have existed in the Cairngorms up untilthe 18th century. I’m sure the author couldn’t have wished for a more serendipitous turn of events to compliment the novel’s launch!

Without detailing every twist and turn of the tale, suffice it to say that the author has done his homework  surrounding his characters’ lives and the world they inhabit. Bringing  to life the appalling inequalities within the Scottish social system at the time. A period where the Highland clearances still cast a long shadow and landowners like the vile Duke of Atholl still had the power of life and death over his minions. Casting entire families into the dark maw of poverty, forced emigration and starvation on a whim of displeasure or profit driven estate management. To this end, Alex has created the McAdie’s. The elder, Alec McAdie being a forester and stalker who is charged by the Duke with delivering ‘Dahm-mor’ to the Prince at all costs; young Duncan, the ambitious son who sees his future far from the feudal estate,and Gail McAdie; the quiet but indestructible mother who holds the family together.

I was impressed with imaginative way the author brought together quite a sizable cast list which also included a treacherous German ‘Jaeger’, a maverick student and a respected academic, and worked each character into the story in a way that each became an indispensable and coherent part of the greater work. Often a book carrying a lot of characters can become a confusing  puzzle as the reader keeps reappraising just who is who? The descriptive passages as each party make their way through the mountains in the teeth of a storm, are, as you would expect from someone with Alex’s mountaineering pedigree, always vividly drawn and with the power to engage the senses.

Altogether, a compelling and imaginative work. The Atholl Expedition is the first book in the ‘Alpine Dawn’ series of novels promised by the author and is available as a paperback or digital download from Amazon.
JA

Wreckers' Slab

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Mike Banks leads the first pitch of Wreckers' Slab:SV

Memories have been stirred recently by recent features on the Very Severely Frightened theme. I have often been frightened — of course I have, jibberingly so — but not usually on a VS route. Memorable VSs — yes plenty of them. My very first was Cir Mhor's South Ridge Direct on Arran. I was slightly apprehensive about leading the crux Y cracks but in the event I coped okay and the domi­nant mood was one of contentment, lapping up glorious acres of granite and savouring the thrill of using for the first time my very own rope, nuts and slings. Another beauty, but harder, was Longland's Climb on Cloggy. But for real pant-wetting, mouth-drying, leg-trembling terror, I can only offer Slape, an unfashionable little number in the Llanberis Pass.

It was a cold March day, 1974. My first climb after breaking a knee four months earlier. The crux wall on, I think, the second pitch, seemed horribly steep. I had no arm strength and no technique to compensate. Stuck too far above protection, fight­ing the hysterical sewing machine judder of my legs, clawing frantically with numb fingers, I hung on for ages, whimpering at the prospect of limb-smash­ing spikes on the belay ledge beneath, before fi­nally dredging up some precious reserves of adrenaline to scrabble up the last moves to safety.

I'm not sure I could cope with that level of fear now. At the time it was a therapeutic opportunity to triumph over my own weakness and the victory was deliciously sweet, restoring some much needed self respect. I can remember those sensa­tions vividly but details of the actual climb are vague and I'm ashamed to say that I have forgotten which fellow undergraduate it was who witnessed my solipsistic jibbering. In other words, there's not really an article's worth of material. So I am going to fast forward 20 years to a very different VS ex­perience. On this late summer day in 1994 there was no epic, no cold-sweat-fear, no victorious ca­tharsis but the route was a classic and it was made specially memorable by my companion for the day, an old friend and neighbour, Mike Banks.

At 71 he was still horribly energetic. Wrecker's Slab, a famous VS on the wild north coast of Devon, was to be his final limbering up before a charity ascent of the Old Man of Hoy. As we drove down the M5 he remarked cheerfully: "I bet Bonington can't wait for me to kick the bucket so that I don't clutter up the Golden Oldie media slot." I asked if he was going to write his memoirs: "I'd love to, but I'll have to wait until quite a few retired generals have fallen off their perch or they'll all be sueing me." Rebellious, provocative, impatient of author­ity, he used sometimes, like that other great icono­clast John Barry, to be a thorn in the flesh of the Royal Marines. However, after wartime service in the Far East, he found his niche in Cornwall as a climbing instructor in the cliff assault wing and be­came one of the great aficionados of South West climbing. One of his juniors was a young naval doc­tor called Tom Patey, and it was with him in 1958 that Banks made the first ascent of one of the world's highest and most beautiful peaks, Rakaposhi.

Like so many Himalayan summits, Rakaposhi was snatched at the eleventh hour, in this case on the second expedition Mike had led to the moun­tain. The weather was lousy and by all normal cri­teria the two men at the top camp should have gone down, but as Mike recalled: "I'd invested two years in this mountain. It was probably our last chance and we had to get up the bloody thing." So they went for it, boldly, and got away with it,escaping with just a touch of frostbite. "And what about The Doctor," I asked, "how did you get on?""Oh, he was a lively, talkative, irreverent sort of bloke. We were bound to get on well."

It was the same doctor, the incomparable ex­plorer, Patey, whose route we had gone to climb. Wrecker's Slab, in 1959, was one of the first explo­rations on the Culm — the unique rock of North Devon, laid down millions of years ago as mud, then squeezed, compressed and solidified to slaty consistency, folded, twisted and finally forced up into the tilted slabs which now brood over the Atlantic. Wrecker's is the largest of several over­lapping slabs, faintly reminiscent of Cloggy's West Buttress, which form the headland of Cornakey Cliff. lain Peters, in his admirably idiosyncratic guide to North Devon and Cornwall, pays fulsome trib­ute to the first ascensionists — his grandfather, Admiral Lowder, Zeke Deacon and Tom Patey, 'who had all the necessary qualifications for success; experience on loose rock, ability and, uniquely, a robust, individualistic, almost "buccaneering" approach to climbing in the finest tradition'.Inspired by those stirring words, Banks and I left the car and headed across the fields under a darkening sky.

Rain began to fall as we geared up at the top of the cliff, so we waited under a wind-bent hawthorn. Mike ruminated about a Quaker friend: "I don't think much of religion but at least these chaps have lots of silence — very conducive to thought' while I got out my camera for some stock shots of the thinker, enjoying an all too rare moment of silence, under a crown of thorns. Then the rain slowed down to a drizzle and we headed down, seaward.

The sea was a wonderful sculpture of glisten­ing pebbles. Fronded fins of culm stretched jagged out to sea, like Chaucer's 'grizzly, fiendish, blacke rockes' and one could imagine the wreckers at dead of night, with their deceiving lanterns, luring un­wary ships to disaster. But we were there by day, the drizzle had stopped and within minutes the slab's sheen had evaporated. Banks led the first awkward step off the beach (which turned out to be the hardest move in all of the 400ft of the climb) and we were away.After the great build up of legend and tradition the route was, dare I say it, a little bit disappoint­ing.

By the second pitch Banks was muttering: "Don't think much of that, certainly not VS. Still, it is the biggest sea cliff route in England." And even if the moves did seem disappointingly easy, the at­mosphere on that great tilted sweep of culm, speck­led orange with lichen, sprouting translucent re­mains of spring's pinks and still juicily pungent samphire, with the turquoise ocean far below, breaking white on the boulders, was truly exhila­rating.And, even if time and experience has tamed the route, it is still no place for complacency; any one of the thousands of slaty tiles which corrugate its surface might break off without warning and, as the admiral's grandson warns, protection is indeed sparse.

The sun was now bright, with that special clar­ity of early autumn and both of us were busy pho­tographing. Banks, ever image conscious, wished that he had left his helmet behind: "I'm making a cottage industry out being a wrinkly; my white hair is my most valuable feature," but he still looked quite striking with his bushy Asterix moustache. A moment later, with uncanny coincidence, we found a little white-haired gnome wedged in a crack. I stuck it for a moment on Banks's head, then put it respectfully back in its crack, wondering what Friendless wag had brought it up there for protec­tion. Another long, sunny pitch and we were on top, following a final arete till it merged with the green and russet cliff top.

The rain returned so we re­treated to the Morwenstowe pub, where I ordered a pint of the excellent local bitter and Mike asked smugly for an alcohol free lager. "It helps the arthtitis." I could easily have stayed all afternoon, sinking into a beery stupor but the breezy teeto­taller suggested that while the weather made up its mind we should visit the church, a Culm mas­terpiece, fortified in places by foreign Dartmoor granite. The Saxon font, Norman dogstooth arches and intricate 16th century wood carving testified to centuries of continuity at this ancient place of worship, making a mockery of our frivolous pastime on the rocks below but we were ostensibly there to climb, so as soon as the sun re-emerged we headed back to the cliffs.


We finished the day at Oldwall's Point, on an almost Alpine arete above a huge expanse of glit­tering ocean, with Banks posed patiently for hack­neyed silhouttes against the westering sun. A few days later he established his new age record for the Old Man of Hoy and raised a large sum of money for his Quaker friend's charity. I had longer to wait for my next climb but that seemed pretty unimportant after such a wonderful day out on the incomparable Culm cliffs of north Devon.

The Culm Coast:JA

Stephen Venables:

First Published in High 166

In at the deep end....Gorge scrambling in north and mid Wales

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Gareth in the Coed y Brenin-South Snowdonia
I was alone and halfway up a steep mountain gully in Wales.  Not one of the good kinds of gully; covered in reassuring neve or inviting ice, or consisting of solid and entertaining rock steps.  No, it was late April and the sun was shining (at least, it was shining outside of the claustrophobic confines of the ravine), and the gully was filled with moss and rushes and soil.  Where rock appeared it was wet and covered in slime.  Above the right hand wall towered an imposing and vegetated mountain face.  I was halfway up Esgair Gully; a deep gash that burrows below the north face of Foel Goch in the Glyderau.  Ahead things seemed to be getting steeper and looser.  It finally seemed time to admit it: I had a problem.  I had become obsessed with the obscure and esoteric world of Welsh gorges, gullies and streams.


How did it all start?  I moved to Bangor in 2004 to start university.  One of the major attractions was the mountains.  I’d always loved mountains and the wild places.  With the University Mountain Walking Club (Bangor UMWC) I started scrambling the classic Snowdonian grade 1 ridges, and after getting hooked on that started ticking off the grade 2 scrambles in the Glyderau and Carneddau.  I never had the head for heights or the bravery to tackle the top scrambles, and so soon ran out of new routes to explore.


It was one August day in 2007, heading with three friends out of the Llanberis Pass to upper Cwm Glas, aiming to go via a grade 1 described in Scrambles and Easy Climbs in Snowdonia.  I can’t now recall who had the idea, but we took to scrambling up the easy-angled watercourse of the nearby Afon Gennog to avoid the tedium of the steep approach.  It was pleasant: dry, grippy rock, water burbling under out feet.  Eventually the gradient relented and we walked over to the dripping wall of Craig y Rhaeadr.  The scramble we aimed to do threaded a way between Craig y Rhaeadr and an adjacent gorge.  Once again, someone suggested that we ignore the description and follow the water instead.   We set off into the gorge; steep sides, waterfalls, the occasional deep pool.  I recalled something A. Harry Griffin had written about gill scrambling in the Lake District.  He followed a set of self-imposed rules to maximise the fun: stick to the watercourse, traverse pools (rather than wade), take the hardest possible route.  An hour later we emerged near Llyn Glas, soaked to the skin and covered in bits of slime, but smiling.  With this, I was hooked.



Clocaenog Forest's secret waterfall
Autumn 2007 slowly unfolded.  At this time I couldn’t drive, but fortunately a friend, Pete Early, had both a car and a desire to get off the beaten track.  We explored Nant Gwynant and its surrounding valleys, always beautiful when the oak leaves turn and the rowan berries gleam.Above Llyn Dinas we discovered a gem of a scramble, following an open and unthreatening stream through a hillside scattered with conifers and rhododendrons.  Beyond this we ventured to Craig Llyn-Llagi, that sprawling heathery crag on the northern flank of Cnicht.  In thick mist we squirmed and slid up an algae-ridden stream-way, before retreating it and dismissing it as worthless.  It wouldn’t be until 2012 when I returned and discovered that the stream gathered itself into a narrow and enjoyable scramble higher up (albeit still on the slippery side).


The obsession grew over time, and in 2008 with various friends I searched our routes around Gwydyr Forest, Nant Ffrancon, Mynydd Mawr, Nant Gwynant, and the Llanberis Pass.  Possibilities seemed endless and everywhere, and each new look at the map suggested that more routes were waiting to be found.  I found the Geograph website a brilliantly useful tool to bring up photos of likely looking streams and gorges, and to decide if they were worthy of closer investigation.  The discovery of some usefully placed bothies then facilitated some trips into south Snowdonia, away from our usual stomping grounds, where we unearthed scrambles on Cadair Idris and in the Coed y Brenin. 
 

So what is the appeal?  Certainly, the deep gorges are a relic landscape.  There is no agricultural use for them and so their vegetation has been left intact whilst surrounding woodland has been felled.  This is part of the appeal of the big Snowdonian gorges; they are atmospheric and evocative places, untouched by the hand of man.  Apart from a handful of routes that the outdoor centres use, it is likely that you will be alone once you enter.  However, the open, sunny slabs of the gentle mountain streams also have their attraction.  On a hot day in summer there can be few more enjoyable pursuits then following a watercourse up onto the tops, perhaps with an optional swim on the way.  



Exploring Craig y Rhaedr Gorge
Of course, during my explorations it hasn’t all been fun.  A handful of scares are fresh in my memory.  I recall a day in the Vale of Ffestiniog with Gareth Harvey, when we went to scope out the Ceunant Llennyrch, a huge ravine formed where the Afon Prysor leaves the dam at Llyn Trawsfynydd and flows down to the Dwyryd estuary.  It was October 2010, probably a bit late in the year to be doing the big gorges that involve getting wet, but it should have been relatively trivial.  For a start, we knew the gorge got used by outdoor groups.  We entered the woodland along a riverside path, and opted to stay on the path until the gorge became interesting.  Unfortunately, we made the ridiculous error of walking too far, and the path climbed high above the river.  Being too lazy to retrace our steps, we decided to descend direct down the slopes to the bed of the gorge, Gareth leading the way.  This was possibly a mistake.  The ground was wet, covered in blankets of thick moss and dead trees, and deep holes waited to ensnare angles. 

After proceeding gingerly down the slopes I came around a tree to see Gareth standing down in the river.  Between me and him was a cliff of brown rubble, but no obvious route down (and to this day I’m still not sure how he got down so fast).  I slithered around on my mossy ledge, trying to find a way down, but nothing was obvious.  The drop was perhaps only four metres, but with a rough landing, and it certainly looked nasty.  I remember standing there, shouting obscenities at poor Gareth for several minutes, for leading me into this predicament.  I had the bright idea to throw my rucksack down to lighten my load when I eventually tried a descent.  Shit. I realised I’d just thrown down my helmet and several long slings that might have extricated me.

 After several more minutes of gibbering around I gracefully climbed/tumbled down into the river, emerging with a few light scratches and an apology for my bad language.  An important lesson learned: the entries and exits to some of these gorges can be trickier than the navigation of the gorge itself.

Other memories of days that slide more to the unpleasant end of the enjoyment spectrum.  An adventure away from usual haunts into Clocaenog Forest, where the map promised a huge v-shaped ravine, but suggested no waterfalls existed.  Gareth was in attendance again, and we’d been joined by another friend, Chris Earing.  Another day with a difficult start: our first attempt was to descend from the road through forest slopes, but thick, spiky gorse barred our way.  Attempt two involved climbing down an adjacent stream, but this lead to impossible waterfalls and collapsing bracken.  Our third, successful, attempt, entailed bracken-bashing followed by a light jog as we trespassed across a few farm fields to the river. 

As we headed up river we found a series of beautiful waterfalls, hidden to the outside world by the trees, and presumably seen by very few people.  The going was tricky as the rock was incredibly treacherous; both friable and slimy.  Impossibly steep waterfalls forced us to the sides of the gorge where we climbed up steeply through a combination of bracken and brambles.  Agonising progress, using brambles to pull up on, and with deadwood collapsing under our boots, but no chance of a retreat now.  Eventually the steep v-shape of the gorge relented and we could breathe a sigh of relief: escape was possible if we needed it.


For every one of these testing days, there must have been at least ten days of perfection: scrambling in solitude, unencumbered by ropes and harnesses.  Summer evenings were particular favourites, when a quick post-work hit could be had; the mountains even quieter than normal, with cuckoos calling from the valleys below.  Eventually 2013 arrived and I left Wales for Oxfordshire.  Over the years I drafted the explorations into a guidebook that now contains 70 routes or so.  More remain to be investigated, especially into the great desert of Wales.  Deep in the Cambrian mountains all sorts of gorges and streams lie ignored and unknown.  Will the guidebook ever come to light?  I hope so, but no publisher so far has decided to take the project on.  I do remain hopeful though, and long to see other people get as much happiness out of these lost landscapes as I have. 


The Author 'new routing' at a secret location in Snowdonia
 
Mike Peacock:2014 
Photos: Author's Collection

Mo Anthoine Remembered

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Original Photo-Jim Curran
Mo Anthoine was just 50 years when he died at home in Nant Peris on August 12th in 1989. Words I never imagined would ever have to be written, by me or anyone else.

To write about a close friend is not easy at the best of times. To do justice to Mo is impossible. For those who knew him these words will be no more than a shallow substitute, or will fail to strike the same chords. For those who didn't it is far beyond my skill to paint more than a shadowy outline of a figure so much larger than life. But I must try and pay some sort of tribute to the man I was so lucky to know and whose friendship, loyalty and generosity I valued so highly for 15 years.

  Who was Mo Anthoine? Well, he was a mountaineer, equipment designer and manufacturer, especially a raconteur, an adventurer, film maker, builder, husband and father, and much much more. He was also the funniest person I have ever known, whose sharp tongue and devastating brilliance with the spoken word could charm anyone, from diplomats to dustmen, from dowagers to dinner ladies.

On occasion his biting wit and Rabelaisian behaviour could sound horrendous when reported second-hand. Live and in person Mo rarely caused offence and over the years many pub-fulls of complete strangers walked off into the night, sides aching with laughter at the stories and antics of the short, broad shouldered, bandy-legged man with the Kidderminster accent, who had burst upon them. Mo could, and did, get away with it again and again as he unleashed his stream of stories, black humour and devastating analogies to captivated audiences.

 He lived the life of which most climbers can only dream, centred entirely around mountains, expeditions and equipment. Apart from a mild flirtation with teaching in the 1960s. Mo's entire adult life was based in North Wales. In 1959 he became an instructor at Ogwen Cottage; two brief years in which enduring friendship were formed. One such was Cam (Ian Campbell), who accompanied Mo on his best new route, The Groove on Llech Ddu in 1961, which became a classic. Mo's uncompromising honesty about the amount of aid used on the first ascent caused a few hypocritically raised eyebrows at the time After Ogwen Mo took off with another instructor and close friend, Fox (Ian Cartledge) and together they hitched round the world in a series of improbable and hilarious adventures that Mo still relished 25 years later. One of the best, in Australia, involved Mo's short-lived debut as a jazz drummer at a party he had gate-crashed under false musical pretence; a career which lasted less than a minute. The ensuing fracas involved the demolition of a Welsh dresser along with all its china, a double bass that Mo put his foot through, and a neighbour who had a heart attack.

He returned to Wales in 1966, and bought a derelict cottage and married Jackie in 1969. He set up Snowdon Mouldings with Joe Brown who was to become his closest friend and with whom Mo shared the vast majority of his expeditions. Initially they made the famous Joe Brown helmets but over the years Mo designed and manufactured several brilliant items of gear, including the Curver ice-axe and the Limpet tents, both of which have proved their true value on innumerable expeditions.
  
Their concepts came from Mo's own hard won experience and were tested in precisely the conditions for which they were designed. The Limpet is the strongest tent I have ever owned and it is almost impossible to break the fibreglass poles. It has a tent bag that is actually made too big. "I got really pissed off trying to pack a great frozen mass of tent, flysheet and poles into one of those glorified paper-bags that manufacturers try and kid you are the right size" Mo explained. "It might be a bit bigger than it needs to be, but when your striking camp in a storm at 20,000ft the last thing you want to do is fart about trying to put a contraceptive on an elephant"


 Mo's expeditioning started in the early '70s. A near miss on El Toro, in Peru in 1970, an early ascent of Fitzroy in Patagonia in '72 and a small expedition to Langtang Himal with Jackie, Cam and Malcolm Howells, were the precursors of 18 years constant expeditioning. After the ascent of the Prow of Roraima in the South American Jungle in 1973, with its stories of tarantulas, centipedes and horrific antics abseiling and jumaring on fixed ropes high above the jungle, Mo became captivated, then obsessed, with the Karakoram.

 In 1975 and '76, Mo led two contrasting expeditions to the unclimbed Trango Tower, the great vertical granite spire that dominates the Lower Baltoro. The first was a failure, a series of setbacks culminating in Martin Boysen's famous knee-jam epic high on the Tower. The second was a complete success. Mo, Martin, Joe Brown and Malcolm Howells reached the summit with Tony Riley filming just below. I was also a camerman on the expedition. Even allowing for my own one-sided view it was surely Mo's greatest mountaineering achievement. For Martin it was: "The happiest moment of my climbing life"

After the funeral, at Mo's wake Martin fondly remembered: "Just shoving Mo up the last few feet, a great grin spread over his face and he looked around at the great peaks of the Karakoram, the Mustagh Tower, K2 up in the clouds. Masherbrum and the West Face of Gasherbrum IV... just fantastic."
  
Mo returned for a brave attempt on Gasherbrum in 1978 but the year after Trango he went to The Ogre with Doug Scott, Chris Bonington, Clive Rowland, Nick Estcourt and Tut Braithwaite. The events of the expedition are well-known. Doug broke both his ankles in a pendulum abseiling from the summit, and Mo, Clive and Doug had an epic retreat in a storm. There is little doubt that without Mo and Clive's efforts, Chris and Doug would probably have died. Since then, Mo's annual jaunts have taken him to India (four expeditions to Thalay Sagar) to Ecuador (twice) with Hamish MacInnes, Joe and Jackie to search for Inca gold! and 1986 and '88 to attempt the unclimbed North East Ridge of Everest.
 
But it was at home in Wales that most people will remember Mo. For many years I have returned from Welsh weekends to be greeted with the same inevitable question "Did you see Mo?" Then I would have to dredge the recesses of a hungover brain and try to remember just a few of the endless one-liners with which Mo had regaled his friends in the Padarn or the Victoria. "You've become the self of your former shadow" he greeted me a few months after I had returned slim, if not sylph-like, from an expedition only to regain the lost weight immediately. "Look at your chins, in serried ranks" Being in his company was like being a member of an exclusive club, or party to a huge unending joke. His mirth was infectious wherever he went. When he was holding court in the pub, at a Trade Fair, in a Base Camp tent, or at a party, he was the catalyst that made everyone else tell better stories or jokes than those of which they were normally capable.

During the eighties, Mo's interest turned to films and television. With Joe he worked on several outside broadcasts including 'Freakout' in Glencoe with Jackie, and 'The Old Man of Hoy' with Zoe Brown. He worked on several feature films particularly 'Five Days One Summer', 'The Mission', 'Live and Let Die' and 'Rambo III'. Mo's roles ranged from assistant cameraman to special effects, doubling, (for Jeremy Irons and Sylvester Stallone) and most important of all, safety officer. In all Mo's expeditions and films there was never a single fatality, a fact Mo put down to his utter cowardice! In January 1988, I heard that Mo had a brain tumour and would be operated on immediately. Distraught and fighting back tears I rang up to wish him well. As usual Mo was his incorrigible, hilarious self. "Village idiot speaking"he greeted me. "Don't worry, there's only three things that can happen. Either they'll remove it and I'll be okay, or they'll turn me into a vegetable." He paused "What's the third?""If they bugger it up completely I'll have to get a job at Plas y Brenin"

The operation appeared to be a complete success and, undeterred Mo went to Everest with Brummie Stokes, and a huge team including Joe, Bill Barker, Davy Jones, Ian Nicholson and, at the last moment, me as cameraman. Mo,with most of the equipment, got to Base Camp three weeks before the main party and greeted us with delight when we at last caught him up. He looked thin and drawn, though his humour was undiminished and as macabre as ever. "If I get really ill Jim, I want you to film me as I throw myself down the Kangshung Face, doused in paraffin and burning like a Viking warrior" Despite performing well (and, incidentally, doing the lion's share of the filming himself when I was ill) Mo's health had deteriorated by the end of the year. He bore his illness, and another operation, with a courage and humour that was moving beyond words. Many visitors came away from the house still laughing through the tears. Even near the end a small part of me hoped, irrationally, that Mo could somehow manage to find a way out and he would turn up laughing in the pub, but it was not to be.

As long as there are people who knew him, Mo will live on in a rich kaleidoscope of images, words and events. In 50 hectic years Mo lived a complete life that few people could attain in one hundred.The writer, Al Alvarez, wrote a profile of Mo, 'Feeding the Rat' which was completed before the onset of Mo's illness. The book ends with a curiously prophetic soliloquy from Mo himself, the last words being

 ... to snuff it without knowing who you are and what you are capable of .... I can't think of anything sadder than that.


Jim Curran: First published in High 84.
 
 

Hold the front page

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Gently does it...The Temptation of Saint Julitta:Llynau Mymbyr, North Wales

Apologies if you dropped in expecting a regular Friday feature. Like millions of other people, I'm otherwise engaged in family affairs over the holiday period although I do have a new, previously unpublished article ready to slot in in the new year.So...thank you if you've been catching the site regularly and be aware, I'm always looking out for new material so perhaps you may have an essay or two gathering dust in the bottom of a drawer or buried in your computer files that you think would be of interest. Please get in touch via the email address on this page. Material does not have to be entirely related to the great outdoors as the site does on occasion publish art and environmental features. You can also keep in touch with what's going down through the Footless Crow Facebook and Twitter pages. All the best for 2014.
JA


Carpetbagging on Lliwedd

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A few days later came news from Holland and I. A. R. that made me jump. There had been great doings after I left. More ascents of the Holly-Tree Wall, a new and apparently hair-raising climb—the Oblique Buttress—on Glyder Fach and a series of climbs on Lliwedd. It was the final episode on Lliwedd that gave me the shock. Holland, always very adroit with knee-jam methods in climbing, had been destroying the knees of his breeches at an alarming rate. Blodwen, the chambermaid at Pen-y-Gwyrd, used to get half a crown from him for each repairing job she did. This was becoming, since he tore them through every second day, a serious drain upon his pocket, so he gave her instructions to find something to patch with that would be guaranteed not to wear through again. What she found was a piece of excellent Axminster carpet, and for a while Holland was very proud of a red and green decoration that distinguished him from all other visitors in the region. It had its disadvantages, however, and from these derives my story.

He and I. A. R. had been climbing without a pause through a long spell of fine weather. Perhaps they grew stale. Whatever the reason, they were suddenly attacked by a fit of 'out of form' mistakes that nearly put an end to them both. One evening after a long day on the East Peak—up and down the Shallow Gully, the Great Chimney and Route II—they had gone up the Central Chimney as far as the Summer House. Puzzled, as others have been, by the route ahead, they came down with the intention of working it out thoroughly on another day. And next morning they were back early at the foot of the climb. The Central Chimney Route starts with a steep fifty-foot groove, then comes a traverse to the right with a tricky step up over a very steep exposed corner. Now the evening before they had been twice across the passage, up and down, without trouble or hesitation.

This morning, however, I. A. R. when leading found himself suddenly and without warning at a loss in the very middle of the tricky movement. As he wrote to me, the experience was utterly unexpected, something he had never known when leading before. It was like forgetting a familiar name. In a flash he forgot everything about the pitch, he didn't know where any of the holds were, or what he had done, or what he should do, and this in a position half-way between one balance and another, a position in which it was impossible to stop and wait. He was just beginning to fall off when his hand, wandering over the rock behind him and out of his sight, happened on a hold and saved him. Now unexpected holds are not common on such pitches on Lliwedd. He lost no time in rejoining Holland in the Chimney and explaining that he was 'off' leading for the day, and they agreed that they had better go to something easier.

They chose the Far East Cracks on Lliwedd's Eastern-most peak, partly because Holland had lately been fre­quenting it with Odell and others, and it was new to I. A. R. Holland had invented a special direct finish of his own that he was anxious to demonstrate. So down they went; I. A. R., still rather shaken, going first so as to have the rope above him. He had hardly come to the first halting-place when, with an exclamation, down came Holland sailing through the air on top of him! What had happened was this. He had begun his descent by curling his carpet-clad knee into the recesses of the groove in his favourite fashion, quite forgetting that it was not as his knees usually were. It slipped out, and, as at that instant he had no other holds, off he came. He landed luckily astride I. A. R.'s neck and the two of them managed to stay where they were. Though the distance they had to fall is not very great, it might have been quite enough!

It has often been remarked that mischances tend to come in threes. They agreed that they had better be very careful indeed about the third as they walked over to the Far East Peak. All went well up the climb, Holland leading, until they reached the beginning of his new direct finish. The whole thing is a long V-shaped groove, of the type so characteristic of Lliwedd, like a slightly opened book and very steep. It is punctuated by little patches of grass in the back of the V, which make ledges on which the leader can rest and the second man join him. At the top, the groove is closed by a wall, but there are ways of escaping to easier ground on the right and left which are usually taken.

Holland's direct finish went up quite straight for sixty feet or so, very exposed and even steeper than the groove below. The crags underneath plunge down for 400 feet and the steep screes at their foot make the height seem much greater.I. A. R. was placed in the last reach of the groove, standing on an earth patch which is about the size of a dinner plate, playing the rope round a belay as big as his thumb. Holland went on to attack the wall above. He had climbed up about fifty-five feet when I. A. R. was alarmed to notice that the method required for finishing the pitch was that very identical knee-jamming that had led to the' mischance in the Central Chimney. The rope meanwhile was finding the belay most unaccommodating and kept slipping off as it was paid out. The leader's progress now came to a halt and I. A. R. became more and more uneasy. Holland was stretched out, his hands high up on what were evidently none good holds. The carpet-clad knee was writhing and writhing in a shallow furrow, the other toe at full stretch wason a small hold below. Then it was brought slowly up to a sloping nick to the side; it slipped off; and. I. A. R. could see Holland's whole body shake with the extra tension.

His own position was then that described by Archer Thompson, a connoisseur in exposed situations, as follows...

 The spot thus reached is hardly a landing-place—it accom­modates one foot only, but the desired rest can be obtained by leaning well back against a projection; in this half-recumbent attitude above and athwart the crack we are in a good position to enjoy the circumambient air, a wide view of the face, and an unobstructed outlook over Cwm Dyli 

He was beginning to expect bad trouble and fortunately just then caught sight of a flange of rock on the right of his groove at about the level of his shoulders. Quickly he levered himself across the groove until he was lying braced with both feet on one wall and a shoulder on the other. Then he looked again to see how the leader was getting on. Holland was still in the same position wrestling with the same problem. Up again came the toe to the sloping nick, wavered on it, then the whole body lifted and the toe slipped off! Out came the carpet knee that should have taken the weight and the jolt plucked his straining finger-tips from their holds. Without a word Holland slipped down a little, then fell out backwards and came like a loose sack, head-over-heels, down the wall. At this instant I. A. R. noticed that the rope had again worked off the belay.A body is travelling fast by the time it has fallen fifty feet down cliffs of the angle of these. I. A. R. avers that Holland was making quite a loud whizzing noise in his fall before he caught him, and that he swerved a good deal in his flight. There was no use now in worrying about the rope, the thing to do was to catch the climber. Actually he landed, head down, face out, between the cliff and I. A. R., who clutched him wildly round the thighs. Then a moment passed during which, rather slowly, they realized that they had not gone; they were still on the crags and alive; and
then Holland began to climb up round the outside of I. A. R.'s bridged body and re-establish himself right-side up on the little grass ledge.

The first thing now was a solemn lighting of Holland's pipe. I. A. R. says that Holland's hands were absolutely steady as he sheltered the match. Then the vitally important question of the plaster-cast round Holland's arm had to he looked into. It proved to be a good deal chipped, but the arm inside was all right. Holland now was for having 'another shot' at the pitch. He always seemed to me not to know what fear is, and this was an example of his indomitability. But I. A. R. had been watching and had had enough. So he vetoed the motion. They went down instead, as quickly as they knew how, to easy ground. This evidently was right, for in ten minutes' time the effect of the shock showed. Though Holland remained as cheerful and composed as ever, puffing his pipe tranquilly as he worked his way down, every muscle soon began to shake and shiver. They were glad to get off the climb, coil up the rope and go off to Gorphwysfa for a soothing drink.

Later I came to know the scenes of these adventures better. Easter days, when there were snow-banks at the foot of the gullies, Whitsuntide days, when hawthorn whitened Cwm Dyli and overhung the bathing-pool. Odd week-ends whenever I could fit them in, framed between night journeys in which the endless serried lights of Crewe shunting-yards seemed the great gateway to the hills. Through a week of cloudless June weather, with Holland, with H. M. and Pat Kelly, I almost lived on Lliwedd's East Peak. We would get to the foot of the Avalanche Route or Paradise while it was still early, go up and down all the summer day, and would be lingering by the summit cairn late into the dusk. The sea-gleams turned from gold to silver, ' Siabod and the Glyders grew smooth and blue with haze before we ran down back to Pen-y-Gwryd for a specially arranged cold ten-o'clock supper. It seemed impossible to go down while the shadow of Crib Goch was still creeping up and the crest of Lliwedd glowing in the last sunshine.

How could one sit at a dinner-table through the most beautiful hour of the day? We went up most of the well-known Lliwedd climbs, though not the Far East Cracks! I remem­ber once the string of Holland's sack breaking, while I was struggling to move quickly down the Shallow Gully, and thinking my last hour had come as a shower of missiles began to bound and whizz past me. There is not much room to share with an avalanche in the Shallow Gully. But they were nothing more than oranges and we picked them up `good and juicy' on the scree.

Halcyon days, sunny, windless, the rocks dry and clean under our rubbers and Holland climbing tirelessly and magnificently, up the most hopeless-looking reaches of the slabs. His air of a Roman legionary fitted well with his iron con­fidence and grim cheerfulness. I shall never visit Lliwedd without thinking of him. I owe him some of my very best climbing days. To each group of climbers who are exploring Lliwedd extensively for themselves for the first time, its climbs—with their own variations—come to seem in a sense their possession. No mountain seizes hold of its devotees more strongly, and the bond is capable of appearing reciprocal. The very diffi­culty of identifying many of the routes, exactly, makes a climb seem more one's own, and it may reasonably be wished that detailed descriptions of them did not exist. Then every fresh visitor would taste more fully the savour of exploration.

Mallory once remarked as much to I. A. R. Coming from one who had put so many splendid new climbs on the crags, and in the. Climbers' Club Book at Gorphwysfa, he had to admit that it was perhaps Satan rebuking sin. This was just before he left for that last time for Everest in 1924 to reach, as Odell, who saw him last, still thinks possible, the supreme point of any climber's ambition.

Dorothy Pilley: Climbing Days-1935

Eric Gill: to the Mountain

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IT WAS during the long cold winter of 1923 that the renowned artist and craftsman, Eric Gill, arrived on a dark and snowcast night at the head of the remote Vale of Ewyas, deep in the Black Mountains. Gill's journey of discovery with his young family on this most inhospitable of nights, brought him to a deeply secluded derelict dwelling which was to be the artist's home for the next four years. Arriving around midnight, Gill and his family entered the rambling Victorian Gothic monastery of Capel y Ffin. Gill later described his first vision of Capel y Ffin as "a weirdly exciting business." The old monastery stood in splendid isolation in the heart of the Black Mountains and offered Gill the opportunity to recreate his vision of an independent and self sufficient artistic and religious community living a life of creativity and spiritual fulfillment, gloriously divorced from the humdrum if hectic urban life.


Today Gill is best known as a sculptor and typographer of international stature. One of his best-known works is that of Prospero and Ariel which stands above the entrance of the BBC's old Broadcasting House. As a designer of typeface, Gill created the universally accepted Gill sans-serif and Perpetua, among more than half-a-dozen typefaces produced by this,the most versatile artist/craftsman since William Morris in the mid 19th century. There is a fine example of Eric Gill's work in North Wales. Gill was a frequent visitor to Chirk Castle on the Welsh/Shropshire border. In the early 1920s he designed and carved the town's war memorial, which stands in the centre of the bustling little village just off the busy A5. How many motorists travelling into North Wales must have passed by the monument without ever realising its significance and stature of its creator?

When Gill and his family moved into Capel y Ffin in August 1924, Gill had a dream to create in this "wondrously beautiful valley" a home and work environment that would attract an artistic colony of kindred spirits. He imagined that Capel y Ffin would soon become a rural idyll that would sustain and nurture a bohemian community of artists and crafts-people, drawing in the brightest and best of its contemporary arts movement. Coincidentally, 60 years earlier an Anglican clergyman, Father Ignatius, had held a similar dream. His vision,like Gills',was to transform Capel y Ffin into a centre for spiritual awakening and contemplation, sustained by a self-sufficient lifestyle. It was his dream to revive the Benedictine monastic lifestyle within the tranquil setting of the lovely Vale of Ewyas. The remoteness of the valley, sheltered geographically from the harsh realities of the outside world, seemed an ideal location to revive the high principles of the Benedictines. However, for Father Ignatius the remote position of Capel, with its uncompromising winter climate, defeated his quest and with his handful of followers,he was forced to abandon the valley.


Although Gill had intended Capel y Ffin to become a place of pilgrimage and high artistic ideals, his Spartan home failed to lure the host of like-minded artists and craftspeople from their metropolitan comforts. Despite his growing reputation in the arts movement, the flood of artistic creativity into Capel y Ffin was never more than a trickle of talent. During the early period of Gill's residency at Capel y Ffin he was joined by his friend, the highly regarded printer, Count Kessler. Kessler, however, was unimpressed by the monastic lifestyle that Gill had adopted and soon departed. After Kessler's return to more hospitable climes Gill was joined by the soon-to-be-acclaimed artist/poet David Jones. Jones's stay at Capel y Ffin from 1925 until 1928 was to be the Welsh artist's longest period of residence in his native land. It was at Capel y Ffin that Jones met Rene Hague, the printer. Hague was later to print Jones's epic poem In Parenthesis. In his poetry and art, Jones betrayed a deep fascination with the Arthurian legend. Capel y Ffin provided the artist with a rich source of Arthurian inspiration, for on his native hills and valleys Jones drew deeply, and readily transferred the inspiration the land gave into words and brush strokes.

Within four short years Capel y ffin was again empty. Eric Gill's dream-like Father Ignatius before him- had foundered on Capel y Ffin's geographical remoteness and a harsh winter climate that  deterred all but the most hardy. When Eric Gill crossed over the border into England he left behind him more than a gothic homestead; he left behind a dream that still draws people into rural Wales today. In his heart Eric Gill never left Capel y Ffin and the rugged land that so captured his imagination. He returned in the early 1930s to stay with one of his daughters, who had since settled in the area. It was during this period in the Black Mountains that Gill wrote his remarkable biography.


Throughout this work Gill refers to the rural idyll that had so inspired him in the Vale of Ewyas. Although factors outside his control had defeated Gill's inspiring plans for Capel y Ffin, he always remained true to his ideals and always regretted his failure to inspire others to join him in his artistic heaven deep in the Welsh mountains.

Today Capel y Ffin is a private residence, although the chapel built by Gill is open to the public. Above the altar is a painting by David Jones. An image of spiritual awakening within a building that resonates with Eric Gill's sublime vision of artistic and spiritual fusion.


John Appleby: First published as 'The Sublime vision of Eric Gill' in Country Quest Dec 1991

Prisoner of War

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Bill Murray,Bill McKenzie,Archie McAlpine after the 2nd ascent of Rubicon Wall-1937:Photo Douglas Scott/SMC

Mountaineering in Scotland was the product of three years in prison camps. It was hammered out in Czechoslovakia and Germany. The first year, under the Abruzzi mountains of Italy, saw only a preliminary stoking of fires.One of Rommel's panzer divisions had scooped me up from the desert in June 1942. The first year at Chieti had nearly wasted away before I shed lethargy. My imagination took fire at last from two slow-burning matches. The first was my daily view of the Gran Sasso's snow cap. It kept mountains alive in my mind. The second was the recurring thought of a German tank commander, whose capture of me had an element of comedy that Samivel the cartoonist, might have enjoyed. I had seen nothing funny at the time.My battalion of Highland Light Infantry had been whittled down in battle to fifty men. My brigade in the headlong retreat to Alamein was left astride the coast road south of Mersa Matruh to stop the 15th Panzer Division.

Their tanks came in after sunset twenty abreast. Our two-pounder guns hit them on the nose at point-blank range. Their armour bloomed red where the shells glanced off in showers of sparks. The tanks staggered, but came on. They machine-gunned the ground for five minutes till all was still. Then the crews climbed out to deal with any survivors. I was one of the lucky few. I rose to my feet and was faced by a young tank commander. He waved a machine-pistol at me. He and it shook. He had been rattled about in his tank like a pea in a tin can, not knowing what hit him. He was just as raw-nerved as I. In his position, with crying need to release tension, I could imagine myself squeezing the trigger. I held my breath while he took quick stock. To my astonishment, he forced a wry smile and asked in English, "Are you not feeling the cold?" The question was not daft. The desert is very cold at night if one is still wearing shirt and shorts, but not till then did I notice it.

I replied, "Cold as a mountain top." He looked at me, and his eyes brightened. "Do you mean — you climb mountains?" He was a mountaineer. We both relaxed. He stuffed his gun away. After a few quick words — the Alps, Scotland, rock and ice— he could not do enough for me. "When did you eat?" he asked. I reckoned, "Two days ago." He led me over to his tank and produced bully beef, biscuits, beer, chocolate, and an army greatcoat, all British. "Take them," he grinned. "Loot from Tobruk." We shared the beer and toasted "Mountains."

An hour later, he and his tanks clanked away, heading for Cairo (he hoped). I was left to the less tender care of Italian infantry. I often wondered about that climber, whose name I never heard. He had come unbroken from the Russian front. I wondered whether he survived El Alamein. The wondering kindled my urge to write, but that was stultified by want of paper. The urge became compulsive. The clincher was my receipt from the Red Cross of Shakespeare's Complete Works, printed on thin India paper. As I took this in my hand, I could not help reflecting what excellent toilet paper it would make, thus freeing my ration of Italian toilet roll for use as writing paper. I felt confident that William Shakespeare would approve. I sat down to work that very day, but the page stayed blank.



I had no doubt what I should write. I should write about good climbs, and these only. My zest for mountains was felt and expressed on hard routes, on rock, snow and ice, and not only in walking the hills. I wanted to share the experience. That was the first compulsion (others grew later). Mackenzie, Dunn, MacAlpine and I had teamed up in 1936, when the time was ripe for progress. Almost nothing had been done on ice, or on snow and ice bound rock, for twenty years. We had taken to the long ridges and buttresses on Nevis and Glencoe. Planning in advance was needed to catch the right weather-cycles and take the rocks under snow and ice of the right quality and quantity.

Our aim was to climb the routes not when easy but hard, and sometimes with massive accumulations of ice. We made mistakes, and our first attempt on Garrick's Shelf on the Buachaille was one. I had taken the lead high up when I landed on a run of verglassed slabs at dusk, just when the worst blizzard in twenty years was breaking. We took fourteen hours to get down in the dark. We turned this defeat to good account — always thereafter we carried pitons and karabiners and maybe a sling to secure retreat. We never drove a piton as direct aid, but occasionally did for belays. Another lesson we learned was the practicality of climbing by torchlight if the winter route was known. Thereafter we devised head-torches, and proved them invaluable on the longer climbs when conditions would otherwise have stopped an ascent.

Apart from head-torches, the main equipment changes were the slater's hammer and long ropes. The normal ice-axe had a 33-inch shaft. The wrist strain of prolonged, one-handed cutting above the head was severe, and a slater's pick with a 14-inch shaft eased it greatly — the climbing time on a pitch could be almost halved. I reckoned that the ten shillings I paid to an ironmonger for my first pick was the best-spent money I ever laid down on a counter. I have rarely enjoyed anything in life more than cutting up a long, high-angled ice-pitch where the balance was delicate. The craft used had to vary with the quality of the ice: white, green, blue, black, brittle, and watery, each had a quirk of its own, which had to be learned until one could tell them apart at a glance and cut accordingly. We still used the adze of the long axe to cut handholds on white ice, for that was faster.

No climbers carried crampons on Scottish hills; they were not reckoned worth their weight, for the tricouni-clinker nailing gave a non-slip grip on hard snow, allowed much neater footwork than crampons on snow and ice-bound rock, and allowed too an occasional 'miracle' to be pulled off on thin brittle ice that ought to have peeled. I used to call such moves levitation for want of a better word — nothing so crude as a step up, but rather a float up, with no weight placed anywhere so far as humanly possible. It worked if you hit top form, and got Mackenzie and me up some nasty places on Garrick's Shelf, Deep-Cut Chimney, and the like.Hardly more than a dozen climbers in Scotland were involved in such work. The rest had little notion, and most none at all, of what Scottish rock could offer in winter. Many had the idea that our climbs were 'unjustifiable' (then a fashionable word for damning hard moves and routes). A few, when I first produced my slater's pick with its 14-inch shaft, had called me a poseur, for they had no conception of its use. I wanted to dispel ignorance of the rich harvest available on winter rock, and to propagate the fierce joys of fetching it in — I say 'fierce' in deference to Scottish weather.

Such were my limited thoughts when I first put pen to to paper in Italy. Without diary, maps, or books to refresh memory, I feared I should lack detail of the climbs, which could not be spun  out to chapter-length. I was right, but the daily concentration of  mind in trying to remember, continued day after day for weeks,  I gave at last a most astonishing result. Memory began to yield up what it held more and more freely, until it came in a flood. Every detail of experience was suddenly there, and in full colour. Nothing  had been forgotten. I discovered that memory safely holds all experience in minutest detail, and that what fails (from disuse) is the ability to pull the record out of its pigeonhole. The deprivation of reference material became a gain. Every climb had to be re-lived, which in writing terms means re-created.

I have since believed that the main reason for the dullness of many an expedition book is the author’s too easy access to diaries and printed matter. These allow him to write without re-living—a trap all the more easy to fall into when time is short and distractions many. The book, then, was going well when the Allies invaded Sicily late in 1943. The Germans dropped parachute troops on ' Chieti. We were herded into cattle trucks and trundled over the Brenner pass to a concentration camp in Bavaria. The place (Moosburg) was infested with fleas and bugs, and packed with 20,000 starving Poles and Russians. They fought over any black bread we passed to them. Writing was impossible for the next two months. I had no paper.

 We were moved at last to a camp in Czechoslovakia, Oflag ' VIII F at Mahrisch Trubau. I fell foul of the Gestapo on arrival. In a personal search they found my MS. The fact that I was secreting it on my person, not carrying it openly, aroused their worst suspicions. (A coded record of things seen in Germany?). l was photographed, finger-printed, interrogated. When I said what it was, and that I carried it under my shirt only for safer transport, they dropped their eyes to the desk and believed not a word. These were the first men I'd met who could put a shiver up my spine.They looked hard-eyed of course, but not mean or nasty, for that implies an element of humanity. I had not before appreciated how much good there is in the common criminal. The Gestapo agent was a man from whom all good had been wrung out, and the result was an animated corpse. My flesh crept. Not till then did I understand why this war had to be fought. I had known only Rommel’s  Afrika Korps, and they had my respect. The tank commander had won more than that from me.



War, I had felt, was a bloody lunacy. I Now I knew that this one had been inescapable. They had to let me go, but I never saw the MS again. Its loss hit me hard at the time, yet proved another blessing in disguise. At Mahrisch Trubau I began afresh, this time screwed to a new frame of mind by worsening conditions.The thousand bomber raids were unleashed on Germany. We 
were living on frosted turnips and potatoes—often only their peelings—a starvation diet of 800 calories a day. The guards dared no longer turn their Alsatians into the compound at night, for they went straight into the pot, and the skins would be hung over the fence before morning. Stray cats went the same way.

The Russians were on Rumania’s frontier. We had reports that the SS were under orders to machine-gun camp inmates on Russia’s path of advance. We agreed that no escapes should now be allowed. Our escapers I were invariably caught by the Gestapo, truncheoned, incinerated and the ashes returned to the camp of origin. The tunnels we'd made had to be freed from the searches that escapes entailed, and  so kept for emergencies. I no longer believed I’d climb mountains again, but felt blindly determined to get the truth about them on to paper. I no longer wanted to write just of hard climbs, or to enlighten anyone. I was writing because I must, all humbug shed off, and with it all understatement of difficulty, all exaggeration of danger, all reticence about feeling. The whole mountain scene was vivid in mind and detail. I now had good paper, had learned how to ignore distractions, and could write fast. I had in mind to say what I’d found of beauty, effort, fun, and delight. I would try for the truth only, and while knowing it could never be said, still I would try.

I finished the first draft on my birthday in March 1944. It was the day of the war’s greatest air raid. 4,000 planes had bombed Frankfurt. The fall of Rome and invasion of Normandy followed. We knew all this, for the engineers had built a wireless set and we published the BBC bulletins daily. When the Russians burst through Rumania that summer we were evacuated to Germany, and imprisoned in a former Luftwaffe barracks in a wood near Brunswick. I returned to the MS again and again at Brunswick, trying to get it right. My main anxiety was at first the Gestapo. They had still to be dodged, for their searches went on. They were maddened by our daily publication of the BBC News, to which their own people were not allowed to listen. They searched everywhere but the right  place. The set was plugged into the power line vertically under the electrified barbed-wire fence. The tunnel entrance was right out in the open compound, where they never thoroughly looked (the trap door was invisible). Random interrogations continued, but I would not again be caught with the MS on my body.A greater risk was soon bomb-blast.

The British and American armies were through France, and the Russians in Hungary. Day and night, the Allied air fleets were overhead. During these last nine months we saw neither sky by day nor stars by night -all was obscured by a vast pall of dust and smoke rising off the burning cities all around. Brunswick, Magdeburg, Hanover,and most others were engulfed. One daylight raid wiped out our German garrison, but we were unaware of it. Stupefied, we could see nothing through the wall of flaming trees round the barracks. I carried the MS under my tunic at all times, for the Gestapo menace had gone. They were off to more congenial tasks. A big purge was on following the attempt by Rommel and others to kill Hitler. Each time a general surrendered on the Russian front, public notice was given that vengeance had been taken on his family and friends. Earlier reports of the SS machine-gunning prisoners in eastern camps were confirmed. We knew it could happen here at any time.

Our twelve new tunnels running under the perimeter wire were kept A strictly unused. There had to be a last-minute chance of mass escape— supposing we were strong enough to make it. We had been given too little food for too long. TB was rife. My finger-nails were corrugated from vitamin-lack, and my hair thinning. l could no longer walk around the camp without feeling dizzy, nor climb stairs without palpitation of the heart. Hopes of survival had dimmed a bit. Day and night we dreamed of food; otherwise not once over the last year had I felt imprisoned. I lived on mountains and had the freedom of them. I waited on the machine-gunners without concem. Most of us had found our own ways of doing this. But we did prepare ourselves. At the end, the American 9th Army beat the SS to the gates. l remember still my first ration of one chocolate-bar—the swift run of heat through the body as if from neat whisky.

In May l945, I returned from the freedom of prisons to the chains of civilised society. Dent took the book. They asked for changes where I’d expressed myself too openly. I could see their point, but refused. The book had to be as it was, written from the heart of the holocaust, and not as if written on home ground.


WH Murray: Mountain 1979

The Gentle Art of Boulder Trundling

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The following essay is the outcome of an argument between its author and the Club Treasurer on the ethics of boulder trundling, in the course of which the former averred that this practice had received the sanction of many reputable mountaineers, and had, in particular, been mentioned with approval by Leslie Stephen in The Playground of Europe. Wilding threw doubt on the former statement and categorically denied the latter. On further examination he withdrew this denial but maintained that Stephen's remarks were not meant seriously. It was finally decided that the two disputants should argue their respective cases before a gathering at the Club Hut, and that the decision should be left to a single arbitrator. The parties agreed on Pryor as the judge, and that the following three questions should be submitted for his decision: 

1. It is possible to justify Boulder Trundling? 
2. ls there reasonable evidence that any mountaineer of repute consistently practiced Boulder Trundling ? 
3. Was Leslie Stephen serious in this passage from The Playground of Europe regarding Boulder Trundling?'

The cases were duly pleaded by their respective advocates before alarge and enthusiastic audience (fortified by one of Burton's'brews of rum punch in which the flavour of spirit could be distinctly smelt). At the end Pryor gave judgment for Wilding on the first two counts and for Forrester on the third. It had been agreed that all bets were to be settled by the Judge's ruling; but afterwards Pryor himself asked the jury for their opinion as a matter of interest, and found that they disagreed with his judgement on the second count, while agreeing with the other two. What follows is substantially the plaintiff's case, cut down and also slightly modified to suit the new circumstances of presentation. This explanation has been deemed necessary in order to make clear the general form of the essay. It has not been found possible to persuade Wilding to publish his counter-arguments. — Ed. R.C.J.

Boulder Trundling may be defined as the propulsion of fragments of the Earth's crust down mountain slopes of suitable inclination sooner than would occur from the interaction of natural forces. Like other sports and pastimes it has different phases and degrees. No one could object to pushing a stone weighing (say) 2 ounces down a 2 yard slope to drop 2 feet into 2 fathoms of water; while even l should draw the line at sending some tons of rock down High Tor Gully into a train full of widows and orphans on their way to Buxton. The sport, then, as l understand it, lies somewhere between these two extremes, and is one calculated to afford pleasure and profit to many right-minded persons and offence to few; that is, if practiced reasonably,with due regard to time and place. I may mention one particular spot where I have spent many profitable hours in moving some tons of rock downhill a little before it was due to go in the course of nature. This is a gully on the right of the Alport, some little distance below the waterfall. Surely there could be no valid objection to this: no one should get hurt; and although it leaves some marks, they seem without desecration.

Another charming boulder shoot is a Bowfell gully above Angle Tarn; the remembrance of a crowded half-hour of life in this gully is very sweet, and the marks left here are less obvious than on the gritstone. In any case it is quite arguable that the marks made look more natural than the nail scratchers of rock climbers. The latter, of course, are inveterate Boulder Trundlers. How often in reading the account of a new climb, do we not come across something like this: "The leader carefully examined a large slab on the left which would have been of great help in this difficult pitch, but it looked unsafe and moved slightly when tested. The leader and second therefore gave it a wide berth, while the last man, after being anchored from above, managed to send this dangerous rock hurtling  down the gully." 

All this however is beside the point. Boulder Trundling as l understand it is done for the sheer joy of the sport: there is no thought of the future - the present suffices. Consider a long slope, up which you have painfully toiled in the wake of a hardened grough-hound. At the bottom maybe is a vertical drop or a mass of jumbled rocks, and at the top there is a stone of inviting appearance and precarious tenure. You sit down above it, and after a necessary rest the feet are pressed against the rock. It moves perceptibly, but you can do no more from that point. You shift your ground and try again; still no luck! You excavate a little on the underside and have some more. You are not strong enough: some help is wanted and you shout for your companion. The force is now sufficient, and with the expenditure of a few buttons or perhaps some part of your braces the rock is moved from its bed and makes a revolution. lt gathers momentum . . . soon it is going really fast, and no matter what its shape it elects to travel on the longest axis. Speed increases rapidly now; sometimes the boulder will take great bounds and at other times scuttle close to the ground like a rabbit.

The zenith of Boulder Trundling is attained if it now meets solid rock in full face: the crash does one good to hear; the rock breaks into shivers, while part of it is ground absolutely into smoke. Favourable winds bring the scent of this smoke to you . . . and what an indescribably beautiful scent it is. Chesterton must have known of this delectable odour when he wrote of: "The brilliant smell of water, the brave smell of a stone." Or there is Boulder Trundling in a rock gully with great slabs - lots of them together walloping down in a confined space. A tarn on the Rhinogs has a steep face of bare rock on one side where you may trundle straight into deep water. Time was short on the only occasion l was there, so that I hope to go again to work out the course properly. I cannot analyze the delight of Boulder Trundling, nor say why it pleases — better men than myself have tried and failed. I can only say that it affords perhaps the purest joy we can expect in this terrestrial life. The first Boulder Trundler of whom we have any record is Sisyphus, who was so addicted to the sport — in fact he seems to have spent his whole life at it — that we really know nothing else about him; so that for our first instance of a well-known mountaineer who practiced the art we must turn to Moses.


Moses was the most celebrated climber of his time and has at least three first ascents to his credit, namely Mounts Horeb, Sinai, and Pisgah. In addition, he led a very difficult traverse of the Red Sea, which was effected without mishap despite the unusual size of his party. The magnitude of this achievement can be gaged from the fact that another party which attempted to repeat the traverse suffered total disaster. ‘The Red Sea by Moses's Route is now considered unjustifiable and has not since been attempted.

As regards Boulder Trundling by this great pioneer, it is recorded that on his way down after the first ascent of Mt. Sinai he came upon a slope of surpassing excellence,on viewing which he had but one idea in mind - to push the handiest rock down it. This rock unfortunately bore most important inscriptions, and Moses got into serious trouble for giving rein to his inclinations. I have always felt the greatest sympathy for him on this account. Before passing on to recent times let us take one glimpse at a medieval devotee of our sport. I quote from Arnold Lunn's book The Alps (pp. 30-31). "The Stockhorn is a modest peak some 7,000 feet in height. Simler tells us that its ascent was a common-place achievement. . . . Its ascent by Muller, a Berne professor, in 1536, is only remarkable for the joyous poem in hexameters which records his delight in all the accompaniments of a mountain expedition. Muller has the true feelings for the simpler pleasures of picnicking on the heights. Everything delights him, from the humble fare washed down with a draught from a mountain stream, to the primitive joy of hurling big rocks down a mountain side. The last confession endears him to all who have practiced this simple. if dangerous amusement."

I now come to modem mountaineering, and the first case I will cite is the behavior of Whymper on the occasion of the first ascent of the Matterhom. It will be remembered that there was a race between the Italian and English parties. On getting to the top and finding that the Italians had not yet arrived Whymper looked down the mountain side to see where they were, and on finding them wished to attract their attention. He writes in Scrambles amongst the Alps:“‘Croz! Crozl come here I’ ‘Where are they, Monsieur ?'‘There - don't you see them - down there!’ ‘Ah ! the coquins, they are low down.’ ’Croz, we must make those fellows hear us.’ We yelled until we were hoarse. The Italians seemed to regard us - we could not be certain. '’Croz, we must make them hear us: they shall hear us l’ : I seized a block of rock and hurled it down, and called upon my companion, in the name of friendship, to do the same. We drove our sticks in, and prized away the crags, and soon a torrent of stones poured down the ' cliffs. There was no mistake about it this time. The Italians turned and fled."

Boulder Trundling in the dark sounds attractive, to judge by an incident during the ascent of Mont Pelvoux, as described in the same book. “This night we fixed our camp high above the tree-line, and indulged ourselves in the healthy employment of carrying our fuel up to it. The present rock was not so comfortable as the first, and, before we could settle down, we were obliged to tum out a large mass which was in the way. It was very obstinate, but moved at length; slowly and gently at first, then faster and faster, at last taking great jumps in the air, striking a stream of fire at every touch, which shone out brightly as it entered the gloomy valley below, and long after it was out of sight we heard it bounding downwards, and then settle with a subdued crash on the glacier beneath."Another mountaineer of repute who practiced  the noble sport was Sir Martin Conway, who says quite casually during his account in The Alps from End to End of an ascent of the Wilde Kreuz Spitze: "We amused ourselves by throwing stones down the slope we had come up and watching them vanish in the fog." It might be thought that although the sport was practiced by amateurs, no reputable guide would ever have anything to do with it; but this is not the case.

One of the most celebrated, perhaps the most justly renowned of all Alpine guides, is not found wanting. I refer to Jean Antoine Carrel. l quote once again from Amold Lunn's The Alps, where, describing an early attempt on the Matterhom by Carrel, his brother, and Gorret. he says:"They mistook the way; and, reaching a spot that pleased them, they wasted hours in hurling rocks down a cliff - a fascinating pursuit." I think it is not straining matters too far to suggest that ‘wasted’ is here used in the Shakespearian sense. as when  Portia speaks of. . companions ..'That do converse and waste the time together", no sense of reprobation being implied.The following passage is of supreme interest: "We waited patiently a long cold hour for the views that did not appear, and our geologist had ample opportunity  to indulge in the innocent pastime of stonebreaking. We had plenty of fun too in heaving great rocks over the giant precipice. This is a sport the fascination of which few members of the Alpine Club can resist, and I for one must in my time have rolled hundreds of tons from the tops of mountains." It might have been thought that l had invented this quotation especially for use on this occasion. Not at all ! it is the work of a very eminent mountaineer, of whom I  may safely say that there are few men whose words would carry more weight in the mountaineering world. The author is the late Mr. Slingsby, and the words occur on page 106 of his book on Norway.

Later on page 379 in the same work we come across the following: "A small cairn was hastily raised, and we hurried along a saddle to the south-western or highest peak. Loud were our hurrahs and many were the rocks which we threw over the gaunt precipices. Most new ascents are commemorated in this manner." I strongly recommend this book of Slingsby's to the youthful Boulder Trundler, as it contains several references to the sport. One more quotation before we pass to our last point. This time it is from an article on Skye in an early number of this Journal. ...

"We started at 10 o'clock and walked up the north branch of the corrie, stopping to inspect a very deeply cut gorge, into which we hurled boulders, which struck the pool at the bottom with a resounding ‘pomph'." And now for Leslie Stephen.The passage in The Playground of Europe occurs during Stephen's discussion of Rousseau, and I must give it at some length as the context is important to my argument. It seems clear to me that the author is here engaged in a perfectly serious attempt to show that Rousseau was a mountaineer at heart; and the reference to Boulder Trundling is a definite link in his reasoning. To suppose that his intention is merely flippant here is to suppose that his whole attempt to make out Rousseau a mountaineer is just a joke. and that would be too pointless a joke for a man of Leslie Stephen's wit. “Rousseau's sentiments must be gathered rather from the general tone of his writings than from any definite passages.

In the Confessions indeed there is an explicit avowal of his hatred for the plains and his love of torrents, rocks, pines, black woods. rough paths to climb and descend, and precipices to cause a delicious terror; and he describes two amusements so characteristic of the genuine mountaineer that we feel at once that he is on the right track. One is gazing for hours over a parapet at the foam- spotted waters of a torrent and listening to the cry of ravens and birds of prey that wheel from rock to rock a hundred fathoms beneath him. The other is a sport whose charms are as unspeakable as they are difficult of analysis. It is described somewhere (if I remember rightly) by Sir Walter Scott, and consists in rolling big stones down a cliff to dash themselves to pieces at its foot. No one who cannot contentedly spend hours in fascinating though simple sport really loves a mountain.’ No words of mine can emphasize this eloquent simplicity. When I go to Heaven, may my spirit join the spirits of Leslie Stephen, Slingsby. and the illustrious Boulder Trundlers of the past, present, and future, to spend eternity rolling asteroids and comets down the infinite abyss of interstellar space to meet in cosmic collision the multitudinous celestial bodies of the Milky Way; that in gorgeous impact all may be resolved into the imponderable protons and electrons of ultimate matter.


SJ Forrester. The Rucksack Club Journal-1931

In Praise of Cheating

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Though play as such is outside the range of good and bad, the element of tension imparts to it a certain ethical value in so far as it means a testing of the player's prowess: his courage, tenacity, resources, and, last but not least, his spiritual powers - his ‘fairness’; because, despite his ardent desire to win, he must still stick to the rules of the game.The player who trespasses against the rules or ignores them is a ’spoilsport'. The spoilsport is not the same as the false player, the cheat; for the latter pretends to be playing the game and, on the face of it, still acknowledges the magic circle. It is curious to note how much more lenient society is to the cheat than to the spoilsport. This is because the spoilsport shatters the play-world itself. By withdrawing from the game he reveals there relativity and fragility of the play-world in which he had temporarily shut himself with others."

Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens

Over the past few years monologues and dialogues on what have come to be called climbing ethics have become a regular feature of climbers’ magazines. Tejada-Flores and Robbins have presented intriguing and comprehensive descriptions of how the ethical machinery works or ought  to work, and recently Robin Campbell has offered a shorter decalogue. To be sure, Campbell and others have mentioned their discomfort at talking about ethics in this respect - as if climbing had dilemmas as weighty as those of the medical and legal professions. Recall, though, that in a famous essay on conservation written no less than forty years ago Aldo Leopold urged a further extension of ethical concepts: ethics dealt with property and people at first, he said; but ethics ought to consider unimproved land and the life-forms it supports. Clearly there is a sense in which many young climbers agree with him and want to go a step further by protecting the inanimate world of rock.

Ought one to apologise for adding to this literature? If so, I offer two apologies, alternatives if you like. First, climbing and mountaineering have been great fun and very satisfying. But the threats from technology and population pressure in the past are nothing to the threats looming in the immediate future. I find myself reluctant to agree with David Roberts that the sport is probably doomed and may already be in its last throes. But I am sure that if we want to enjoy these pastimes in roughly the same sorts of ways as in the past, it would be wise to ascertain whether and how we ought to protect them. Second, at some time or other I have flouted almost every rule within an English climber’s reach. And yet, in the very act of committing each misdemeanour, an utterly plausible excuse has been taking shape in my mind. So perhaps I write with unusual  authority and have important new material to contribute?

lt makes sense to begin by scanning the entire field of unethical behaviour on mountains, using ‘unethical’ in our contemporary sense. Some readers may be upset at the inclusion of certain items in this list but all these practices have been complained of by someone at some time. It might be worth adding that less heinous offences, best referred to as breaches of "climbing manners", can also be identified; some of the prototypes of these peccadilloes were excellently dealt with by Winthrop Young in Mountain Craft and more modern forms can be extrapolated. So we begin, obviously, with the use of a power drill to get up a mountain and of a helicopter to get down; with the use of light aeroplanes to look for or at prospective routes; with the use of helicopters, aeroplanes, skidoos, jeeps,scramble bikes and so on, to get men or material nearer to the climb than other or earlier visitors.Next we have the use of pegs, bolts, nuts and slings to allow one to stand or hang in comfort where might otherwise be difficult or impossible; and the abandoning of this or other material on the mountain.

Then there is the whittling away of climbs from below by the use of siege tactics; and the softening-up of climbs from above by inspection or rehearsal by rappel or top-rope and by the placing of useful or displacing of unhelpful material. Here we might add the dissemination of detailed information about the mountain and its climbs in the form of guidebooks,magazine articles, route descriptions, photos and topos. And then comes the guiding on mountain excursions of people who want to go that way but daren’t go there on their own; or of those who might just drift there by chance but who don't understand what the mountain is for; or of people who don't admire the mountain and are scared stiff anyway.All sorts of other complaints have been lodged about the presence on mountains of people with uniforms, or with badges and certificates to prove it; about the building of shelters and refuges; about the overdevelopment of rescue facilities; about the use of rock shoes on easy climbs, and so on. But that will do for a start.

Now it is clear to me that matters of right and wrong in climbing involve actions with effects of two quite different categories. First, they involve actions detrimental to the scene in its widest sense: conservation ethics, called here environment ethics. Second, they involve actions that threaten the accepted styles of climbing : game ethics, is called here competition ethics to emphasise the dominant aspect of their nature. Some activities certainly lead to both sorts of damage but it remains possible and important to separate the categories and effects.We can list the main offences against environment ethics briefly. First, there is damage to the biological life-bank of the cliff or mountain, its plants and bird or animal life, Second, there is damage to the rock itself, considered as something natural and admirable rather than as a climbing problem that might need re-grading after rough treatment.Third, there are the litter nuisances: bog paper on every ledge and bolts in every wall. And, fourth, there is the erosion of the absolute mystery, dignity and privacy of the mountain and the contamination of the local or native culture the mountain stands behind and is coloured by.

Royal Robbins...ethical dude.

There are other problems as well. But in summary these are the sorts of complaints that might be made by non-climbers who love the mountain in an entirely platonic sense. The general type of offence is disturbance. One could say a lot about these matters and if it were claimed that they are outside the scope of climbing ethics the reply is, no, absolutely not, the two areas are inseparable in many instances. But it is true that the most heated arguments at present are about the ways in which climbs are carried out. Competition ethics are based upon a number of factors or desiderata. There is the need to exert oneself; there is the need to scare oneself; there is the need to excel; and there is the example of archetypal climbs.

 Beyond this, competition ethics respond to change: advances in techniques; advances in technology; increases in wealth and leisure; and the effects of population pressures. ln mentioning the more important of these factors, Tejada-Flores’ indispensable description of 'climbing-games' has to be used as a model yet again. One assumes that the reader is familiar with his terminology and ideas and I use these freely here, without keeping bowing to the inventor. One notes that he remarks that the climbing-game hierarchy isn't the only way of thinking about climbing and no doubt he went through a number of alternatives. But an obvious way of describing breaches of competition ethics is by saying that they amount to the use of a handicap-system to assist the climber rather than to defend the climb. The subversive purpose of this essay is to ask how much competition ethics matter; but the question will have to wait a moment.

Having listed offenses against environment ethics we can now look at the flouting of competition ethics. And here the cardinal sin is simply the use of too much advantage, especially in support of a pre-emptive strike. To this we can add the leaving of aid in place, a temptation to subsequent parties. Over the past few years remarks about the use of excessive protection have also been voiced from time to time. And then there is the creation of a variation or traverse which, whilst giving a new climb, detracts from the ambience of an existing line, a question of manners possibly. But the general type of offence is that of reducing the personal handicap in relation to other climbers likely to attempt the same route. It was remarked earlier that some activities offend both ethics and some only one or the other. So, for example, a pure bolt ascent might be held to flout environment ethics (by leaving litter on the wall) and to flout competition ethics(by eliminating the personal handicap). Gardening, on the other hand, violates environment ethics but ratifies competition ethics because it leaves the climb in a more permanent condition; whilst rehearsal by top-rope may be held to offend competition ethics but does not threatenenvironment ethics in the least.

Excursus on sentiment. The great climbs can stand anancient victory piton and the odd retreat pegs; even, perhaps, extended peg and bolt ladders in certain situations depending mainly, rightly or wrongly, on how much anxiety the situation arouses in the average climber undertaking the route. Climbing is an art-form, engaging our feelings; and these mementoes, speaking of the struggles of our predecessors. of success and failure, arouse emotions in us. Even litter, then, may add to the impact of a climb. So here is the related crunch question for frustrated ethicists. Does an unrecorded bolt ascent of an otherwise unvisited wall breach environment ethics ? Or competition ethics Or both? Or neither?

Another general observation on breaches of ethics centres of the relative permanence of the effect. l began by mentioning the use of a power drill to get up a mountain and of a helicopter to get down. Each of these bits of assistance‘ constitutes a total breach of both ethics. But note that the bolting is a relatively irreversible gesture against both ethics: the use of the helicopter insults the environment ethic only until the echoes have died away; whilst it damages the competition ethic for as long as we say it does. Here's an odd difference then. Environment ethics can be breached temporarily, with perfect repair, or permanently and irreparably, or something in between. But how competition ethics are breached depends purely on what we say about the matter. And we are influenced by factors that tend to make us change our minds and construct new rules. One can observe the rules, or one can pretend to observe them, or one can ignore them. And it is those who assume the last two roles who interest me now: the cheat and the spoilsport.

ln climbing, a spoilsport is something more than just a climber who takes an advantage one had not thought of oneself. A spoilsport might be described as a cheat who admits, announces or boasts of his cheating; or, retrospectively, a cheat who gets found out. But, to confuse matters, British climbers use the expression ‘cheating’ in two ways. First, we joke that we are cheating when we use more assistance than is usual; but by this self-accusation we resign from the contest and clear ourselves. Second, we cheat when we don't tell the truth about the aid we've used. The opportunities for this on smaller crags have become less with population pressure. But even on British cliffs there can be few leading climbers who have never found themselves with a foot ‘caught in a sling’, whilst gardening holds. And if any essential aid has been admitted to, dispensable aid is less likely to be recorded. Something can be said in support of both cheat and spoilsport. In defence of the cheat it has to be said that, in contrast to the disturbing practices mentioned earlier, cheating stands alone; it does not really threaten the game of climbing.

Hence the title of this article. In defence of the spoilsport one can say what Durkheim said of other criminals. That his existence is inevitable because he is the agent used to clarify and define the edges of permissible behaviour. Perhaps both cheat and spoilsport might be regarded as the guerillas of the mountaineering world, sabotaging the ethics machine when its workings are causing absurd or undesirable effects. So here's a health to Keith McCallum. Half cheat, half spoilsport, ably seconded by his three fantasised companions (how real and individual were their personalities to him Who was the best of the three? Where did J. S. Martin spend his August holiday in 1967 ?) he blazed his way to glory through fifty dream climbs. One has to give credit where it is due. In The Decay of Lying, Wilde speculates on the character of the true liar - "his frank, fearless statements, his superb irresponsibility” - and defines the really breathtaking lie: "Simply that which is its own evidence".The genius of McCallum was of a very unusual, very broad and visionary nature, easily damaged by the cynicism of the a world.

He was able not only to look at cliffs and write up fairly plausible descriptions of impressive lines: but he was also willing and happy to attend climbing club dinners as guest of honour and to make long and stupefying boring speeches about his latest achievements and the state of the campaign. There's conviction for you l One hopes that he has not been too distressed at the response the uncovering of his initiatives drew. It would be nice to think that he might one day return to the climbing scene with new ideas. I will assume now that most of us agree that breaches of environment ethics are matters worth serious thought, even if some alleged abuses need to be looked at rather sceptically. But these are not the main subject of this article so only one question now remains: do competition ethics matter? There are certainly points to be made for and against  them.

Clearly, competition ethics are essential for competitors. They enable them to sort themselves out and to get into order of size, this operation giving great happiness, anguish and excitement. Further, it is surely the case that the better one climbs a route, the closer to the archetypal style, the more pleasure one gets. For the most brilliant climbers, ethical climbing is the only means by which a high enough level of tension can be achieved and that goal becomes more elusive as technique and technology progress. Finally, ethical climbing ensures that some problems are left unsolved; and apart from the fact that this conserves a field of action for the experts of tomorrow it is also claimed that there is an intrinsic virtue in modesty and self-denial.

What, then, can be said against competition ethics? First, that they should only apply to competitors. Might it not seem reasonable for a man to ask to compete, not with other climbers - the collateral competition - but only with the route and his own limits - the vertical competition: and therefore to use whatever assistance he feels to be necessary ? This seems fair enough to me. The joy of climbing includes elements other than the pleasure of excelling, including, as claimed already, the catharsis of exertion and fear; and that satisfaction is quite independent of one’s performance as compared with the standards agree by groups.

lt might be said that unethical climbing is simply a means of avoiding any such catharsis, but this is usually true only for the scornful bystander in a particular situation; the unethical climber is probably finding his unethical solution amply exciting. The excellence of climbs, given a certain length of route, also depends more upon such aesthetic factors as beauty ofmposition, rock architecture, setting and view, than upon the actual method of achieving the hardest move: and on a fairly long route the experience is not much affected whether the crux has been climbed by layback, by jamming, or by standing in a nut sling. So that 60-year-olds, I think, ought to insist upon their right to nut the crucial sections of routes climbed free by 30-year-olds. The fact that this right is derided in Britain at present is lamentable. We have reached the point at which sensitive climbers are having to spend their holidays in Patagonia, where the wind is too loud to permit prolonged discussions on ethics.

But now, unhappily, I reach the problem on which the theorists break themselves: that posed by climbers who, in using extensive aid, reject the competition ethic (since they're achieving a high enough level of tension as it is) but who record their claims to first ascents. Is the First Ascents List a competition ? Does it pre-suppose adherence to the competition ethic of a particular time and place? Or is it no more than it calls itself, a historical record ? At this point I find myself in a bit of a fix. I cannot help commenting here on how irresistible the sexual metaphor appears to be. Don't rape the mountains, says Campbell; leave a few monuments to Virginity, says Robbins. It is a commonly held opinion nowadays that a false value has often been placed upon virginity; and many readers, no doubt, share Dr. Comfort's view that chastity is no more a virtue than malnutrition. Perhaps, then, the metaphor is misleading And yet, in mountaineering the image of the undespoiled seems to remain central and essential. Even those who imply that too much is made of this legend of purity seem, by the very act of recording their unethical ascents, to shake their own case. (Curious, too, to note how many climbers have put on record the fact that they've made new routes without recording them.) From this point several trains of thought depart and it's not possible to catch all of them at once. So I content myself with saying that metaphors of violation ought to be scrutinised carefully. In fact, I suspect that some interesting understandings of the nature of the wilderness experience might result.

My own predilection, and my practice, is for doing new routes as best one can; and, despite my title, for being reasonably honest about the methods used. It doesn't  perturb me in the least if someone has made a new route by using more aid than I find to be necessary on my subsequent ascent. If someone repeats my own climb with less difficulty, I'm suitably impressed; with more, and I'm childishly delighted. I think I know who made the first ascents of the Mont Aiguille, the Devil's Tower, Lost Arrow and whatever, and I know how they succeeded. In a strange way the histories of climbs made outside the competition ethic are often as interesting as those of climbs made within it. So I think that the moderate climber ought to reject the spectatorial role the é/ite have assigned to him.If I find a desperate crack, accessible to me with two or three nuts and slings, I'm not going to watch it for years until someone arrives who can finger up it. His aching fingers will be his eventual reward as my dry throat was mine. His ethical ascent can be used to underline the advance of the generations or simply my lack of skill.

But note that it might also be necessary to record the weather and perhaps other variables; unless it is proposed to forbid the use of aid (or top-roping or gardening en rappel) on new routes except in fine weather. Clearly, the freeing of hard British rock-climbs is basically a fine-weather sport for gentlemen of leisure who can wait for perfect conditions; whilst British rock-climbing itself is (surely?) an alI-weather sport. (I must add here, in relation to the use of aid, that the problems of speed and manners are often present. The objection to the use of siege tactics surely stems in part from a response to the arrogance of blocking and claiming a route in an area In which there is a population pressure problem. And when I encourage old men and poor performers to use aid on difficult routes, I beg them to consider whether they have a right to hold up a queue of climbers who are genuinely longing to ascend that particular climb.

This article has changed shape a dozen times since first I sketched it out. I had a hundred dazzling insights, which I could not accommodate at this length, and. I met a hundred baffling problems, which I could only evade or ignore. The general field of environment ethics, the critical problem of people pollution, the intriguing area of the influence of archetypes. and the matter of orders of preference in the use of advantage. nave had to be passed by. The basic structure of the article to me to be a reasonable way of looking; at the practices of climbers. But now I begin to notice a suspicious resemblance  between the different pronouncements on the subject. each having a catch clause at the end.

Tejada-Flores’ hierarchy of climbing-games allows an ultimate judgement from the concept of good and bad style. Robbins proposes a revolutionary First Ascent Principle and his benevolent ethic allows the moderate climber to have as much fun as he likes; but then he announces a class of actions called Outrages and these cannot be permitted. Campbell outlines three restricted Categorical Imperatives and then comes up with a fourth, Love the Mountain, which can be used to deal with any abuses he may notice. Some readers may think my own suggestions disgustingly permissive; they have probably forgotten my Environment Ethic, which enables me to forbid anything that makes a mark or a noise. Perhaps, from the beginning, I ought to have distinguished more rigorously between clean aid and dirty aid, nut and piton, as the Americans keep doing. At any rate, I write in the certain knowledge that people will let me know where I went wrong.

In the end, especially for those who climb in public, it's a dialogue. It's a good thing that a climber should recognise his capabilities. He should see the world as it is and understand, if he doesn't already, that he may not be the best performer in the game. And it's a good thing also, provided that the environment ethic isn't brutally offended, that a climber should feel free to do his own thing and to reject the rules of others. I take J. E. B. Wright's account of an incident during the German attempt in 1936 on Lliwedd’s then unclimbed Central Gully Direct as a model for this dialogue: Stoeppler had been warned about the Welsh weather and he had a tube fitted to his Bergen Sack which took an umbrella. He was leading with the umbrella open keeping off the rain. Teufel was leading me up Reade’s Crack. Along came five climbers. As they arrived at the foot of Central Gully, bang, bang, went Stoeppler's hammer. The spokesman of the five shouted, "What do you think you're doing?" Bang, bang, went the hammer. This question was addressed several times, in a rising crescendo, to Stoeppler and Schneider, neither of whom could speak English. The banging and shouting went on alternately. Finally Stoeppler said to Schneider in German, "if he shouts again, throw a rock at him."

The stone was not thrown but the banging went on and the party of five continued on their way.’ There are some extraordinarily puzzling questions in the field of climbing ethics and it's rather amusing to see the young philistines torturing themselves with new forms of the sorts of conundrums that have teased philosophers for centuries.But if matters of environmental damage aren't involved perhaps the really crucifying dilemmas are for very small groups of people - the freakishly talented, the disgustingly rich, and the clinically disturbed: but not for you and me.


Harold Drasdo: First Published in Mountain 39

Fast and Free-Pete Livesey....Review.

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Pete Livesey on Wellington Crack-E4: Original Photo John Cleare-Mountain Camera Picture Library.

When I started climbing in earnest in about 1987, two names immediately sprang out of the new culture I was immersing myself in. Ron Fawcett and Pete Livesey. Sure other names peppered the rock notes in the climbing magazines...Moffatt, Moon, Dawes, Redhead et al...but despite the latter names being well on their way to legendary status themselves, Fawcett and Livesey were the real  Big Time Charlies. As something of a rock innocent in those days, I was not aware that Livesey had actually quit climbing some years before and was now heavily into orienteering. I also had no idea that he had once been a top drawer paddler-GB Olympic selectors had pencilled him in the GB Slalom Olympic Team- a leading caver and champion fell runner.

All I knew back in those early days was that he had an extremely entertaining column in Climber & Rambler magazine so I guessed  that he must still in the business of  putting up classic routes like Footless Crow, Das Capital and Mossdale Trip. In fact, hadn’t I just watched him climb Footless Crow with Chris Bonington in the Lakeland Rock series? It all seemed perfectly natural; Pete was still an active top rock athlete...wasn’t he?

With the publication of John Sheard and Mark Radtke’s ‘Fast and Free...Pete Livesey’ (Stories of a rock-climbing legend) those early misconceptions are answered and put into perspective. The complex ebullient Yorkshireman is revealed in his ragged glory. Fanatical, laid back, devious, accommodating, selfish, generous.  A  mish-mash of contradictions who nevertheless,was at heart a true climbing romantic who was drawn from the same traditional mould as a Kirkus, Edwards, Brown or Whillans. It is this ethical approach to climbing which makes his achievements all the more remarkable in light of the technicality of the routes he was putting up in his pomp. This statement will raise some eyebrows given his reputation for ofttimes cutting corners when prepping a new route or occasionally being less than pure in his style. However,many of these accusations it appears, were without foundation and emanate from figures in the climbing world who had an axe to grind with Livesey. The occasional ethical lapse notwithstanding,Livesey remains still a much more interesting individual than some of our modern day climbing  automatons who are high on ability and low on personality!

It is these contradictory elements of his character and that mischievous element which continues to attract people to the Livesey myth and which underpins the fascinating collection of essays within the book.  ‘Fast and Free’ might at first glance appear a Pete Livesey biography. It isn’t. What it is,is a well conceived and skillfully assembled collection of essays and articles relating to the man. Some of these pieces were written by Livesey himself and includes classic essays  like Travels with a Donkey, Jonathan Livingstone Steelfingers and the ‘I feel rock’ articles which appeared in magazines like Crags back in the seventies. The majority however, are written by Pete’s closest friends, partners and climbing associates.

Geoff Birtles rear cover pic of Livesey soloing New Diversions, Yosemite 1976.

Whereas a conventional biography generally dissects it’s subject from cradle to grave-or if you are a modern celebrity, from cradle to early 20’s!- Fast and Free is purely concerned with Livesey the athlete. Essentially the rock athlete although his activity in other areas, particularly caving gets a mention. This leaves the field open to anyone who might feel motivated to write the definitive PL biography in the future, but until then, Fast and Free more than fulfils the authors ambition to bring Livesey, the mythical Rock God into sharp focus.

One thing which struck me from those early Climber and Rambler articles, was the fact that Pete was a fine natural writer. Not inclined towards dense philosophical ramblings or purple prose, Pete told it as it was, but more than often, with his tongue firmly planted in his cheek. One C&R article which springs to mind, pondered whether or not, fist jamming up a gritstone crack, you could become HIV positive if a previous ascendant was HIV themselves? The theory being of course, the climber would have deposited skin in the crack and the rasping  qualities of the rock could leave those following vulnerable. I’m sure climbing’s PC elements must have grimaced at these ponderings and I still don’t know whether he was being serious or if it was an early attempt at what we know today as trolling? Whatever it was, I found this and other similarly surreal articles a lot more entertaining than the often turgid writing on offer in the climbing mags in those days. Livesey’s  Climber & Rambler column continued into the 90’s . Long after he had hung up his chalk bag and dug out his running shoes.


The reasons Pete Livesey suddenly gave up climbing when at the top of his game, has produced various theories. A popular take has been ‘the ego theory’. As a hugely competitive individual who was driven to excel in all fields, the 37 year old rock athlete could not stand the thought of a new hungry generation of climbers elbowing him aside in the eternal pursuit of the cutting edge route. Not one to contemplate a gradual readjustment to a new order where he was no longer ‘the Guvnor’, he exited stage left. Another popular theory is that he was simply bored...  been there, done that and bought the T shirt. It’s left to his long time climbing partner and Fast and Free co-author, John Sheard to explain the truth of the matter. And the truth is-as it usually is-somewhere between the two theories.

In addition, John Sheard offers Livesey’s increasing disillusionment with the trend towards bolted sports climbing as an additional concern. As a committed free climber who apart from establishing cutting edge routes, liked nothing more than freeing bolted climbs, it must have been jarring to see climbers like Ben Moon put up the provocatively named bolted route, ‘Statement of Youth’ on Pen Trywyn in North Wales. In fact, co-author Mark Radtke mentions a conversation he had with Livesey in his cafe in a closing chapter- ‘Legacy of a Leader’. Livesey still with a proprietorial interest in climbing ethics grumbled ‘Personally, I don’t see how a seventy foot climb with seven bolts in it can be E7!’.

It was clear that as far as Livesey was concerned, the game was up. Time to move on and take up a new outdoor activity. In this case, orienteering. Before he hung up his rock boots he offered this valedictory message which ended...

Sport climbing is simply mastering moves. I haven’t the remotest inclination to join this band of climbers nor have I anything against what they are doing.The BMC has made two big mistakes. Firstly, getting involved with access, and increasingly playing the role of policeman. Competition is the second. The BMC should take the position that mountaineering is what they are about, and have nothing to do with sports climbing. Other problems are on the horizon with access and professionalism. Anyway....I don’t care-bye!’.

Pete Livesey died in 1998 aged just 54. It’s incredible to mere mortals like myself, to think that Pete Livesey, the super-fit rock athlete who, on the face of it, was a picture of health, should succumb to a ‘nasty little tumour’. If he was still alive today he would be 70. An age when those who have spent a lifetime involved in outdoor activities and who have come through unscathed by accident or disease, are often still pounding the mountain tracks, breaching the waves or clinging to rock faces. It’s interesting to ponder just what Pete Livesey might have turned to in his eighth decade? Sailing, Paragliding, Sea Kayaking??? Whatever it might have been, you just know he would have blown his fellow veterans out of the water!





Fast and Free-Compiled and Produced by John Sheard and Mark Radtke . Writers include, Ron Fawcett, Geoff Birtles, Tom Price, Denis Grey and Andy Cave amongst many others. Available from...Cordee Publishing.

John Appleby:2014

In the footsteps of Coleridge.

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Shortly after midday on Sunday 1st August 1802, Samuel Taylor Coleridge strode down the hill from Greta Hall, his Keswick home, a knapsack over one shoulder and a broom-handle for a walking-stick, at the start of a nine-day walk around the Lake District. On Sunday 13th August 1989 - 187 years and 12 days later I set off from the same spot to follow, as closely as possible, in his footsteps. Like Coleridge, I walked alone. Like him, I did not book accommodation ahead but advanced hopefully, trusting that I would find somewhere to lay my head each evening. I tried to do the journey in his daily stages, and succeeded – up to a point.

The ‘footsteps’ form has become a popular one with writers. In the summer of 1964 Richard Holmes  followed the route through the Cevennes that Robert Louis Stevenson had walked, with his recalcitrant donkey, 86 years before. Bernard Levin traced Hannibal’s path across southern France and over the Alps to produce a book and a television series made memorable by his ‘Big White Carstairs’ tropical shorts. Others, for various motives, have tracked the evangelising journeys of St Paul, the road to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims took,the trail that John Muir blazed across the Sierra Nevada of California. At least two writers - Geoffrey Moorhouse and Beryl Bainbridge - have toured the places that J. B. Priestley visited on his English journey, published in 1934, to update his report on the state of the nation.

My aim was different from any of theirs. The idea was to look out for all the things that Coleridge noted on his walk that are still to be seen, virtually unchanged; also the things he sawwhich are no longer there, and the things that are there now but were not when he passed by; and, in this way, to try to form some picture of what has happened to this unique corner of England in the intervening years. So this is an account of three journeys: the one that Coleridge made, which was an exploration and an escape; the one I made, which was more of an investigation; and the long, complex journey that the Lake District has made in almost two centuries.


Luckily, much is known about Coleridge’s walk. He carried a small notebook and stopped frequently to jot down, while they were still fresh in his mind, all his observations and adventures, the feelings they inspired, the responses they aroused in that teeming and tireless mind. He then used these notes to form the basis of long, vivid and more literary letters that he wrote to the woman he had fallen guiltily in love with, Sara Hutchinson. These primary sources have survived almost intact and, thanks to assiduous modern scholarship - much of it North American -they are available in published form. Coleridge, who enjoyed coining new words, called his waik a ‘circumcursion’.

He ended where he started. His route followed a wavering but roughly circular course, anti-clockwise in direction, well over 100 miles in distance, involving the ascent and descent of more than 10,000 vertical feet, often on steep and stony ground. He saw all the higher mountains of the Lake District and most of its lakes and valleys, though he missed out Ullswater and Hawes Water and the eastern fells. He passed through three counties, for at that time - and for a further 170 years, until the county boundaries were  redrawn - Keswick was in Cumberland, Coniston was in North Lancashire, Rydal and Grasmere were in Westmorland. He touched the shore of the Irish Sea at St Bees. He rested and wrote part of a letter on the summit of Scafell, the second highest point of land in England. Descending from there, he took a short cut that involved him in the first recorded rock-climb ever made in this country.

Mountains were still seen as dangerous and repellent places, treacherous and profitless. Even William Wordsworth, a Lake District man by birth and upbringing and a powerful pedestrian, hired a local guide when he wanted to go to the summit of Scafell Pike. Coleridge’s achievement is all the more remarkable in the light of his condition and circumstances. These could hardly have been more discouraging. He was nearly 30 years old and had long suffered from a variety of physical complaints, most notably rheumatism. To suppress the pain he had been taking ever-increasing doses of laudanum, a tincture of opium and alcohol. By 1802, according to most accounts, he was addicted.


He was a married man with two young sons and a third child on the way. But the marriage was in trouble. His love for Sara Hutchinson, at odds with his strong belief in the sanctity of Christian marriage, tormented him with guilt. The household, which was sometimes awakened in the middle of the night by his drug-induced nightmare screams, was often shattered during the day by fierce connubial shouting matches. In addition, the power of poetic creation, which he prized above all else, seemed to have deserted him. And this at a time when Wordsworth was writing more prolifically and more powerfully than ever. His long walk gave Coleridge an escape from all these problems and pressures.

The urge to escape has rarely been given the recognition it deserves as a motivating force among those who go off on adventurous expeditions. When they come to write it up afterwards, as they frequently do, these people - explorers, mountaineers, lone navigators - tend to play that aspect down, presumably because they do not want to further upset the loved ones left behind at home. So we read much about the call of the wilderness, the spirit of adventure and man’s instinct to explore. But man’s instinct to escape is also powerful, and has been intensified perhaps by the crowded conditions, rigid routines and nagging anxieties of modern life. It was the relatively new urban, industrialised society in Britain and Germany in the mid-nineteenth century that produced adventure sports .It is hard, nowadays, to appreciate the sheer boldness of his undertaking. It was a journey without precedent. No one before him, and no one but Coleridge in his time, dreamt of walking over and among the high fells, alone, in all weathers, getting off the shepherds’ tracks, for the sheer fun of it, mountaineering and rock-climbing, pot-holing and small boat sailing.

Greta Hall: Keswick

The idea of breaking out and ‘getting away from it all’ is perennially attractive. Nothing is more liberating and enlivening - for a while. Coleridge had always been a natural escaper. As a child he escaped into books and solitary reveries. When he ran into trouble at Cambridge he bolted to enlist as a trooper in a cavalry regiment. As a husband, even in the first happy years of the marriage, he was rarely at home at times of crisis. He could always find reasons for his derelictions, but the pattern was repeated too often for them to carry conviction.

In the summer of 1802 he certainly had much to want to escape from, and for the nine days of his walk he escaped completely. He was never many miles from home but he was, in effect, in a different world. The delight, the exultation of this shines through his writing. It made a marvellous break for him,stimulating and fascinating and exciting, perhaps the last time in his life when the whole of his being - mind and body, heart and soul and will - were working harmoniously and vigorously together, at full stretch.

Alan Hankinson 1993.

From-Coleridge Walks the Fells-A Lakeland Journey retraced.

Mapping the Lakes/Gray and Coleridge.


Catastrophe on the Jungfrau

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FROM the Jungfrau on Friday, the 8th July, A terrible disaster was reported. Two tourists, Alfred Kuhn, of Strassburg, aged about 45, and Hans Harthold, of Saarbrucken, about 35, set out on the 8th July to climb the Jungfrau, or at any rate to go from the Bergli hut over the Monchjoch to the Concordia hut. They were accompanied by the guides, Alexander Burgener, father, his sons, Adolf and Alois, and the Grindelwalder, Fritz Brawand. They were joined at the Station Eisrneer by the guides Peter lnabnit, and his nephew, Rudolf Inabnit. At the place where the disaster occurred they met guide Bohren; who was preparing the path for those approaching the Bergli hut. Independently of this column there came, only a little behind, the guides Christian and Fritz Bohren, Bleuer and Kaufrnarm, who were carrying provisions to the Bergli hut.

Both the tourists, Kiihn and Harthold, as well as the guides Alexander and Alois Burgener, the old Bohren and the two Inabnits perished; Brawand and Alois Burgener are seriously injured. We publish from the N Zurich Zeitung the following particulars as to the circumstances of the disaster. Christian Bohren, the son, narrated to a reporter as follows..... 

" We four, my brother Fritz and I, Bleuer and Kaufmann, had set out on Friday from Grindelwald and the Station Eismeer for the Bergli hut. We two wanted to bring provisions to our father, who is hut-keeper at the Concordia, and Kaufmann and Bleuer also to the Bergli hut-keeper Kaufmann.The weather was fine. We went roped, and made good progress. We must have been still a good hour off the Bergli, to which meanwhile a caravan, eight men strong, had approached within about ten minutes’ distance. A man was making a track down from the hut for the new-comers. That was our father, who then joined the foremost caravan. Then a mass of snow appeared suddenly to split off, just at the spot where the caravan found itself, or, speaking exactly, a little above it. On the Bergli rocks the mass divided itself; one arm drove straight down; all the foremost caravan disappeared with it. The left arm took a direction straight for us. We dived into the ice-wall of the Bergli rocks, and made ourselves as small as possible, hoping that the avalanche would go clear over us. But it seized us, tore us away with it, and whirled us downwards, so that we no longer knew who was foremost and who last. So it went on-on. A sharp jerk; we were fixed. I found myself on my feet right in front of a crevasse, up to my breast in snow.

Bleuer stuck fast on my right, also up to the breast in snow. My brother Fritz lay in a crevasse, buried up to the head. Kaufmann hung over a ‘Gletschertiissel ’ on the rope. Bleuer and I worked ourselves out, and released my brother Fritz, who was unconscious; the too tightly drawn rope had robbed him of his breath. Kaufmann had meanwhile unroped himself, and sprung clear. We then drew him up again over the ‘Tussel.’ All this did not pass so quickly as I have told it you. The avalanche had surprised us at six in the evening; the work lasted quite three-quarters of an hour. As soon as we were again together, and had inspected the damage, we turned back to our track.

We soon met a rescue column that was coming from the Eismeer; we let them go on further to the head-caravan, and set out alone on the way to the Station Eismeer. We arrived there at half-past eight. We reached Grindelwald this morning. We know moreover that the Bergli hut-keeper, Kaufmann, had just begun to get ready something’ hot for the arriving guests as the avalanche fell.

The disaster had already happened when he stepped out. He took a good mouthful of brandy, and then climbed down to render assistance. He found three still living-Rudolf lnabnit, Fritz Brawand and the son of Alexander Burgener. The other six were dead, and frightfully disfigured. Kaufmann helped, and made such arrangements as he could. Then the above-mentioned rescue column from the Station Eismeer arrived to recover the injured. The son Burgener had a huge hole in the head; one eye is lost. Brawand had his head split; Inabnit, amongst other injuries, a compound fracture of the leg. The leg only just hung on him by the skin, so that he wanted to cut it away; only the strength to do it failed him. On the way to the Eismeer he also, poor fellow, was released from his sufferings through death.

About midnight the rescue column, with the two injured and the dead man, reached the Station Eismeer. Brawand and Burgener (son) were taken as quickly as possible to Interlaken.”



So far Christian Bohrens’ simple narrative.... Quietly did he relate it, a worthy son of the mountains. But nevertheless it will overcome him. All Grindelwald knows that now, at about eight o’clock, the dead are coming in, and Christians' father is amongst them. The same reporter added the following particulars; Alexander Burgener, father, was valued as a guide of the very first rank. He was a powerfully built, weather-beaten man, for many years familiar with the dangers of the high Alps. Whoever went with him might feel himself secure. To add to the security of the party, the two climbers wanted also to take with them the experienced old Grindelwalder, Rudolf Baumann. He had, however, shortly before met with a slight mishap, and had to call off. In his place went the young Fritz Brawaud. The snow must, however, already, near the Station Eismeer, have proved to be in a very treacherous condition, for the caravan was there augmented by the two Inabnits, uncle and nephew. The two went in front, and, as the lighter members of the company, helped to make a track.

Thus the party pushed forward up to a short distance from the Bergli hut, whence Christian Bohren, father, always ready to help, was making a track for the caravan. Then the snow began to move. Whether the making of the track gave the first impulse to it remains undecided. Certain it is, that the coating of new snow, softened by sun and ‘Fohnwind,’ adhering badly to the older snow underneath, no longer held firm, but began slowly to slide away. The place of fracture is as high as a man. The break occurred at a trifling distance from the hut, extended over the whole wall, and detached portions of snow that, so to say, hung near the hut, fell with it. This new snow, that in the last fourteen days had fallen in great masses, gave way at the point of contact with the old hardened snow. Thus it shot away, as if torn off by a giant’s grip, dragging with it the great caravan on the far side of the Bergli, whilst a smaller arm went down in front, and there, as already described, surprised a column of porters four strong.

At the place where the avalanche tore away with it the big caravan, points of rocks everywhere project upwards. Down over these rocks, more than 200 metres deep, the nine were hurled, until they came to rest in a hollow. They were,found almost on the surface, buried only a few inches, with the exception of one who stuck up to his armpits in snow. The hut-keeper, Kaufmann, an old Caucasus guide, after the thunder (of the avalanche), climbed down with incredible rapidity. But also someone at the Station Eismeer, with Zeiss-glasses, had observed the occurrence, and at once directed the three available men to the scene of the disaster. Director Liechti, of the Jungfrau Railway, did still more, for he sent up from the Station Eigergletscher forty men from the staff‘ of guards and engineers that they might, from the Eismeer at least, recover the wounded.

We know already that this rescue work, carried on by acetelyne light under the most difficult conditions, lasted up till midnight. The rescue work was brought to an end on Saturday by a party of Grindelwald guides. That was a difficult bit of work. Over the windows of the Jungfrau Railway, too, masses of snow broke away incessantly into the valley. However, the labour ended without fresh sacrifice of life.”



Translated from Alpina  5th July, 1910.


The Alpina appeals for help on behalf of the widows and children of the victims of this unheard-of catastrophe. Peter Inalbnit leaves a widow and ten children, the eldest only I7;an eleventh child is expected. Christian Bohren leaves a widow and children, with little property. Rudolf Inalbnit was the mainstay of his parents. Donations may be sent to Pfarrer Gottfried Strasser, S.A.C., Grindelwald, or The Editor, Dr. E. Walder, Bergstrasse I37, Zurich.

First published as ‘the Catastrophe near the Bergli club Hut, 8th July 1910.

Herbert Carr: Climbers Club Journal 1910.

The Battle for Kinder Scout

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The problem of gaining and preserving freedom of access to crags and mountains is becoming acute in certain areas. Where access itself is unrestricted, mountaineers may still find their freedom threatened by increasing interference from sundry officials. In the United States, control over climbers’ movements is in some areas already a common occurrence. In this article an historic mountain incident is recalled, one whose lessons are no less valid today. Kinder Scout is the wild heart of the Derbyshire Peak District: it is the final Southerly clench of the backbone of England.

On every side of this area of ‘outstanding natural beauty’ industrial towns bristle. For the millions in the conurbations of Manchester, Sheffield and the West Riding, a short road or train journey brings these moorland fastnesses within reach. ‘The Manchester Rambler’ can be up and away before his Southern counterpart has reached the station. In 1932, although these moors lay on the doorsteps of many who considered them their birthright, they were owned by a handful of landlords, who had reserved these unrivaled acres for their own private enjoyment. A few score of very wealthy ‘sportsmen’ spent the autumn months slaughtering the grouse that flourish there. The local record for one day was 1,421 brace, shot by nine guns over the Broomhead Moors in August 1913. To make such carnage possible the people were excluded not only during the nesting and shooting seasons but throughout the whole year


In 1932, P. A. Barnes, author of Trespassers will be Prosecuted, a famous pamphlet campaigning for free access, wrote: "Throughout the moorland areas in and adjacent to the Peak District (about 215 square miles) there are only about twelve footpaths." Ramblers and climbers were affronted by "Keep Out" signs everywhere, and small private armies of gamekeepers patrolled their masters’ estates with forelock-touching earnestness.

There is a long tradition of moorland walking among Manchester and Sheffield workers. At this time, tens of thousands of young people would hike from tram termini each weekend, bound for the Peak. As the dole queues lengthened, more and more turned to rambling as one of the few sporting activities they could afford. In 1932, there were 66,000 unemployed in Sheffield. At a time when many were questioning the institutions and ideology of capitalism, the almost feudal restrictions on access to the moors were an intolerable outrage. Confrontations with gamekeepers became more frequent and more violent. Obviously working to instructions from the landlords, moorland patrols increased their vigilance, and the indignation of the ramblers escalated apace. As early as 1923 the Manchester Evening Chronicle had contained an amazing Wild West style "wanted" notice. It showed two photographs of walkers on Kinder Scout, and underneath it read: "Kinder Scout Trespassers, £5 reward will be paid for the name, address and occupation of any of the persons represented in the photos. Apply Cobbett, Wheeler 8 Cobbett, Solicitors, 49 Spring Gardens, Manchester”. Grandfather William Cobbett, the early nineteenth century radical, must have been squirming in his grave at the role his offspring were playing.

The "Access to Mountains Bill" was first brought before the House of Commons in 1888, but its main clause, stating that " . . . no owner or occupier of uncultivated mountains or moorland shall be entitled to exclude any person from walking or being on such land for the purpose of recreation or artistic study, or to molest him in so  walking or being," caused apoplexy among the predominantly Tory members. Successive attempts were backed up outside Parliament by the Ramblers’ Federation and the Footpaths Preservation Society, whose campaigning went no further than polite petitioning and the holding of an annual rally at which ramblers were merely asked to support the actions of M.P.s and officials. By and large the predominantly middle-class leadership of these ‘responsible’ bodies looked with some alarm at the increasingly bitter clashes between keepers and working class ramblers.

In fact the idea of a ‘mass trespass’ seems to have first arisen at one of the camps organized by the British Workers’ Sports Federation, held at the village of Rowarth in 1931. This organization had been set up on the initiative and under the influence of the Young Communist League, the Communist Party Youth Movement, and it presented the question of access to the hills in open class terms. A ramble from the camp, led by Benny Rothman, thesecretary of the Lancashire Federation of the B.W.S.F (and now a Trade Union Convener in a Manchester Engineering Factory), who more than anyone can claim to have been the organizer of the mass trespass, was turned back by the keepers before the objective, Bleaklow Hill, had been reached. New plans were laid during the bitter and angry hike back.

Rothman visited the Manchester Evening News on April 18th, 1932 and gave an interview to a reporter (who was later used as a witness by the prosecution that had Rothman convicted for his part in the events), and next day the plans were headline news: "Mass Trespass over Kinder Scout", with suitably lurid references to "shock troops" and "assaults”. The Sheffield Ramblers’ Federation made its position quite clear: "We have nothing whatsoever to do with this demonstration of which we thoroughly disapprove. We do not consider these people to be bona fide ramblers." Those damn Reds even get under the heather.


Unemployed like at least half of those taking part, Rothman and a friend cycled to Hayfield early in the morning of Sunday April 24th, the day of the trespass, to reconnoitre the proposed route. Had he been able to afford the train fare he would have been stopped at the station by the police with an injunction restraining him from taking part in the meeting at Hayfield Recreation Ground with which the demonstration had been advertised to start. Rothman estimated that the sunken playing field was a natural trap, and that the one-third of the full Derbyshire Police Force present in the village intended the meeting to be the start and finish of the day's proceedings. Word was immediately passed to the assembling ramblers to set off at once along the footpath to William's Clough, and the high moors beyond. Police desperately ran along the column to try and head it off, but they were too late. Unused to such exercise, a contingent of perspiring bobbies fell in at the rear.

The delayed meeting was held in a disused quarry amphitheatre beside the path. Rothman scrambled on to a boulder and spoke to the crowd, now numbering about 600. He emphasized that they wanted an orderly and disciplined march. "Our grouse is against grouse", he said, "we are determined to trespass en masse everywhere where we canclaim with justice to have a right to go." The crowd of young people wheeled eastward out of William's Clough, striking up the hillside towards the forbidden crest of Kinder. Spontaneously this unorganised and picturesque demonstration adopted self-protective tactics to prevent any arrests by the following police. At each stile the entire march would halt and only proceed when the last straggler was safely through.

The keepers had anticipated this route and were waiting on the crest. What followed has passed into legend. A dozen or so keepers and specially enrolled villagers raised their cudgels. From the press reports one could be forgiven for assuming they were describing ‘going over the top’ in a First World War battle. The most ‘accurate’ of them was the Sheffield Independent: "Over the rough moorland men struggled and rolled down the steep slopes. Every minute it appeared that somebody would hurtle to the bottom." in fact a few brief scuffles were all that were needed to brush the keepers aside. One of them, Edward Beever, was injured, the occasion for later charges of grievous bodily harm.

The ramblers had reached the summit plateau, sacred ground from which they had hitherto been officially excluded. A contingent from Sheffield who had 'trespassed’ from Edale joined them for a victory meeting. They brought news that the roads to the east were lined with police, and it was decided to return by the same route. As they marched back the hills echoed to shouts of ”Down with the landlords and ruling class". At Hayfield a line of police awaited them. Five ramblers were arrested and variously charged with unlawful assembly and committing a breach of the peace. ‘Trespass’ was not amongst the charges. The law had long since been repealed l The day's events were headline news, as were the trials of those arrested. Rothman conducted his own defence on what amounted to the political platform of the British Workers’ Sports Federation, but politics were brought into the case by the prosecution too.

Much was made of a copy of the Communist Review found on one of the defendants, and the sinister discovery of a pamphlet by a "Mr. Lenin" was emphasized. "ls that the Russian gentleman ?” asked the learned judge. Five of those on trial were members of the Young Communist League, and according to the Progressive Rambler, a magazine of the time, the jury consisted of "two Brigadier Generals, three Colonels, two Majors, three Captains, two Aldermen - and eleven of these were country gentlemen"  Sentences ranged from two tosix months, with one dismissal.

Mr. Stephen Morton, secretary of the Sheffield Ramblers’ Federation, was quoted as saying: "For many years we have been endeavouring to obtain access to mountains and moorlands by legitimate means. This move, on the part of the Lancashire people, would throw the whole thing back at least twenty years.” The opposite was the case. The mass trespass gained the cause of free access to mountains more sympathetic publicity in one day than the Ramblers’ Federation had won for it in the previous thirty years.

Demonstrations of solidarity with those jailed, and the organization of other trespasses, such as the ‘Abbey Brook’ march in September of the same year, carried forward the tempo of the movement. Many more battles were necessary before the Access to Mountains Bill was finally put on the Statute Book by Atlee’s Labour Government, but it was "The Battle for Kinder Scout" that lifted the movement from the level of private members’ lobbying to that of mass politics. Its  memory still echoes whenever the right to ramble or climb is threatened.


Original Photo: Ken Wilson

Dave Cook:
First Published in Mountain February 1974

Central Buttress...now and then

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Herford on the first ascent of Central Buttress in 1914

Just forty years ago this spring the most remarkable achievement in British rock climbing up to that time was carried out on a tremendous, vertical crag in the heart of the Lake District, and a great sport, which is still a subject for controversy, entered a new era. The Crag was the impressive north face of Scafell, which faces the summit slopes of Scafell Pike, the climb - as any present-day climber will tell you - was Central Buttress (C.B., for short), and the climbers were Siegfried Herford (the leader), G.S. Sansom and C.F. Holland.

The climb was the most daring ever achieved in this country, and although several harder routes have since been done in the Lake District and in North Wales, Central Buttress still remains a climb of great severity and character and will always be regarded as one of the really ‘great’ climbs in Britain. In these days, when more people are climbing steep rocks than ever before, when the standard of British mountaineering has reached its highest standard so far and when ill informed criticism is so often heard, it may be rewarding to look back on this great achievement of 1914, for in many ways this was the start of rock climbing as it is practised today.

Some young rock climbers nowadays lay themselves open to criticism and on occasions have given a noble sport a bad name. Not a few are gymnasts, not mountaineers. They are not really interested in mountains but only in thrills, rather like ‘wall of death’ motor cyclists. Although not lacking in courage, a few are inclined to neglect elementary precautions. Sometimes they come to grief, and the general public is liable to condemn rock climbers altogether. A few of these young people are too prone to boast of their performances in public, and some of us have even heard them bragging of their falls instead of being ashamed of them.

But fortunately for the future of the sport in the Lake District and elsewhere, these people whose courage is being misapplied are not truly representative of the sport, and this small, reckless minority cannot claim to be the successors of Herford and his friends. Men like Herford and the great climbers of the past were mountaineers and lovers of mountain beauty, not merely rock gymnasts; they were excessively modest about their exploits; and they were painstakingly careful, knowing their own limitations with an exactness that comes only from experience.

Herford, a friend of Mallory who died on Everest, was undoubtedly a great man, besides being a magnificent climber, and it was one of the tragedies of British climbing that he should be killed in action in France in the First World War. Sansom and Holland, one a university professor, the other a schoolmaster, are both alive, I believe, and I have climbed with them both. To Holland, a man of great culture and imagination, Herford was the greatest man he had ever known. Before the era climaxed by the ascent of Central Buttress, rock climbing in the Lake District - and, indeed, in Britain - was concentrated on the discovery of the easiest routes up vertical cliffs and the ascent of gullies, chimneys, ridges and other ‘natural’ ways up crags.


The new era brought the forcing of routes up the great open walls between the gullies and later the traversing of the crags, and modern climbing is the development of this technique to the farthest limits of possibility. Central Buttress goes up the centre of the Crag for 470 feet in a series of steep walls and delicate traverses, and the crux of the climb is the ascent of the 65 feet high Flake Crack, which is mostly vertical and is slightly overhanging at the top. The whole route is sensationally exposed. When Herford and his companions finally climbed the Flake Crack, after several unsuccessful attempts, it was done by the leader standing on the shoulders of his second, as he (the second) hung in loops of rope just below the overhanging portion. 

This method (there are several variations) is still used by most people tackling the climb. Once on the top of the Flake, the climber finds himself on a remarkable knife edge of rock, with a tremendous drop to the screes below and the difficult traverses above. Herford’s first reconnaissance of the buttress was made in January 1914, and the ascent was completed on 22 April on a snowy afternoon. The second ascent of Central Buttress was not made until August 1921, the leader being the late C.D. Frankland and his second, Bentley Beetham, the well-known mountaineer, who has pioneered scores of Lake District climbs and has climbed in the Himalayas.

In 1925 Dr Mabel M. Barker of Caldbeck accomplished the first ascent of the climb by a woman, and in August 1931 a most remarkable climber, Dr I.M. Edwards, made the first ascent of the route without assistance at the Flake Crack, a feat that has since been repeated a few times.I believe that  Jim Birkett, the well-known Little Langdale climber, made the first ascent of Central Buttress in nailed boots-previous ascents had been made in rubber shoes - and the first woman to lead Central Buttress was Mrs S.H. Cross of the Dungeon Ghyll Hotel, Great Langdale. I think it was in 1936 that the first descent of Central Buttress was made, the last man on the rope being I. Carswell of Workington, and the first, appropriately enough, being Dr Barker, then fifty years of age.


New starts and new finishes have also been made to the original route, and nowadays Central Buttress is ascended several times each summer, but it is still a climb for experts in tip-top condition. People who have seen Central Buttress at close quarters or, better still, have climbed it can realise something of the courage and tenacity of the young man who first led it in days when nothing of this severity had been attempted in Britain before. Holland has since written of Herford as ‘the finest and bravest man I have ever known’, and he knew him better than anybody else

I would like to think of Herford’s example of modest self effacement, his quietness of manner and his balanced caution when climbing being followed by the climbers of today. So far as I know Herford never once fell from a climb.

 Leo Holding Climbing Central Buttress.

AH (Harry) Griffin.
First published in The Lancashire Post. January 1954.

Spirit of the Age: Royal Robbins.

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 Chuck Pratt and Royal Robbins El Cap Spire,the Salathé Wall,El Capitan,Yosemite Valley, California.(September 1961)

Once upon a time a new generation of climbers saw that it had stumbled into Paradise. On every side there were boulders, crags, spires, domes and walls, mostly untouched. There was even the World's best cliff, a solid square mile of rock, and closer to the road than Dinas Cromlech. The sun hardly ever stopped shining. This was in California in the '50s.


The story of those explorers is well-known. Amongst them the most driven and ambitious, which is what counts in rock-climbing, were Royal Robbins and Warren Harding. Robbins succeeded on Half Dome and the SaIathe Wall.
Harding got The Nose and the Leaning Tower. Robbins was the more competi­tive of the two and went to considerable lengths to show Harding and everybody else just how Harding's climbs should have been done. But the two seem inseparable, really, and if Harding hadn't existed Robbins would have had to invent him. Eventually Harding produced his own zany memoir, Downward Bound. Now here is Robbins's story, as told by Pat Ament.
 
I'm forced to guess that Ament has great charisma, or is especially lovable or something. He's not so good a writer as Robbins himself, or as the boulder problemist, John Gill, each notable for lucidity, polish, intelligence, even wit. Yet both had chosen to put their lives in Ament's hands. Of course, a younger disciple will say nicer things about you than you could, with propriety, say about yourself.

I've never opened a climbing biography with greater interest. Ament feels privileged to have known and climbed with Robbins, and who wouldn't and he conceded that his approach is reverential. Ament is a wild, loose writer, often carried away by his extreme enthusiasm so that the language is sometimes inflated. The reader may judge for himself. In discussing Robbins and his influence upon others he uses such terms and phrases as: purity of ideal; spiritual progress; maximum personal growth; incisive mind; ideologi­cally brilliant; the power of his percep­tions; intelligence polished to the texture of granite; and so on. These words are immoderate and inappropriate to the sphere of play. Occasionally his logic, too, gets itself into fixes.
 
The descriptions of climbs are often surprisingly uninformative and flat. The account of the historically important second ascent of The Nose names only two features in the course of the seven day expedition. An outsider, I notice occasional mistakes of fact and presum­ably insiders will notice many more. I get the impression that the viewpoint is decidedly partisan and major figures outside the Robbins's circle tend to be dismissed or patronised. Ament remarks that Harding 'had almost always kept his resentment disguised'. That's ungracious and it's hard to see how it might be substantiated. From his own writings and from a single casual encounter, I can't imagine Harding as the type to weary himself with the burden of resentment. However, I write at a distance of 10,000 miles.


I can see the difficulties Ament faced. Robbins has a lot of climbs under his swami belt and brevity or selectivity becomes necessary. (Indeed he made interesting ascents not even named; for instance, the north arete of El Bisbe at Montserrat in Spain, accomplished, surprisingly, before any British party had climbed on the mountain). And it appears to me that he's a much more complex character than any of his great contempo­raries. He's so tightly buttoned that one suspects the presence of stress behind the cool facade.

Despite these complaints I found the book fascinating. It would be nice to see an objective history of Californian climbing written by someone unin­volved, but in the meantime all rock-climbers should read this biography. Who'd have guessed that Robbins had had such an unsettling childhood? Or that at the age of 27 he'd still be obliged to hitch-hike across America en route for Europe? Or that, quite recently, the guru of American climbing would have difficulty in getting an anti-bolt article published in American climbing maga­zines?

The text is greatly fortified by over 200 photographs, all in black and white, and stronger for that. They include some professional studies of the big walls but mostly they're revealing casual shots of climbing and people. The captions are occasionally dismaying and it will be observed that in one or two of the portraits the hero's patience is danger­ously close to snapping. However, for me, this collection brought the era to life to a degree unattainable by colour glossies.

Robbins and Harding ran into serious problems. They were too successful too young. They kept soldiering on and they produced countless magnificent climbs but none of these could have the same impact as the first great experimental pushes into the unknown. Twelve years after his first route on Half Dome, Robbins went back for an eight-day effort there, and 12 years after his first route on El Cap, Harding returned for a 27 day epic. Despite all the intervening arguments on bolting, each used more material than on his original climb. Soon, though still children really, they'd done so much climbing that they began to feel very old. And the new experts arriving looked younger every year.
 
So where have all the soldiers gone? Well, mostly they found themselves raising families, starting businesses and searching for new interests.
Robbins turned his energies into the first descents of rocky rivers and he joined the Modesto Rotary Club. Tom Frost became a devout Mormon, Layton Kor a Jehovah's Witness. And one afternoon in 1983, sitting in his kayak on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, Robbins himself felt somewhere behind his right shoulder 'the unmistakable presence of God'. Everybody seems to be living happily ever after.



Harold Drasdo: 1993

George Borrow...The day he went to Bangor

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Moel Siabod-Instagram image

Wild Wales published in 1862 remains one of THE greatest British travelogues of all time. Its author, George Borrow harnessing a rare-for a Victorian Englishman- ability to understand and converse in the Welsh Language... then the dominant tongue in north and mid Wales... with an acute observational eye,an enthusiasm to engage with local people and a passion for local history and culture.. Combined with his remarkable energy and capacity for long walks-like Coleridge, covering great distances in a single day- These physical and creative attributes came together in a book which has never been out of print in 162 years! This extract offers a brief example of his incredible walking powers. Describing a walk in a single day between Cerrigydrudion in North east Wales to Bangor on the North Wales coast. Passing several landmarks familiar to modern outdoor folk. The climbing crag of Dinas Mawr, Swallow Falls, Plas y Brenin and the ‘hovel’, Helyg, which became of the UK’s first climbing huts.



After leaving the village of Pentre Voelas I soon found myself in a wild hilly region.  I crossed a bridge over a river, which, brawling and tumbling amidst rocks, shaped its course to the north-east.  As I proceeded, the country became more and more wild; there were dingles and hollows in abundance, and fantastic-looking hills, some of which were bare, and others clad with trees of various kinds.Came to a little well in a cavity, dug in a high bank on the left-hand side of the road, and fenced by rude stone work on either side; the well was about ten inches in diameter, and as many deep.  Water oozing from the bank upon a slanting tile fastened into the earth fell into it.  After damming up the end of the tile with my hand, and drinking some delicious water, I passed on and presently arrived at a cottage just inside the door of which sat a good-looking middle-aged woman engaged in knitting, the general occupation of Welsh females.

I departed, and proceeded some miles through a truly magnificent country of wood,rock,and mountain.  At length I came to a steep mountain gorge, down which the road ran nearly due north, the Conway to the left running with great noise parallel with the road, amongst broken rocks, which chafed it into foam.  I was now amidst stupendous hills, whose paps, peaks, and pinnacles seemed to rise to the very heaven. 
An immense mountain on the right side of the road particularly struck my attention, and on inquiring of a man breaking stones by the roadside I learned that it was called Dinas Mawr, or the large citadel, perhaps from a fort having been built upon it to defend the pass in the old British times.  Coming to the bottom of the pass I crossed over by an ancient bridge, and, passing through a small town,(Betws y Coed) found myself in a beautiful valley with majestic hills on either side.  This was the Dyffryn Conway, the celebrated Vale of Conway, to which in the summer time fashionable gentry from all parts of Britain resort for shade and relaxation.  When about midway down the valley I turned to the west, up one of the grandest passes in the world,having two immense door-posts of rock at the entrance, the northern one probably rising to the altitude of nine hundred feet. 
 On the southern side of this pass near the entrance were neat dwellings for the  accommodation of visitors with cool apartments on the ground floor, with large windows, looking towards the precipitous side of the mighty northern hill; within them I observed tables, and books, and young men, probably English collegians, seated at study.

After I had proceeded some way up the pass, down which a small river ran, a woman who was standing on the right-hand side of the way, seemingly on the look-out, begged me in broken English to step aside and look at the fall. “You mean a waterfall, I suppose?” said I. “Yes, sir.” “And how do you call it?” said I. “The Fall of the Swallow, sir.” “And in Welsh?” said I.“Rhaiadr y Wennol, sir.” “And what is the name of the river?” said I.“We call the river the Lygwy, sir.”

I told the woman I would go, whereupon she conducted me through a gate on the right hand side and down a path overhung with trees to a ro projecting into the river.  The Fall of the Swallow is not a majestic single fall, but a succession of small ones.  First there are a number of little foaming torrents, bursting through rocks about twenty yards above the promontory on which I stood.  Then come two beautiful rolls of white water, dashing into a pool a little way above the promontory; then there is a swirl of water round its corner into a pool below on its right, black as death, and seemingly of great depth; then a rush through a very narrow outlet into another pool, from which the water clamours away down the glen.  Such is the Rhaiadr y Wennol, or Swallow Fall; called so from the rapidity with which the waters rush and skip along.

On asking the woman on whose property the fall was, she informed me that it was on the property of the Gwedir family.  The name of Gwedir brought to my mind the “History of the Gwedir Family,” a rare and curious book which I had read in my boyhood, and which was written by the representative of that family, a certain Sir John Wynne, about the beginning of the seventeenth century.  It gives an account of the fortunes of the family, from it earliest rise; but more particularly after it had emigrated, in order to avoid bad neighbours, from a fair and fertile district into rugged Snowdonia, where it found anything but the repose it came in quest of.  The book which is written in bold graphic English, flings considerable light on the state of society in Wales, in the time of the Tudors, a truly deplorable state, as the book is full of accounts of feuds, petty but desperate skirmishes, and revengeful murders.  To many of the domestic sagas, or histories of ancient Icelandic families, from the character of the events which it describes and also from the manner in which it describes them, the “History of the Gwedir Family,” by Sir John Wynne, bears a striking resemblance.

After giving the woman sixpence I left the fall, and proceeded on my way.
I presently crossed a bridge under which ran the river of the fall, and was soon in a wide valley on each side of which were lofty hills dotted with wood, and at the top of which stood a mighty mountain, bare and precipitous, with two paps like those of Pindus opposite Janina, but somewhat sharper.  It was a region of fairy beauty and of wild grandeur. Meeting an old bleared-eyed farmer I inquired the name of the mountain and learned that it was called Moel Siabod or Shabod.  Shortly after leaving him, I turned from the road to inspect a monticle which appeared to me to have something of the appearance of a burial heap.  It stood in a green meadow by the river which ran down the valley on the left. Whether it was a grave hill or a natural monticle, I will not say; but standing in the fair meadow, the rivulet murmuring beside it, and the old mountain looking down upon it, I thought it looked a very meet resting-place for an old Celtic king.

Capel Curig-Instagram image


Turning round the northern side of the mighty Siabod I soon reached the village of Capel Curig, standing in a valley between two hills, the easternmost of which is the aforesaid Moel Siabod.  Having walked now twenty miles in a broiling day I thought it high time to take some refreshment, and inquired the way to the inn.  The inn, or rather the hotel,(Plas y Brenin) for it was a very magnificent edifice, stood at the entrance of a pass leading to Snowdon, on the southern side of the valley, in a totally different direction from the road leading to Bangor, to which place I was bound. 

 There I dined in a grand saloon amidst a great deal of fashionable company, who, probably conceiving from my heated and dusty appearance that I was some poor fellow travelling on foot from motives of economy, surveyed me with looks of the most supercilious disdain, which, however, neither deprived me of my appetite nor operated uncomfortably on my feelings.

My dinner finished, I paid my bill, and having sauntered a little about the hotel garden, which is situated on the border of a small lake and from which, through the vista of the pass, Snowdon may be seen towering in majesty at the distance of about six miles, I started for Bangor, which is fourteen miles from Capel Curig. The road to Bangor from Capel Curig is almost due west.  An hour’s walking brought me to a bleak moor, extending for a long way amidst wild sterile hills.

The first of a chain on the left, was a huge lumpy hill with a precipice towards the road probably three hundred feet high.  When I had come nearly parallel with the commencement of this precipice, I saw on the left-hand side of the road two children looking over a low wall behind which at a little distance stood a wretched hovel.(Helyg) 

The 'wretched hovel' Helyg: Photo Pete Sterling/Climbers Club


I had passed the first and second of the hills which stood on the left, and a huge long mountain on the right which confronted both, when a young man came down from a gully on my left hand, and proceeded in the same direction as myself.  He was dressed in a blue coat and corduroy trowsers, and appeared to be of a condition a little above that of a labourer.  He shook his head and scowled when I spoke to him in English, but smiled on my speaking Welsh, and said: “Ah, you speak Cumraeg: I thought no Sais could speak Cumraeg.”  I asked him if he was going far. “About four miles,” he replied. “On the Bangor road?” “Yes,” said he; “down the Bangor road.”

I learned that he was a carpenter, and that he had been up the gully to see an acquaintance—perhaps a sweetheart.  We passed a lake on our right which he told me was called Llyn Ogwen, and that it abounded with fish. He was very amusing, and expressed great delight at having found an Englishman who could speak Welsh; “it will be a thing to talk of,” said he, “for the rest of my life.”  He entered two or three cottages by the side of the road, and each time he came out I heard him say: “I am with a Sais who can speak Cumraeg.”  At length we came to a gloomy-looking valley trending due north; down this valley the road ran, having an enormous wall of rocks on its right and a precipitous hollow on the left, beyond which was a wall equally high as the other one.  When we had proceeded some way down the road my guide said.  “You shall now hear a wonderful echo,” and shouting “taw, taw,” the rocks replied in a manner something like the baying of hounds.  “Hark to the dogs!” exclaimed my companion.  “This pass is called Nant yr ieuanc gwn,(Nant Francon) the pass of the young dogs, because when one shouts it answers with a noise resembling the crying of hounds.”

The sun was setting when we came to a small village at the bottom of thepass.  I asked my companion its name.  “Ty yn y maes,” he replied, adding as he stopped before a small cottage that he was going no farther, as he dwelt there.

After drinking some tolerably good ale in the public house I again started.  As I left the village a clock struck eight.  The evening was delightfully cool; but it soon became nearly dark.  I passed under high rocks, by houses and by groves, in which nightingales were singing, to listen to whose entrancing melody I more than once stopped.  On coming to a town, lighted up and thronged with people, I asked one of a group of young fellows its name.

“Bethesda,” he replied.“A scriptural name,” said I. “Is it?” said he; “well, if its name is scriptural the manners of its people are by no means so.”

A little way beyond the town a man came out of a cottage and walked beside me.  He had a basket in his hand.  I quickened my pace; but he was a tremendous walker, and kept up with me.  On we went side by side for more than a mile without speaking a word.  At length, putting out my legs in genuine Barclay fashion, I got before him about ten yards, then turning round laughed and spoke to him in English.  He too laughed and spoke, but in Welsh.  We now went on like brothers, conversing, but always walking at great speed.  I learned from him that he was a market-gardener living at Bangor, and that Bangor was three miles off.One by one, the stars were shining out, we began to talk about them.



Pointing to Charles’s Wain I said, “A good star for travellers.” Whereupon pointing to the North star, he said: “I forwyr da iawn—a good star for mariners.”

We passed a large house on our left.“Who lives there?” said I.“Mr Smith,” he replied.  “It is called Plas Newydd; milltir genom etto—we have yet another mile.” In ten minutes we were at Bangor.  I asked him where the Albion Hotel was. “I will show it you,” said he, and so he did As we came under it I heard the voice of my wife, for she, standing on balcony and distinguishing me by the lamplight, called out.  I shook hands with the kind six-mile-an-hour market-gardener, and going into the inn found my wife and daughter, who rejoiced to see me.  We presently had tea.


George Borrow. Wild Wales
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