New from old.

New guide and a new attitude - could be a game changer!

It's always exciting when a new guide materialises marshalling the resources of a particular area; be it virtual or print copy, a buzz will always ripple through a community of climbers when a new tome arrives.  I was particularly excited as I leafed through a copy of the Lancashire Bouldering guide. I must admit I was searching for something as I flicked through the pages of the book for the first time; something that added a certain nervous energy to my rabid page-turning. There was a good chance that a picture I had taken was in this shiny new book and, after a feverish couple of minutes, there it was: a photo of Fatneck dancing across a low roof in the dappled light of an early summer evening.  I texted him instantly and announced that he was now 'Mr Parbold', an accolade that could sit proudly on his metaphorical mantelpiece next to the picture of him in the Merseyside Sandstone Guide that places the honour of being 'Mr Breck Quarry, Wallasey' on his powerful shoulders. Now, it would be hard for most to handle the responsibility of visually representing these quarries to the climbing masses, however Fatneck, in his usual modest fashion, took it all in his stride summing up the enormity of his feat with the following well-chosen words, "Fatneck- the face of choss''. I feel a career in politics or diplomatic relations awaits the great man.




I've been to some of the Lancashire quarries in the past.  I visited the Wiltons at the start of my climbing career in a previous trad incarnation. A trip to Brownstones resulted in me running back to Merseyside with my tail well and truly between my legs muttering inanely about no holds and hard grades.  These two experiences led me to dismiss most of Lancashire as a potential playground in favour of the well publicised areas surrounding Leeds, Bradford and Silverdale.  I fell into a mindset that the Lancashire quarries were technical, made mostly of flat walls dripping with old school boulder problems inaccessible to a climber like me who simply drags his feet behind him as his arms windmill wildly and ineffectively through steep terrain.  I simply closed my mind to the potential on my doorstep in the Pennines.

When I heard that a guide was coming it piqued my interest; I sought out videos and investigated what had been going on.  I must admit, as good as the media was, it didn't really change my mind.  Age can be a terrible thing: it can rob you of the innate optimism that drives the desire to give things a go, you can become blinkered, caught on a path of projects and progression, devoid of excitement and adventure.  So rather than investigating the quarries and moors of Lancashire I sought adventure in the familiar and found my climbing horizons edging closer to me rather than stretching out indefinitely.




The guide arrived and on first flick I hung on to the belief that this publication would do little to change my default direction of travel. But I didn't put it down; I kept flicking - going over and over the pictures, topos and descriptions.  The longer I looked the greater my sense of awakening and the deeper the realisation that I had been wrong all these years. There is a massive playground out there in the boulder fields and quarries of Lancashire and I'm not too old to go out and play in them, I just need to regress back to my childhood self and reach that state where climbing is done for enjoyment rather than through some feeling of necessity .  The acid test for the guide however would always be visiting venues and I'm glad to say a visit to a wet Stony Edge and Sladen Roof didn't do anything to curb my new-found enthusiasm. I didn't really climb anything but the potential of these venues was clear to see; the final wisp of the mists that have clouded my opinion of Lancashire evaporated, never to return again!

Now I don't want this post to seem like one long advert for a new guide, to draw that conclusion would miss the point.  This guide acts simply as a vehicle, a porthole to a new attitude and as such a whole new area to explore.  For all of those operating in the North West and Merseyside this new book opens up so much potential less than an hour from the front door.  Venues full of slopers, crimps, roofs, walls and mantles await your inspection and effort.  Yes there will be some chossy lines, but choss exists everywhere-  the secret is not to let the choss fill your perceptive filters. Don't cut yourself off from hours of fun because of a few minutes spent on a poor line.  I for one will be spending my winter in Lancashire, guide in hand, captain of my own ship, setting forth on a tide of new lines and the spirit of adventure.

If you want to find out more about the Lancs Bouldering guide you will find all you need to know here.

Big thanks to R Man for letting me use his vids in this post.

Yet Another Indian Summer.

I have a hankering for grit. I want to feel its rasping grains exfoliate the callus built up on my tips over a summer of crimping.  I want to slap slopes, hang off my bones rather than pull with my muscles.  Most importantly I want to return home from a day's bouldering with the skin of my forearms and torso on fire- abraded by the silica grains that coalesce into gargoyle-like shapes on the tops of the Pennine moors, however it's too hot! August and its faint wet whiff of a coming winter lulled me into a belief system founded upon the central theory that the Grit would come early this year, Alas, just like the follower of many a modern-day cult, I was simply wrong- I was lucky to escape with both my skin and my long-held faith in this wonderful, luck-based, rocky medium intact!

So, just as in July, Limestone has been the order of the day.  Pulling rather than palming, standing on distinct edges rather than knowing that my foot will stick to any part of my boulder problem of desire.  On the other hand it's dry and not going out on a sunny day would only allow deep, chronic injuries to heal - and what boulderer in their right mind would want to entertain such nonsense?

It has been hard to stay motivated when indulging in one rock type exclusively.  Many venues have been visited to engender some sense of variety in my climbing life: Ogmore, Dinas, Ruthin, Waton, Woodwell, Fairy Steps, the Pill box and The Cave have all taken a turn and all are still on the radar as the sun continues to shine.

If you feel jaded on your own personal limestone journey of projects and pulling here are some videos from Sam to keep you going.  Don't worry, the grit will be here soon and we will all be able to complain in chorus about bloody technical sequences........ and all will be good with the world.

The first video features Ruthin, a crag close to my own heart; a brilliant after-work venue with a good spread of grades from V2 to V8.  The video itself features a real 'misery of clowns', and the legend which is Fatneck. You can read more about Ruthin here and here.



Ruthin Escarpment Bouldering - North Wales from Climbing Beta on Vimeo.

The second video is from Woodwell, one of the finest Limestone craglets in the country; famed for its steepness, marred slightly by its rules.  The video has a slight caveat attached: one of the problems featured, "Kiss of the Dragon", was not ascended as per regulation, so please don't think this is the beta needed for an easy V8 tick.  The problem starts to the right of the crack and involves a long, stiff pull to get to the small crimps used in the vid.



Woodwell Bouldering from Climbing Beta on Vimeo.

So go and grunt your way across all the crimps limestone has to offer.  You'll be dragging your skin across something friction-full soon enough.

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.

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.

A Festive Frodsham Fix.

I have finally bucked the winter trend of warming up and getting chased back to the car by horizontal precipitation.  For the first time in four outings I have managed to get a full and satisfying session on a silica-rich, natural climbing medium. Where did I find a location that would be kind and cater for my complex climbing needs? Well, Frodsham of course; a feast of dry holds in the festive season.

I always seem to climb at Frodsham between Christmas and New Year. A session on the familiar holds that decorate Frodsham's buttresses can be a therapeutic experience, helping a climber to work through the angst developed at dinner in the festive season. Once all those chocolates have been digested and a spare tyre deposited, desperation and disappointment kicks in. You ask yourself how this could have happened, knowing full well that basic gluttony was the root cause. You feel heavy, slow, ambitions blunted by the thought that you will have to try twice as hard to lift all that lard up the project you had previously been training for. This is where Frodsham soothes. Working your way along its crimps and slopers helps to convince that all is not lost, you can still pull down, send the problems you did before gluttony blinded you, and even aspire to great things in the year to come. Convinced that the worst of the seasonal excesses are behind you, the walk down the hill from Frodsham's self-help circuit can be a positive affair! But don't worry New Year's Eve will knock that out of you.





Frodsham, like other venues in Merseyside, lends itself well to eliminate climbing, enabling the climber to progressively work their way up the difficulty scale, building confidence in a time of physical excess and mental frailty. If you want to find out more about Frodsham and what it has to offer then read my previous post on its majestic buttresses here. 

Thanks again to Sam for the video!

Pex Problem of the Week #9.

Sam throwing shapes on Pisa Wall.

Not seen one of these for a while have you? (If you've never seen one before, the links to the previous Pex Problems of the Week can be seen below).  It's been some time, so why now I hear you say. Pex Problem of the Week was meant to help prepare you for the grit season, get you ready for the crimps and slopers that sit there just waiting for attention up on the moors. Well it is grit season and we did try to get out on the moors, however it's November and we live in Britain which means the best intentions often lead to naught. The forecast was set fair and the rock was dry but the mist and drizzle rolled menacingly up the Calder valley leaving Pex the only outdoor option on a short winter's day. Pex, and more specifically Pisa Wall at Pex, is a perfect quick hit in the winter; it never gets wet and there is plenty to get on with if you are happy to be creative. This problem of the week is something I came up with to spice up a session that should have been on grit.

Idiotic Man V7.

Remember you will need to refer to pages 178 and 179 of the Cheshire and Merseyside Sandstone guide and the eliminates diagram therein for the holds used in this problem. Essentially this is a stretchy sit into a harder version of Silly Boys Direct. Contrived difficulty? Well yes - it is an eliminate after all, and it will get you strong! Start sitting with both hands on hold number 2, left foot in a deep, low pock mark and right foot on a smeary dink. Drop your left knee and reach up with your left to hold 7. Now move your feet and body weight up and left, flick the right hand up, nestle a three finger stack in hold 21 (the top of the Vitalite constellation of holds) and hold it like a gaston. Move your left foot up to hold 1, lean back, make space and swap feet, bury your left foot into hold 6 and start to rock over. This move will feel like an attempt at contortion (your left knee will feel like it is wrapped around your left ear) however, as you move up and left with you weight being held up by the tension created between you right hand and left foot, it will start to make sense. All that is left to do is go for that bucket in the break with your left hand, match, and victory is yours! Pex saves you yet again from those drizzle-infested moors.

The video shows two problems: the first is the Idiotic Man, the second is Small Snick Sit Down which was Pex Problem of the week #5.



Thanks to Sam from downstairs for the video!!!!

If you are up for following the nine step path of Pisa wall power then the links to the first eight problems can be found below:

Week 1
Week 2
Week 3
Week 4
Week 5
Week 6
Week 7
Week 8

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 Alchemist

Fatneck on the hunt for quality at Parbold

We have been on a quest.  We have purged ourselves of the familiar, forsaken the bouldering fleshpots littered with test pieces that can build a reputation or crush an ego with one slip of a foot.  We have journeyed both west and east from our fair, maritime city on the Mersey, followed sedimentary seams through sand and grit in search of something, something so rare that even to speak its name would make it disappear.  Our merry band have forsaken the luxuries of guides, descriptions, cleaned lines and stars and replaced them with a twilight world. The realm we now move through was once created by the hand of man, but is no longer part of his ambition; instead it has been reclaimed by the elements, earth, air, fire and water. The chemistry of nature dominates these spaces. Holes cut deep in the ground by the desires of industry- now kingdoms of moss and mud.  Lichens keep watch over these rippled quarried walls, and keep us from what we seek.



The Heath, Runcorn

We are not alone in these forgotten spaces, we share them with spectral beings, the youth that loom large in the twilight gloom.  Disenfranchised by daylight, diminished by darkness, their rituals and rights of initiation seek to harness the elements for their own fulfilment   They leap from the quarry walls during the summer months, draw power from the air and are reborn in the watery depths below- emboldened, indestructible heroes of a generation taught not to care.  Fire is the element prized above all else, it illuminates their lives, and destroys our desires with effortless ease!  The blackened, brittle walls demonstrate that we will never be alone - soot and sorrow will always blight our adventures through this twilight world. Our inquisitive eyes scan these walls in the hope we will find that rarefied thing that we seek, more often than not lamenting what could have been.

Andy Jones demonstrating Fatneck's finest creation 

What do we seek?  What could be so precious that it leads grown men to the margins, to a dappled world filled with broken glass and beings decorated with three stripes.  Like Ancient alchemists we seek perfection amongst the elemental forces, our spiritual and physical journey is one of discovery, to unearth the impossible: new amongst the old, quality in crap, first ascents in the subtextural landscapes created by a guide just written. The Alchemists attempted to turn base metals into the perfect, precious metals of gold and silver; in the same way we have attempted to find the aesthetic amongst the ugly, sport amongst the solidified silts.  Our dialectical journey has had us tread a knife edge, teetering along the margins of good and evil.  Some say you cannot polish a turd, it will simply smear in your hands, others know that a carbon rich material subjected to the intense forces of heat and pressure can create diamonds.   The proto chemists of the past did not achieve their aim of a life everlasting, or the extraordinary transformation of mundane materials, could we, however, discover a diamond in the rough??

Alec the Alchemist climbing the Arete that now bares his name (V7 sds V8)

Parbold and Runcorn both sport quarried hills that entertain the shady and the shy, shielding them  from the the glare of society.  Both quarries have built towns, neither have built reputations that might lure the boulderer to their muddied walls and yet, magnetised by their mystery, we have been drawn like moths by their shadowy light.  We have poured scorn on what they have offered, rock has turned to dust by the action of our eager limbs, our desires have been smeared by disappointment, and yet our quest continued, redoubled and intensified until out of the sand,lichen and slime gems began to crystallise and gleam in the gloom. One amongst us has taken on the the mantle of creator he has brought to life lines of movement that transcend what surrounds them.  He has turned the base elements of nature into something that will live on in the future pages of guides and the limitless landscapes of the information age.  For now he is the alchemist.

Jay Dog crimping hard on the Heath.

So our journey seemed to have come to an end.  Some have been bruised, battered by the experience. Blood has been shed and the twilight worlds through which we tiptoed have been tamed, claimed back for now from those who seek to destroy it through ignorance.  However it is naïve to think that we can ever stop travelling on this journey of discovery- the achievements of The Alchemist are just a way marker in the sandstone pointing to what can be created  through the intense scrutiny of our finite local resources.  A message from the man who looked like Marx and answers to the name 'Pop' has shown us the way to what comes next.  There is still sandstone in the suburbs, there are still gems to be found, we all have the ability to turn lead into gold, we can all be Alchemists if we journey long enough along the sedimentary seam of our desires.

 

Portrait of a punter!!