June 21, 2019
Flow.
40 meters of kilas slate. A perfect June day. Carn Kenidjack, worthy of its reputation. Saxon already dispatched with ease. Now, Rockdancer. The moves intuitive and easy. A focus so sharp the holds might as well be painted different colours. Putting in gear just to keep Khalid happy. I could solo this. I cannot fall.
August 2, 2019
Falling.
40 meters of North Devon Culm. The sun is high and hot, its already mid-day. Wearing these tight new shoes, not such a good idea. Sacre Coeur offers no let-up, nowhere to rest. Calves pumping, feet in agony. Thankfully, a perfect cam slot. But no, I placed that size already, along with all the rest. Look down, three meters to the nest of micros. They’re probably good. Two more moves to what looks like a decent hold. But I’m standing on the outside of my feet, trying to relieve the pain. Left hand up. Mistake. Here comes the barn door – ‘falling!’ Look down. That gear is a long way away. Or rather, it was. Feel the jerk as the nest rips. Still falling. Shit. Is this it? What a stupid way to go. Feet catching. Flipping over. Head into the rock. Blood fills my eyes. Glinting in the sun, down on the beach, the helmet I forgot to wear.
August 14, 2019
Fear.
North Wales is soaked. Drove an hour to Holyhead in the hope the Mountain would be dry. Bizarrely, it seems to be, despite the miasma of cloud bringing visibility down to a few meters. King Bee Crack? Still got business with that one. As in: nearly killed myself on it two years ago, accelerating too quickly through the grades. Maybe later. See how I feel. Bruvers first. It looks dry. Until obviously it isn’t. The top crack, sopping. The guidebook warned that it’s steeper than it looks. Calm down. Get a jam in. Stop. Freaking. Out. The gear is good. This isn’t hard for you. Just relax. There is nothing to be afraid of. You’ve fallen on good gear plenty of times. You have your helmet on. Your leg is not behind the rope. It is OK to ask for a take. Breathe. Breathe again. OK. Two more moves. Good. Two more. Gear. Two more. Good. Two more. Done. Wasn’t so bad, was it?
September 1, 2019
Fear
Thank god for Tremadog. Rain almost every day in the mountains, but the week has been saved by this place. A host of classics: Merlin Direct, First Slip, Leg Slip – and best of all, the mighty Vector. Now, one I’ve been waiting for. The Plum. Flowing through the lower section. Steady through the peg scars. It really is as good as they say. But that offwidth corner, that looks hard. And I don’t have a cam that big. Over to the side? Up the face? Wire in the crack. OK. Looks bomber. Here we go. Left hand, foot up, right hand. Other foot up. SHIT. The wire; kicked clean out. Stomach through the floor. A glance below. Fall from here? Hitting that ledge, for sure. Legs broken, at the very best. Fight or flight. Do not panic. If you panic, you die. The whole world nothing but a series of moves. Concentration so intense it’s like a drug. There is nothing but the rock. Good. Focus. Keep going. Do not hesitate. Execute. You have the jug. Relief washes over everything.
October 20, 2019
Flow.
Autumn coming in slowly; summer’s memory lingers. Good to be on the grit. Should do this more often. Slightly hungover, but no matter. Needed the drink after the battle with Kelly’s Overhang. Now for something completely different. Chequers Buttress, the arete sharp against a blue sky. Later, it will rain. A retreat to football in a pub. But for now, there is only the rock