The Blind Man of Hoy Read online

  ‘So long as it stays dry,’ I said hopefully.

  ‘A’n reckon it’s gonna meet down wi’ rain’.

  ‘We’d better get moving then,’ Matthew had started to clear the table.

  ‘Bi’ter late, time as got there. It’ll be chuckin’ it down.’

  ‘Oh it doesn’t look that bad.’ Matt sounded more hopeful than convinced as he zipped away the guidebook and hoisted his pack. Noises to his left indicated that Andres was shaking salt and pepper onto his sixth slice of bread and remaining resolutely out of the discussion.

  ‘A’n been a me’trologist for fifty-two years now . . .’

  ‘Let’s get the kit loaded in the car and get ready to leave in ten minutes,’ commanded Matthew.

  ‘Reckon I’ll see t’birds before rain starts,’ John sighed.

  The mist had thickened to light drizzle by the time we parked the car half an hour later. Andres shivered as he stepped round to the boot.

  ‘I would have thought you’d got used to this when you were studying in Manchester,’ Matthew teased.

  ‘I will never get used to this shit weather. Why is it always so cold and wet in this country?’

  Laden with ropes and racks we trudged up past Don Whillans’ hut and sloshed through muddy puddles towards the Upper Tier, only to be driven under cover by a strafing of heavy raindrops.

  ‘Looks like Old John was right after all,’ Matthew muttered.

  Matt had the guidebook out and was flicking through pages. ‘Ah, thought so. Raven Rock Gully. It’s only a Diff but it’s sheltered. We might as well warm up on it till this rain clears. ‘

  It was basically a cave with a chimney and dripped with watery green slime. But it was out of the main squall and, with careful placement most of our gear could be hidden under overhangs and at the back of ledges.

  A low moan rose from the edge of the cave. ‘Aw shit, no, I don’t believe I’ve done this thing! I am such an idiot!’

  Andres, it turned out, kept two identical climbing bags; one with his bouldering gear in; the other, the one he had just discovered he had left behind, with his harness, helmet and slings needed for tackling anything over ten feet tall.

  ‘I am such an asshole!’ he wailed.

  Matthew was inclined to agree. ‘You complete Muppet! You’re meant to be in charge. Didn’t Uncle Cole pack for you?’

  ‘I’ve got plenty of chalk.’ Andres held out two bulging chalk bags.

  ‘Oh that’s useful, I’ll know who to ask if I can’t get any grip on this gritstone!’ Matthew said witheringly.

  ‘Do you know how to make a harness from slings?’ Matt interjected.

  Andres had his iPhone out in a trice and was soon consulting the UK Climbing website. With Matthew still chuntering about some people being more focussed on remembering their hair gel than their harness, Andres cobbled together the necessary items from our kitbags and soon stood before us rigged up in a white saltire arrangement.

  ‘I look like such an asshole,’ he moaned, glancing about to check there were no other climbers in sight.

  ‘Serves you right. Maybe next time you’ll actually check you’ve got the right kit before you arrive’ Matthew snapped.

  Matt led off, giving a quiet running commentary as he went. I was next up. It wasn’t difficult; the cracks were wide, the gradient slabby, requiring plenty of bridging. But it was slippery as hell, the only example of frictionless gritstone I’ve ever come across. I thrutched my way up, keen for an early, confidence-boosting success. The walls closed in with every move and the phrase ‘rat up a drainpipe’ played round my head on continuous loop.

  ‘It’s a little awkward at the top,’ Matt shouted down, ‘The exit’s through a sort of manhole but you need to turn through 180 degrees first then push yourself out head-first.’

  ‘Sounds like being born,’ I panted. I did as I was told and plopped out by his feet, into a howling gale.

  Andres followed, grunting up a passage that was far more narrow for him than me and moaning that the slings cut into his ‘Queen’s Jewels’.

  ‘I wonder if his shoulders will fit through the cervix,’ I mused as a particularly loud groan echoed up towards us.

  Finally though, with some effort and a bit of tugging, he too flopped onto the belay stance where, five minutes later, we were joined by a highly critical Matthew.

  ‘That was the most disgusting, stinking, wet route I’ve ever climbed. I suggest we find something nicer to climb next.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll be climbing anything for a bit. I don’t like the look of those dark clouds over there.’

  ‘You sound like John senior,’ Matthew said, following Matt’s nod to the south. ‘But I think you may be right.’

  ‘We packed up the gear and slithered back down the path to the car, getting most of the way before the sky darkened and deposited its load on us.

  We got a further hosing on the short sprint across the Roaches Café car park before taking shelter and solace in tea and cake, and introduced Andres to the joys of custard.

  An hour later there was still no let up and, having consulted the café owner who was happily restocking his display, we decided to call it a day with just one exceedingly scruffy 20m Diff to our names.

  Back at the house John senior popped his head round the door to find what success we’d had.

  ‘Aye, it’won’t be dry again a’ t’Roaches today.’

  Andres sighed loudly and wandered off to watch TV. Matthew was more diplomatic. ‘Where would you suggest we go?’

  John senior cast a weather eye across the steaming roof of his canary coop and sucked at his teeth.

  ‘Th’ might try Castle Naze. Reckon you might get a coupl’a hours bifore clouds come over and it starts chuckin it down there too.’

  Matt immediately began leafing through the guidebook to identify possible routes while Matthew and I chatted with John about the Cup Final being played that afternoon and the delights of the English weather.

  Following John’s precise directions we found the crag easily enough, placed ourselves out of the cold gusting wind and enjoyed two hours of grunty abrasive climbing on an intermittently sunny south-facing wall that was rich in Hard Severe routes and an E1 5C called Pod Crack (which we all fell off).

  Matt was shivering when I joined him at his windswept belay stance at the summit of what proved to be our final ascent of the afternoon.

  ‘You better tell the others to pack the gear quickly and head down to the car. I’ll get the top rope and join you there. Did you get all the protection?’

  I confirmed I had and asked why.

  ‘That’ he replied ominously, ‘unless I am mistaken, looks like a hailstorm. I reckon we’ve got about 20 minutes.’

  I followed his arm and even my dim eyes could see a teeming black mass spread across the horizon, as if a plague of flies had risen. I abseiled down as quickly as I could and relayed the news.

  Matthew sprang into immediate action, ramming equipment into bags and finding my boots and stick for me. Andres seemed more intent on fiddling out a red LED that someone had slid into a fissure to mark a night-climb route. We left him to his crack booty and set off down the hill, Matthew as ever leading, me a step behind with my hand on his shoulder for guidance, like a section of the human chain of First World War soldiers blinded by gas and filmed trudging to safety across Flanders mud.

  The battery from above opened up when we were still 20 metres from the car. Hailstones bombarded us as we slithered over the stile and into the shelter of the Volvo. It was so dark Matthew had trouble tracking the others fleeing downhill to join us.

  Nobody noticed the four steaming strangers who stumbled into the Beehive Inn ten minutes later. As we opened the door Wigan scored a last gasp goal to win the FA Cup. The partisan crowd clearly had no links with the City side of nearby Manchester and there was jubilant uproar.

  ‘At least it’s pissing down in London too’ observed Matthew as we savoured our beer and discuss
ed plans for the following day, which we agreed should be passed by our weather expert before being finalised.

  Conditions at breakfast time Sunday morning appeared, like Andres’ hair, perfect. John senior joined us again as we were checking ropes and protection and we ran our plan past him.

  ‘Well you’ve come to t’ right man. A‘ve bin a me’trologist for fifty-two years now, so I reckon I should know thing or two ‘bout t’ weather’ he reminded us.

  ‘You were spot on yesterday,’ I acknowledged.

  After some gentle admonishment not to be taken in by the sun and warmth streaming through the kitchen window, John gave his ruling. ‘A’n reckon t’won’t star’t rain over Roaches bifor lunch time.’

  We thanked him profusely and I stayed chatting with him while the others loaded all our kit in the car and made ready to leave. Finally it appeared that the Sloth might lie in our sights.

  The Upper and Lower Tiers of the Roaches looked far less welcoming than Buxton’s warm limestone, but the previous day’s howling wind had subsided into a low moan and the sun was even making a tentative effort to appear. Other climbers were out which was an encouraging sign though their reaction to seeing me being led up the broken path, white stick in one hand, Matthew’s shoulder in the other, left a little to be desired.

  ‘Fookin’ ‘ell’ one muttered to his mate as we passed ‘it’s a blind man an’ tha’ lot’s tekkin’ ‘im climin’!’

  ‘Yeah, blind not deaf,’ I growled back.

  Access to the Sloth and much of the Upper Tier was barred by miserable looking men in day-glo orange who looked like they should be marshalling an orienteering exercise but were in fact protecting some peregrine falcons who had chosen to breed out of reach of all but the most agile nest robbers. Grumbling about Nature taking precedence over the Ascent of Man we trudged away to set up camp further along. We were soon joined by the pair of climbers we had passed earlier, plainly keen to see the limits of blind ambition.

  They had all the gear – expensive jackets, shiny cams and nuts jangling above suspiciously clean climbing shoes – and set up at the foot of Sparkle, an 8m HS 4b that culminates in a burly overhanging bulge that you can climb round and over in the orthodox manner or take direct with a ballsy HVS 5a move. Its silhouette didn’t look pretty from below.

  Neither did our two locals as they attempted to scale it. As we shuttled up and down a nearby flakey, pockmarked Severe 4b warmer-upper, they grunted and swore and repeatedly failed to get higher than halfway. At least, remarked Matt, they were putting a few scratches on their gear even if they had no idea of how to use it.

  Once they had abandoned their attempt and wandered off to something less vertical but within spying distance, we took their place. Matt led off, and made a graceful, almost effortless ascent, only struggling at the topmost bulge, which on second thoughts he took round the side.

  Next it was Matthew. He made a bit of a cod’s of the traverse from the first to the second slab and took the less technical approach to the bulge but climbed the route very well.

  Andres made a typically feisty assault, coming a cropper on the lower section as a result, but otherwise powered up and over, rather like a tank through a forest.

  I stood disconsolate waiting for the tugs on the rope to signal Matt was ready to belay me. It was Brunel all over again. The others had done the overhang; it only remained for me to prove my mettle. And I had an audience.

  The flake rising about ten feet from the base required a left-sided layback – never my strongest move. I peeled off twice and imagined I could hear muffled chortling from Sheffield-way. The third time angry determination got me up to the ledge above. Matthew read the signs and urged me to take a rest. After that the traverse to the second slab, the wriggle up a wide-ish crack and the move to the ledge below the bulge weren’t too troublesome. Only when Andres who had walked down from the top, began shouting encouragement and directions, muddling left and right and sending me off the end of the ledge, did things go wrong again. Cursing, I regained my stance and politely requested that he ‘shut the fuck up and let me work it out for myself.’

  The fat bulge pushed into my face and chest as I edged gingerly out along the narrow ledge, groping for the handhold that I knew from the others lay somewhere far out on the left at shoulder height. When I’d pushed my left foot out as far as I dared and still found nothing, I flagged with my right to gain extra reach. Now one of only two points of supporting contact, the fingers of my right hand that were wedged into a razor sharp crack above began to go numb.

  Finally my left index and middle fingers hooked a side-pull. Rocking slightly further over on my left leg I found I could close the majority of my hand round it and was able to wriggle back into balance.

  Everyone down below was very quiet; holding their breath.

  Direct route or bypass? Whatever I decided, I needed a bit of height to judge what lay above. So, groping around, first with my right foot, I located a beautifully solid edge at knee height, then my right hand too found a ‘thank God’ hold. Hoping that I wasn’t too far shy of the summit and that it was more ledge than bulge, I thought ‘bollocks, why not?’ and pushed myself up, round and over.

  Jamming my left knee under the overhang I launched my left hand high overhead then ran it down the rock face till it snagged in a crack. Wedging my fingers deep inside, I levered up against the friction tugging at my jacket. My right foot found purchase on something and I got my right hand up and over the top of the bulge where it discovered . . . smooth rock! Breathing hard I had a tense few seconds as my fingers scurried around for something to grab before locking into a tiny divot. I rose shakily to standing. The skin on my left hand tore in a dozen places as I forced it up the crack and out onto the smooth, weathered ledge where it found first Matt’s boot, then the tangle of rope and finally a tussock of wiry grass. One last heave and I was over!

  ‘Nice one Red. Very bold!’ Matt grinned, directing me past him. ‘That was really strong climbing!’ Below, I heard cheering.

  ‘I think you did that better than any of us,’ remarked Matthew on my return to terra-flatter. ‘And I got some great pictures of your backside for you to show your wife!’

  By now our local neighbours had slipped away, we hoped with chagrin rather than a presentiment of rain. We worked our way along the Upper Tier to the base of Calcutta Crack, an HS 4b described as ‘6m. The twisting crack is very tricky, especially for the short.’ Though I was walking tall I remained concerned by the observation.

  ‘Jesus Red. You can’t climb with your shoes in that state, they’re covered in sheep shit.’ Matthew grabbed a towel and began scraping at the soles of my climbing slippers. ‘The things I find myself doing for you’ he muttered. ‘If you’d told me I’d be doing this . . .’

  ‘I’ve always wanted a batman; like Lord Peter Wimsey or Albert Campion. So are you a Bunter or a Lug, Matthew?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about but you can piss off if you don’t want to wipe shit off your own shoes.’

  The mood had lightened now we’d got some routes under our belts and though the sky to the South had turned ominously grey Matt reckoned we had time for this last one.

  It was a feisty little number that packed a lot into its six metres and provided good technical practice. But the first plops of rain were spattering us as Matthew led me down the winding, slabby path to the base again and we packed quickly and decided to call it a day.

  Perversely the sun broke through just as we passed Don Whillans’ hut again, allowing the other three to enjoy a quick 20 minutes bouldering before the clouds crashed shut and we knew another storm was on its way.

  It had been a frustrating but ultimately fun weekend with plenty of beer and laughs and just enough climbing to leave us all feeling satisfied. At times it had been a bit tense, mostly due to elements beyond our control. Some of Matthew’s comments had been a bit near the knuckle but no one had taken offence.

  Somewhere south o
f Derby Matt asked whether I had any Stone Roses on my iPod – he was thinking of going to see a film about them but didn’t really know their music. As Matthew and I sang along to Waterfall and She Bangs The Drums we reminisced about what we’d been getting up to in 1989.

  Andres looked up from his iPod and announced; ‘Hey guys, that is so long ago. You know, I was three years old.’

  ‘It’s still good though!’ Matt added.

  I calculated that he could only have been two when the album was released and a small wave of sadness lapped round me bringing with it realisation. Matthew and I were old enough to be fathers to these two. No doubt much of the tetchiness Matthew had shown with Andres in particular was born of having a teenage daughter who manifested much of the same insouciant behaviour. The added layer of responsibility he clearly felt for me too can have done little for his stress levels. Climbing is not a dangerous pastime until one of the team takes their eye off the ball and makes a careless mistake – then it can be fatal. The trouble with young climbers is that they often appear to be too laid-back, even lackadaisical – the antithesis to Matthew’s thoroughness.

  The opening chords of Made of Stone came blaring out of the car stereo and we all began to sing along to a song we recognised. I put my worries aside. Notwithstanding the sometimes-bumpy walk-in, the four of us had enjoyed climbing together and were driving south having proved Tom Patey’s assertion, to a sceptical audience: ‘The word impossible has no permanent place in a climber’s vocabulary.’

  16

  Buffing Up

  ‘I say the last 10% of the way to perfection takes so much of your life that it isn’t worth the effort. This overzealous attitude is what creates religious fanatics, body Nazis, and athletes who are exceedingly dull to converse with.’

  – Yvon Chouinard

  The weather changed and all the seeds we’d planted during the previous months, fed by the endless rain, began to erupt into bloom. Over the next four weeks the project seemed to take on a life of its own, leaving me to concentrate on being physically and mentally prepared, and enjoying the sunshine.