Found and lost.

Have you ever been to the bay of Angels? Have you ever stumbled along its shingled shores to sample the smooth, steep bounty held within? Time slides lazily here; cormorants skim across the still waters and lead your eye to a horizon stippled with windmills attempting to stem the inevitable rise of our warming seas. It's amazing to think that this tranquil little beach, looking out onto a calm sea of renewable rotations, is only a breath away from the bus tours and hotels of Llandudno and the now-faded ice cream parlours of Colwyn Bay. Calmness pervades, waves ripple rather than break, and the problems engage in such a way that hours pass without weariness, ache or need of rest. If you have never experienced the stillness beyond the bungalows in the bay, you need to, and soon.

Crouchy on Dirt Box

Angel bay used be a regular haunt of the Merseyside Bouldering Scene, a real after-work treat when the tide was right. I did my first font 7a here, and I'm sure that Dolph's second ascent of Manchester Dogs was the beginning of his, now marathon, eighth-grade journey. Showtime, Fathanded Tom, Crouchy, Cassidy, Angry and the Silverback all visited in their time and danced on the wave-sculpted rock below the hill and between the tides.

Crouchy doing battle with the Locker

The bay was the sight of one of the most memorable nights of my climbing life. It involved an incident that entertained and horrified in equal measure. It was just a 'Tuesday night after work' session at the bay like any other! Showtime and Caryl were going and I'm sure Fatneck put in one of his influential cameos. Skinny dog was with me and everything was shaping up for a very pleasant evening of summer Bouldering.

I fed the dog and let him mooch around the bay as is his want, chasing the occasional pebble, his feet beating out a staccato rhythm as he searched for momentum and purchase amongst the rock and shingle. On one of these runs something grabbed his attention. A galaxy of starfish had been washed up on the shore; they sat there desiccated by the late-afternoon summer rays. These salty, crunchy fruits of the sea proved too much for the Skinny one to resist! He devoured them in the same way a child eats sweets when they have been told to share. We noticed his activities too late, but thought little of it!

Fatneck showing his class on HP direct.

An hour passed, problems were sent and insults were exchanged as tokens of friendship. It was at this point the dog was sick. It was dismissed as nothing to worry about, we gave him fresh water and returned to banter and Bouldering. What happened next will be etched in my mind until the rising tides engulf the bay indefinitely! My quiet little companion stopped running. He stopped moving. He simply opened up, morphed into a double-ended, biological Roman candle. Fountains metres in length eruped from his orifices, providing a show that was truly multisensory! Showtime laughed. I cried, hit by the sensation that this beautiful beach in its newly defiled state would be my home until the dog hit empty. Skinny looked miserable and began to waddle around, dragging his posterior along the pebbles in search of something cool to ease his pain! The curious incident of a dog in the bay amused Showtime so much he named a problem after it! The dog never looked at seafood in quite the same way again.

Angel bay has been the scene of so many chapters in the Mersyside Bouldering story.  Inspired by nostalgia I went back and visited after a break of some years this summer. It was as calm and tranquil as ever, but something had changed. It took me a while to isolate what variables had shifted, and then it hit me; this place, a former hot bed of Scouse climbing energy, activity and bile, had become a backwater- overlooked, ignored in favour of a famous cleft in the next headland. Have we all been blinded by the allure of arm-busting link ups and the sinuous pathway to big grades mapped out for only those with the patience and dedication for the journey?

Angry Jones on Bridey Arete

Angel bay, once a jewel in the coastal crown of North Wales Bouldering, is being lost as quickly as it was found. A lack of interest has allowed the quiet and constant creep of barnacles across the bay to continue unabated. Proud, smooth, clean lines are slowly being re-colonized by the creatures of the shore. Sonic Boom, a boulder problem of some note, was once adorned with stars; now crustaceans decorate its slopers. Angel bay needs to be found again before it is lost to the sea: Jonesy's Locker, Dirt Box, Ren Arrete, Muscle Bound, Chaos Emerald Crack, The Holding Principal, Spectrum, The Limpet, Limp Wrist, The Letter Box and Sonic Boom are all good reasons to go! So people of Merseyside, Flintshire and Conway, let's not wait for a new guide to spark our interest, let us repopulate the bay with climbers. We can match those limpets and barnacles with our own efforts. Let us fight them on the beaches! So much can be achieved by so few! There is a battle to be fought and, by our will, we can return this tranquil spot to its former climbing glory and you too can experience the agony and ecstasy of climbing here.

Thanks to Crouchy and Fatneck for all of the photo's- there's more to see on bouldr.net.Here!

The Very Tall and the Very Small.

Skinny Dog turning to run from a good argument

Debate has always been the lifeblood of climbing. Grades, sandbagging, ethics, mistrust and sheer pig-headedness have driven us on, motivated us to try harder, and led us onto the path of discovery and perceived achievements. It could be argued that this discord has had more influence on the increase in climbing standards than either the invention of the campus board or climbing's flirtations with the status of being a "sport" and the aroma of measurement and science that follow it! Every bar brawl, every tall tale told on Malham's catwalk, every wall and edge claimed by a Master; the unstemable torrent of doubt pouring over the achievements of others have motivated us to "prove em wrong."

These dialogues and discourses were traditionally presented and explored in the vicinity of warm beer and salty snacks. Fleshy fists would often support salient points mooted on the style of ascents made on the moors and mountains that fan out from the pub's front door. Today the rhythmical tapping of letter embossed plastic cubes, or the creation of codes which resemble language on illuminated screens, underscore the discordant melody that is contemporary climbing culture. Forums, posts, blogs and tweets now burn with the passion once stoked by fists, whisky and ale. We are now driven by what is written. We may not punctuate our points with blood and sweat, but the passion, drive and consequences are the same.

One debate that echoes around the Bouldering sphere is that of 'aesthetics' vs 'the move'. Is the strength of the line more important than the feel of the moves that make it? This argument often morphs into one that can encompass locations, environments, rock types; even the use of holds. Whilst not particularly contentious, these debates fill the bellies of those involved with fire. It leads to derisory comments about Parisella's Cave with its fragrant carpet of goat shit and the primacy of granulated, sedimentary rock types on one hand, and the idea that gritstone is a "luck-based rock type for punters who can't be bothered training", (a moment of brilliance from Crouch 2010) on the other. I have no desire to delve into this particular dialectic other than to be utterly entertained by the rhetoric it creates. What it shows us though is that, where aesthetics are concerned, passion can lead us to irrational positions that stop us from experiencing things that could be really rather good.

This summer, in an attempt to keep myself ticking-over for my winter projects, I went 7b hunting on the moors and mountains of Wales and the Peak. I was drawn to the Wavelength hillside by the problems I had not yet tried or overlooked in the past. One in particular had caught my eye, not because of its sweeping line or its towering reputation; its name attracted me, I mean who could resist doing battle with the "Beef Growler''?  Enquiries made about this problem did nothing to enhance its reputation. It's found on the diminutive roof of the Pie Shop boulder. A low-slung affair with high dab potential and a grinding finish to boot. Conversations with the first ascentionist should have put me off but I was deaf to phrases like "close to the ground" and "utterly crap'': the name alone continued to pull me up the hillside.

The allure of the Wavelength hillside.

On inspection the problem looks poor- close to the ground with a huge pile of sheep shit underneath it to enliven the experience and sharpen the senses. This problem is an aesthetic black hole from which lovers of the line would never return but, my word, it climbed well! I'm a tall man, and I usually laugh at such short walls, but each arse scraping move drew me in. From the heel- toe lock at the start, through the tenuous heel hook in the middle, this problem made me pay attention. I had to think of ways to keep my body high and hold swings. Right up to the final mantel I could not believe the quality of experience afforded me by this low- hulking piece of crap. As I reflected on climbing Beef Growler, bathed by views of one of Britain's most beautiful landscapes, I realised that although the problem I'd ascended was anything but aesthetic- the experience of climbing it certainly was.

The view from the Growler; doesn't get much better than this

So, although debate and strong opinion have driven climbing onward over the years, we should learn a lesson from the Growler experience. If we polarise ourselves into tribes that worship particular rock types, holds, or even climbers, we might miss something really good. The question 'is it the line or is it the move' should not even be asked - It's all climbing. Others may say a move, problem, or venue is rubbish; don't believe them, find out for yourself. You may find your perfect problem. Remember the old adage, "one man's rag is another man's cape"; let's face it, we all want to wear a cape deep down!


Beef Growler 7b from Pavelsky on Vimeo.

Thanks to Paul for the use of his video, you should watch his others, they are really rather good.

Lamp Light Bouldering

Physical geography is a wonderfully complex and interesting phenomenon! Most males would wholeheartedly agree with this statement as it will be one of their guilty pleasures. Think about it; volcanoes, tsunamis, hurricanes! However, to admit ones interest in such earthly pleasures can act as a very powerful contraceptive. This is not the only downside of constantly changing landscapes- when you live in a temperate zone with a maritime climate it can seriously meddle with your climbing.

This could now turn into the usual rant about all things meteorological. The sky has produced a multitude of precipitation types recently from heavy, to cold, to my personal favourite - horizontal. However all this rain, hail, snow, wind and general misery is to be expected when a boulderer over-winters in the UK. Best be stoic and let it go. No, the particular geographical phenomenon I'm interested in at the moment is associated to the latitudinal position of this green and quite frankly damp land, and the way this affects our seasons.

Summer is a magnificent time of year in the UK, especially when viewed through grey, frost-tinted glasses supplied by a dark January morning. The mind’s eye drifts to endless, balmy evenings of bouldering. The sun beating down, the scent of wild flowers and BBQ's in the air. Frisbees are thrown and dogs slumber untidily in the heat. The problem with the mind’s eye is it’s a hopeless romantic which tends towards the bullshit end of the truth spectrum! Summer in the UK usually means humidity, greasy holds and frustration. The one similarity between the brain’s simulated summer and our actual one is long evenings of light that allow us to adventure out like excited children.

So what of the winter? For most this is the season of training, getting strong and going to the wall. My local wall is heavily laden with temptations: it’s warm, bright, social, it has some of the best espresso for 50 miles and I can even eat like the gourmand I pretend to be there. It's easy to forget the millions of years of geological and erosional processes that sculpted our objects of desire. It's easy to be swayed by the injection- moulded plastic patterns that adorn the overhanging, smooth surfaces of the climbing wall with their perfect, soft landings. What other option is there- its dark by 4 pm in December? Most would not want to venture out on a British winter’s night as most humans are not addicted to good friction, something that is only abundant when it’s frigidly cold. And so we reach an impasse. How do you exploit good winter conditions if they only occur on a working weekday? How can we overcome the power of physical geography? How can we fight back the darkness?



Obviously people have been climbing with lamps since man first managed to compress and bottle gas. However my first glimpse of this exciting world was in Ailefroide, South Western France around 11 years ago. It was a rather glamorous activity practiced by sponsored American climbers seeking out “cool temps.” These individuals saved themselves for evening sessions, skin intact, illuminated by massive Coleman lamps, gliding gracefully up cool rock. The lumpen proletariat (i.e. us) sat around wide eyed, green with jealousy, nursing lacerated fingers from misguided mid-day sessions in the sun. Obviously this was the way forward; however it took me quite a few years to consider the possibilities of after work climbing in the winter months.

I was asked to help a friend with a film project. He had applied to be part of the Extreme Film School, an offshoot of the Kendal Film Festival, and the result was a short film about a big dyno called “Pex and the City” (I played the Sarah Jessica Parker character in this interpretation of the series). During the filming my mate thought it would be good to shoot some scenes at night. A generator was hired with some lights and the scene was set. As with all good plans- everything failed spectacularly. The blame for this expensive misadventure was laid at the door of a fuel tank with water in it. I suspect the real source of our failure was the fact that three incompetent males with no mechanical knowledge were trying to experience adventures beyond their technical means. The lights worked for precisely five minutes and then physical geography won out and re-established the natural (dark) order of things. However, during that brief spell of illumination, my mind drifted back to the glamour of Ailefroide as compared with the routinized indoor rituals of following colours as they twist sinuously up overhanging ply. I went out and bought a two hundred watt gas lamp and spent a winter with my film director friend hanging off sandstone in Merseyside after dark. A revolution had begun.



Lamplight climbing isn’t for everyone! In fact only a particular type of loon enjoys climbing under overhangs or in caves, after dark, in the depths of winter. Luckily the Liverpool Bouldering scene is mostly populated by uber-loons, so there is a demand for post work illumination for those with a Scouse disposition. So where does the merry band of Merseyside malingerers hang out after sundown in the midwinter? What mysterious method is used to push back the darkness and battle the usual certainties of the physical world?

Obviously the sandstone venues of Cheshire lend themselves well to illumination, particularly Pisa wall at Pex and some of the overhanging buttresses at Frodsham. One gas lamp and a lot of psyche was all it needed. These early forays seemed to feed a need that Merseyside alone could not quench and soon our merry band of lamplighters ventured further afield to the greater ranges of North Wales. Pant Y Mwyn became the next venue of choice. The merry band swelled in numbers, as did the number of gas lamps used. The tyranny of darkness was quite literally being banished through superior fire power. Our next move was to be our last; we found the home of lamp lighting, our perfect venue – Parisella’s!



To many, bouldering in Parisella’s cave sums up everything that is bad about Bouldering. A manufactured cave with manufactured holds, suspended above a thick carpet of goat shit, inhabited by media savvy, beany wearing types who indiscriminately wave video cameras at each other. On the other hand you can see it for what it is, a matrix of world class boulder problems no more than a minute from the car, adorned with exquisite moves, virtually weatherproof and perfect for lamplight climbing. We take deck chairs with us when we go. Instead of sitting facing the sea taking in the breathtaking vistas of the North Wales coastline, we always sit facing inwards, attempting to take in the majesty of what is in front of us; our very own nocturnal palace of bouldering.

Finding the spiritual home of lamplight bouldering has led to other changes particularly in terms of the means used to cast light on our cave-bound industry. Man used to exist in caves illuminated by nothing but firelight as sabre-toothed mammals waited for opportunities in the darkness beyond. Evolution and revolution have allowed us to burn compressed gas to light up our playground, whilst souped up, body kitted Citroën Saxos prowl like predators up marine drive. Today, technological advances have led us to cast expensive and unnecessarily wasteful gas lamps aside, leading to a mini revolution in our activities. Electricity and halogen bulbs have changed everything. A fully charged twelve volt leisure battery, an inverter and two 120 watt halogen lamps running off domestic three pin plugs have turned a shady night session in the cave into a near daylight experience. Two powerful lamps are all you need to banish annoying shadows from your problem of desire. Project climbing after the sun leaves our shores becomes a reality, and good conditions become the order of the day.



So I return to thoughts of the physical world and its many nuances and try to isolate what makes lamplight climbing so good. The answer isn’t that it’s better than going to the local climbing wall (even though it is). It isn’t even that you get more time on your projects and are thus are more likely to do them (even though you do and you are). The real allure of lamplight climbing is the feeling that you’ve got away with it; you are climbing outdoors as is right and proper whilst others toil with excess chalk, crowds and music you really would not choose to listen to. When you are lamp lighting you feel like you have beaten physical geography with the power of technology and determination. You stand tall having reversed the natural order, master of your environment having bent the elemental forces that govern all things to your will. With the simple flick of a switch you release a power that is almost intoxicating. It’s a shame that most won’t appreciate the significance of what you are doing; in fact such activities will make you even more unattractive to the opposite sex than an admission that you think hurricanes are ‘kind of cool’!! Anyway if you lust after friction after dark and women aren’t particularity interested in your obsession with slopers, get yourself a lamp, get out there and do battle with nature.



Cheers Owen

(All pictures - Simon Huthwaite)