Shady Slimestone.

My fingers have not danced across the keys of a keyboard for quite some time.  The reason for this is simple; the weather has been good and the Limestone crags that generally lurk in our deep river valleys, dripping, dank are actually dry!  So dry in fact, that any thought of typing or training have been wiped from my consciousness by an insatiable need to climb. 

As the summer sun has heated our landscapes and bathed the hill tops, all rock with a high silica content has been rendered un-climbable, radiating  heat and causing  skin to roll off finger tips at an alarming rate. The sanctuary afforded by shady limestone has become hard to resist and crags from the North East of Wales to the South of the Lake District have been plundered for their potential and their protection from the sun.

If the climbing wall is getting too hot, and you need to escape into this summer wonderland of dry rock and long days I hope the following videos will inspire you to get out and leave that campus board alone.  Both short films feature Devils Gorge, a favourite of us Scouse climbers, and a particularly good spot to find good conditions in the morning in a hot sunny summer.  Both films come from Sam, visit here to see more of what he has been up to.

Pex Killer.

This post is a confessional, an admission of guilt, a cleansing of the soul.  I have done a bad thing-  something reprehensible, something I just can't undo.  It's a simple case of murder, murder most horrid and I am the perpetrator.  I will not make excuses: I am guilty, I just need to share this burden before they send me away to dwell with others who are guilty of crimes against climbing.

It was the last Thursday of term, the hour had sprung forward and there was enough daylight to climb after work.  I was due to train, however the fine grain of the wood I was about to work repetitively did not appeal.  I needed to feel fine granules of rock under my tips.  Time was short, darkness was approaching, an hour at Pex was all I was going to get; however an hour on Pisa Wall in my world is the equivalent of a full-blown session anywhere else.  I jumped into the car and disappeared into the gathering gloom.

As I drove eastwards, showers plagued the Cheshire plain and a strange half-light dulled the edges of reality; everything felt dark, an edgy atmosphere gripped my car.  Nevertheless, when I arrived at the quarry I was relieved to find everything dry; though the feeling of unease lingered.  Pex had escaped the showers and the rock was good and grippy.  The feeling of friction transmitted through my fingers lulled me into a false sense of positivity, whilst everything around me warned that evil was near. Happily trapped in my dynamic bubble, bouncing between holds, I did not notice the skies darkening and remained blissfully unaware of the horror  that inched its way towards me. The deeper into the circuit I got, the more vulnerable I became.  My own enthusiasm made me greedy for more problems, milking the light for every last move it could facilitate.  In my rabid state I was unaware of my own gradual slide into darkness, little did I know that I could be capable of dastardly deeds, that I would be the villain of this piece.

I decided that one more sit-start would be possible.  It started to spit with rain, the wind grew in strength and the light had all but disappeared.  The omens were bad but I was propelled by a demonic energy, a need to consume climbing!  I sat down and threw for a hold that I have used a thousand times, a hold that has been used by legions; a hold that has borne the weight and expectations of the entire Merseyside climbing scene at some point. I pulled up and was sent into a violent spin.  The hold exploded from the wall releasing such energy that it banished the evil climbing spirit from the quarry that had possessed me.  I sat sat there on my mat, dizzy.  I could not comprehend what had happened: I was on the floor, bruised and covered in sand.  I looked up and saw the massive rock scar that was now superimposed on Pisa's red, chalky patina.  I moved from a state of incomprehension to realisation to remorse in a blink of an eye and wailed to the winds "What have I done?''

So, I admit it was me; I pulled the hold off Pisa at Pex.  I disproved the prevailing theory that this wall was made of unbreakable sandstone that could stand up to the elements and all that could be thrown at it for all eternity  I will take my punishment, hanging my head in shame.  I am a killer full of remorse.  I mourn the myriad of eliminates that have now been lost to the world and can only hope that in time I will be forgiven; it is more than I deserve.

Thanks to Fatneck for collecting the evidence in the photograph above.

Dolerite Daze.

I have said it before and I will put it out there again; dolerite is my favourite climbing medium - by quite some margin.  The Boss Curiver Bloc hidden in the evergreen expanses which guard Beddgelert, the erratics that dot the majestic Ogwen and Llanberis valleys, the chaotic jumble secretly secreted in Crafnant’s upper reaches and the blue stones that sit proudly on the hilltops of North Pembrokeshire; I just can’t get enough of it.  Deconstructing the dolerite experience gives us some pointers as to what makes it so addictive: dolerite can be rounded like grit, or angular- laser cut almost, like granite; lines always follow strong features, holds can be pinchy, sloping, or even savage and crimpy; however they all have one thing in common – texture.  Dolerite is like shark’s skin, it has possibly the best frictional qualities of anything (rock or otherwise) that I have chosen to slap in my entire life.  On a cold day you almost feel able to pull yourself up holdless dolerite faces through the adhesion created between your skin and this rasping rock alone.  One salient feature elevates the dolerite experience above all others and that is the effect of location; location, location, location.  There’s nothing quite like a boulder with a view, a grassy landing front and back and the potential for further development when the correct resources are available.

My favourite dolerite venue of the moment nestles on the hill in the middle of the sleepy town of Rhiw, far out on the western tip of North Wales. To most this small town would be an inconsequential cluster of whitewashed cottages with a priceless view and an air of the 1930’s. To the rabid boulderer it serves as the gateway to Porth Ysgo with its proud technical lines and miraculous micro-climate. We’ve all driven through Rhiw and looked at the dolerite hog back there on the hill. We’ve all thought, “hmm I wonder if there is any potential there?” and we have all driven on, dazzled by the promise offered by Ysgo’s stellar lines. Recent developments have changed that. A band of super-keen individuals have brought this crag to life, (you can read about it here and here) sending and reporting enough lines to get a Merseyside boulderer to stop and look on the way to Ysgo.

My first visit to Clwt y Fiaren and the Fisherman’s View Boulders was only meant to be a short fact-finding mission, an aperitif to my main course which was to be served at Porth Ysgo.  However I found the experience so absorbing I was still there shedding skin as the sun started to set; I just could not leave.  A second visit was scheduled, but this time in the cool, sunny conditions of a spring Sunday.  This trip confirmed what I had already suspected – this spot ranks amongst the very best bouldering locations in the UK. No really ……it is. 

Yes the site has deficiencies: there’s not a lot there and if you are looking for big numbers you will be disappointed; however the lines that have been developed are strong and proud and there is quite a lot to do around 7a. The element that places this venue in the bouldering premier league is the setting.  You will have to travel a long way to live out your dreams in a better landscape. As you boulder on clean, rough dolerite the sweep of Hell’s Mouth arcs away into the distance towards Abersoch.  Corduroy seas ripple past and break on panoramic shores as seals and dolphins swim lazily by. . . 

Welcome to nature’s smorgasbord - it doesn’t get any better than this.

Bouldering can be more than pulling hard, training, grades and posturing.  Climbing can be something deeper.  Spending a day slapping slopers, bathed in spring sunshine, as the sea shimmers into infinity is as close to perfect as is possible.  The boulders that populate the slopes around Rhiw are good; bouldering in this landscape is great – mind blowingly so!  Go once and you’ll go again, even with Porth Ysgo on the doorstep.  You really won’t be disappointed by this daze of dolerite.

Thanks to Sam once again for the vid and to Hip Hop Ben for the first photo.

Anston Wood

Someone liked a video on my Vimeo account the other day. It took me a fair while to work out which video it was. The video in question was one I had actually made.  It had remained hidden in a post in the now (mostly) redundant Raw Edge Days blog site that I used to contribute to. I watched it and realised that this video was worth posting again as the venue it captured has certainly been a major feature of my bouldering for a long time.

I had forgotten about Anston Wood, forgotten about the magnesium carbonate crags that populate the edges of this green slash through Rotherham's post industrial hinterland. I'd forgotten about the diversity of angles, hold types and problems that call this wood home; most importantly I'd forgotten how much I enjoy climbing here! Pound for pound Anston is probably the best limestone bouldering crag in the UK.  Big claim I know, but not many venues can boast this number of pure lines and link ups. It even has difficultly and suits those climbing in the high 7's and 8 rather than those looking for a big circuit day. The only thing that spoils this tranquil spot is the railway track that bisects it but, to be honest, the coal trains that use it are very rarely seen on a weekend.

I hadn't been to Anston Wood in a long time. My last visit pre-dated the publication of the area guide book and thus I hadn't been led around Anston's various buttresses by the written word.  I was there with Showtime; refugees from a typical wet Sunday over in the North West.  A quick look at the glossy guide reminded me that I had been visiting this spot for fourteen years (according to a photo in the history section anyway).  Even though it rained we climbed, even though I had been here a lot we discovered buttresses we had never climbed on, even though Anston Wood has a reputation for hard problems we climbed lots of quality below 7a.  The rediscovery of my Anston video reminded me how good this place is.  My visit with Showtime illustrated quite clearly that forgetting about a venue this good is more than just careless.

Watch the video below and judge Anston's quality with your own eyes. The climber featured in this short is the author of all that is good on magnesium carbonate limestone - M'adams himself. Enjoy!



   
Magnesium Bouldering Action from Owen McShane on Vimeo.

Bet my session was worse than yours!

The alarm I had set on my phone played its usual crass yet rousing tune, ushering in yet another day at the coal face.  My eye lids struggled to understand the concept of opening on both a physical and theoretical level; with a little encouragement, revision and close tutoring they eventually peeled back and my pupils surveyed the day. The scene framed by my bedroom window was close to perfect, egg shell blue sky, a slight breeze lazily playing with the trees and evidence of frost at the edges of the glazing. It was on. The hours of pouring over Google maps, pictures and online topos the previous night would be worth it. I was heading for the first fully sunlit after work session of the year and my heart was filled with joy.

I headed to work buoyed by an unfamiliar feeling, instead of the usual dread; I was excited at what to come after the final throws of the working day. I felt untouchable, the master of my world. The usual stream of work related negativity shot at me simply rolled off the Teflon coat I know wore, woven from the slippery strands of hope and expectation created from pure psyche. Tasks were completed, wrongs were righted and the day passed in a blur.

This was not going to be the usual relaxed climbing session, the sun was due to set at 18.05, this meant that I would have to get to the crag of choice no later than 16.00 to make sure a worthwhile session  would be had.  This session could not be left to evolve; it needed to be structured, military in its execution.  If all of these elements fell into place then it would be a fine two hours of climbing in the early spring evening.  Passions were running high.

I flew out of work at 15.00, my destination on the western edge of the Penines less than an hour away.  Liverpool, St Helens, Windes, Warrington gone in the wink of an eye.  These industrial towns marooned in Merseyside, land locked by the un interesting flatness of the Cheshire plains held no interest for me now, I was headed to loftier places.  I started the climb up to the moors.  The light, like the landscape softened; glowed almost.  Grasses ravaged by a wet winter swayed in the gentle breeze.  Time seemed to elongate as the expectations of perfect conditions and dry rock created its own reality and serenity in the car.  Yes this was a mad mission, yes the climbing would need to be frenetic, but the soft evening light that flowed through the deep Pennine valleys, skipped across it rounded hills and caressed the water of its reservoirs made it all worth it.  As I drove along ever uphill it almost felt like I was ascending from the work based nightmare of public service into my own mini Nirvana of movement and freedom……Perfection if you will.

It was at this precise moment of serenity that I hit the jam.  Not any jam, no.  This was the mother of all traffic jams, a jam so intense it tested every fiber of my being.  I was less than ten miles from my destination, caught between motorway junctions with no means of escape.  I could see my chosen crag between the hills, dry and accommodating, it was so near I could almost touch it.  There was hope.  It was 15.45; I started to watch the clock.  There was no movement amongst the sea of steel, rubber and chrome that spread before me.  I no longer measured my journey in terms of landscapes, rather the perpetual passing of seconds; seconds that would force me into a decision.  16.00 my expected time of arrival came and went, but I still felt I could salvage something from the evening, I was so close. 16.30 approached and disappeared into that bottomless immeasurable pit that we call the past, I started to worry. 17.00 arrived and I had to make a decision.  For an hour and a quarter hope and fate had battled over my future, for an hour and a quarter I had nailed my colours to the flag held aloft by hope.  For an hour and a quarter hope had blinded me, allowing me to believe that a future moving across rock bathed in sunlight could be a possibility. Fate won out. I would not climb on rock tonight.

I was forced to make a decision, I would, at the first opportunity, turn round and head home; back to Liverpool, back to the wall.  I was consumed by rage, a rage that was shared by the thousands of souls around me cast adrift on a motorway of misery.  At that moment of realisation, the moment that my dream evaporated in the beautiful evening light, I could have killed; I could have run from the car, ripped out the hearts of innocent woodland creatures and used their blood to paint profanities in the sky. I wanted to strip to the waist, douse myself with petrol and set myself alight, ready to run between the cars; a physical manifestation of my frustration that might restore some natural balance to the world which had suddenly gone very wrong. It took me another half an hour to reach a junction and turn around, half an hour of fading light and impending natural darkness; a darkness eclipsed by the darkness of my mood.

It took for ever to get back to Liverpool. I had to battle more busy motorways, rush hour and my own wounded self.  I eventually arrived at The Hanger at 19.00 - four hours after I had set out on my adventure after work. Four hours to complete what is normally a twenty minute journey from work to the wall.  I arrived in poor humour, but coffee, camaraderie and a little perspective helped me to get over myself.  Let’s face it no animals were hurt (but it felt close). One thing I can say though is, that night, my session was definitely worse than yours.

Woodhouse

The word scar is ugly, hard, unyielding; It conjures images of damage and pain in the mind.  There are many crags in this green and pleasant land that have the misfortune of having this word in their name.  It casts a dark shadow over them, giving the impression than calamitous events lead to their creation, as if the rock faces were ripped mercilessly from nature, resting uneasily, raw in their landscapes.  The word scar can feed into our filters, pre-load our perceptions of place and keep us away from adventures and experiences we can only judge first hand.

Halifax is home to such a scar.  It lurks amongst the trees below the Albert Promenade.  If you listen to the whispers, this scar lives up to the negative connotations that spring from its name.  Dark, dank, green, slow to dry, decorated with glass, low ball, eliminate…….. the list goes on.  You may wonder why I would ever wish to walk into Woodhouse Scar. Well I never really listen to whispers, I like to find out for myself!  Whilst often disappointed the occasional success justifies such an approach.

Woodhouse Scar sits at the eastern end of the Calder Valley in Yorkshire.  The crag's reputation for dampness originates from its geographical position.  The Calder Valley funnels and channels air from the damp west coast, eastwards and upwards, to the heart of the Pennines where it falls as precipitation of various types.  Don’t let this put you off, don’t let the green hue of the grit here turn you away.  Woodhouse has some tricks up its sleeve when it comes to Britain’s rain-blighted climate; ever dry walls that rarely feel the soft caress of rain.

 There was a fleeting weather window in a wild winter of storms.  We had a plan.  We left the wet of the west, we disregarded the advice of others and set out for Woodhouse, if it was poor there the ever dry magnesium carbonate of Rotherham beckoned; not bad for a backup plan.  We ascended the slopes of Saddleworth and approached Yorkshire.  Our decision seemed foolhardy as the windscreen wipers went about their work.  We crested the hill and made for Halifax.

The descent of the A629 took us into a twilight world outside the physical constraints of reality.  A world which was both wet and dry, light and dark.  We journeyed into a temporal space of indecision which mirrored our mood.  Our lives were held in stasis, not knowing whether we would grate our hands on grit. The future morphed and changed as moisture appeared and disappeared from the windscreen at random intervals, stuck in a world simultaneously filled and devoid of ambition, emotions in flux flipping from expectation to despair in  a fraction of a second. Suddenly the car broke through the Mist Event Horizon.  We were no longer stuck in Schrodinger’s Paradox simultaneously embarked on a successful and unsuccessful bouldering trip.  The quantum superposition of the journey collapsed around us, reality invaded the car; we would climb today……… in glorious sunshine.

 A scar is only ugly if you think it is.  We are conditioned to believe in a particular aesthetic when it comes to beauty, it is the same with climbing.  The fashion of the time leads us to see things through a particular lens; today's scruffy eliminate venues were once highly prized places where fingers would be strengthened and moves rehearsed.   Climbing walls have rid these venues of their raison-detre, changed our minds about their utility and led us to dismiss them as ugly and urban.  However Woodhouse is not particularly eliminate; proud crags, situated in a wood, look out over fells and moors.  Weatherproof problems bisect overhanging walls with no end of lines to try.  Woodhouse scar is in town - that is undeniable, there is no walk in, dog walkers will bid you a good day as you huff and puff on a project, and yet the landings are not carpeted with the expected faeces and glass.  The landscape is clean and quiet.  Woodhouse is only ugly if you believe it to be.  This is not a fashionable venue and it is all the better for it.  Woodhouse is a scar in name only; give it a chance you may find beauty in the green and the grey.


One day at Woodhouse Scar from Climbing Beta on Vimeo.

Monsters

Days are short, nights are long and dark. Mists mask the moors. A chill stalks the land as the long winter months spread out before us. Hope fades as successive weekends are devoured by dampness. Fear eats away at the soul: fear of inaction, fear of projects unfinished and slopers untamed.  We seek sanctuary indoors under the halogen lights.  We look for salvation under the board and grasp campus rungs in an attempt to ward off inaction, failure and weakness.  Monstrous storms stalk the land as we scurry to the soft landings, friendly holds and comforting coffee of the wall; unaware of the dangers that lie within and the peril we place ourselves in!

At the outset a visit to the wall is a simple, innocent affair; one that involves cleansing exercise and structure, mediated by a steadily controlled march towards the high-minded principals of betterment. Those who stand on the mats working problems laugh, share beta and work together with little malice towards a common goal. This palace of wood and plastic becomes a place to escape the pressures of life, shed the stresses of work and escape the greed that surrounds us all. However they are there; In the shadows, watching, waiting, unaware of what their actions may unleash upon the world.

My visits to the wall can be solitary. I spend much of my time on my own, locked into the discipline of routine, captivated by repetition and the strength this should bring. I disappear into a world governed by a steep angle punctuated by three holds.  Lock, glide, swing; this is the rhythm of my sessions. I should be swinging towards strength, little do I know how weak I am, how vulnerable I have become alone under the board, separated from the safety of the herd. They are there at the edge of sight, circling, ready to make a move. Their increasing influence allows danger to chill the air. It is easy to forget yourself, surrounded by fingerboards and campus rungs.

You are in their world, you have strayed onto unfamiliar territory, for this is the domain of the beast.

The monsters who stalk the wall are ordinary people like you and me, mild mannered and personable, unaware of the dark powers they posses. The Sheriff of the Hanger is a perfect example. I've known this particular beast since his late teens, and as far as I can ascertain no evidence has come to light to prove that he is anything but a thoroughly decent example of the human species. However when the evenings draw in, the air becomes chill and mists obscure reality hiding the sins of the city, The Sheriff and his accomplices- The Dark Knight and The D Master can, in one simple action, steal souls, devour ambition, institute apathy and leave the soft tissues of all who see them torn and ripped beyond repair.

I once witnessed The Sheriff's dark energies with my own eyes, and am lucky to be here telling this tale! I was scarred by these events; sleep evades me now and when I do slumber my dreams are dark, haunted by beings that do not conform to the natural laws that govern our universe. I was stood under the campus board at The Hanger, intoxicated by caffeine and sugar, watching specks of chalk dance in the halogen beams that illuminate the movement and determination which characterise this corner of the wall. Others were trying to engage me however their words were broken by my metronomic movements on the campus rungs. At this point The Sheriff materialised on the mat - he jumped up and caught a small campus rung with one hand, without matching he slowly pulled through and caught a rung with his other hand somewhere in the far distant future! This awesome display of one-arm, static power sucked all of the oxygen from the lungs of those who observed it! We were struck dumb; The Sheriff strode away as if nothing special had happened! We the witnesses were left in a reality where only two paths were now possible: 1. Give up trying; descend into a pit of apathy knowing that such strength will always be beyond our capabilities or 2. Be inspired to repeat what was performed on the rungs in front of us, however this leads inevitably to torn tendons, misery and disappointment broken by only the occasional, brief sniff of small victory. Both of these paths are dark, both eventually lead to desolation. The Sheriff would never understand the dark seeds his actions planted in our desperate souls;  this is the nature of the beast's power, it is unconsciously possessed and indiscriminantly expressed in ways that will encourage and stymie in equal measure. 



Only one of the three Beasts shown here is fictional.

All walls are inhabited by their own winter beasts, there shifting in the shadows, ready to perform amazing feats that you can only dream of.  The beasts are haunted by their own demons, their climbing lives are harried by greater beasts that they can only dream of matching.  The Knight, Sheriff and The Master can often be heard whispering in distant corners of The Hanger about strange, almost voodoo-like acts performed by titans, relayed to them on dancing, digital screens.  The same excitement, fear and dread exists in the beasts' eyes when they talk of the monsters that stalk the shadows of their world.  We are all caught in a cycle of expectation, disappointment, ambition, apathy, fear, strength, injury and failure. As the winds howl outside and we find ourselves in an inescapable, dark labyrinth of training, our beasts will hunt, haunt and sometimes engulf us.  However there is hope, a glimmer on the horizon, something that may save us from the inevitable march towards tendonitis and the toll it will take. Spring will come,  light and warmth will break across the land melting the ice and snow, animating the lands around us, leading all out again to real rock, to the sancuary of silica holds, beyond the dark power of the beast and the dualistic world of destruction  and dismay that it creates.