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.

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 Sense of Adventure.



Perfect Grit conditions, where the adventure begins.

I’ve been looking through old climbing magazines lately and have felt a tinge of nostalgia.  The disappearance of magazines such as, “On the Edge” and “Friction” have definitely left a hole in the scene.  These publications lived their lives on the cutting edge, they hung out with the elite and told us tales that would frustrate and inspire in equal measure.  In the mid 2000’s a few words and a glossy picture could send me scurrying to the far flung corners of the UK to try the new and exciting.  Distance and fuel costs were never a consideration when planning a trip; miles were consumed greedily and the collective carbon footprints of those imprisoned in my car swelled unsustainably, driven by an insatiable appetite for discovery and adventure.  This glut of experience had to come to an end eventually.  Higher fuel prices, guilt and commitments have led my bouldering horizons to edge a little closer to home.  I have traded adventure for focus, distance for difficulty; projects have pulled me along when it was once the joy of travel. This approach is better for the planet and my pocket, however I do feel that I have lost something; constant rounds of projecting can leave you feeling a little stale.

A recent invitation lead me to somewhere new, I had read about this venue and been impressed by pictures of it, but didn’t really had the drive to visit. It took a few well-chosen words from Fatneck to motivate me.   He got me to change my plans and choose to do something a little more adventurous than the usual lock, pull and fail that had become a weekend ritual over the last few months.  It started with an innocent enquiry about what he was up to that Sunday, he texted and simply stated that he would be going to Hunter's Stones with his wife.  That’s all it took.  I do understand that this wasn’t an invitation however it seemed to act as some kind of spark; all I needed was for somebody else to take the first step and I was off - fizzing.  I quickly texted back stating that I would meet him there!  It was at this point that my adventure genes, the part of my character that simply didn’t care about cost, pollution and consequences which had lain dormant, hidden, started to wake and kick start the same frenetic frenzy that once characterised my weekend climbing trips.  Yes I was going to Hunter's Stones.  No, I didn’t know where it was but I was going to try and find it any way!!  Frantic web searches and the judicious use of Google maps would get me close enough, the rest was up to fate. 

Sam sending a 7a at Norwood

Sometimes flying blind really is the best way to travel, making it up as you go along makes you pay attention.  In this state a drive along well-worn roads will lead to multiple discoveries that had previously escaped you.  A good example is the proximity of Halifax to Liverpool! I honestly thought it was hidden deep in the Yorkshire moorland; however it is so close to the border of the red rose county that you can almost taste the Lancastrian vapours that flow over Saddleworth Moor.  Another discovery on my path to nowhere was the Masala Fishery in Bradford (this could be my version of Nirvana – spicy fish and chips). Finally on the sinuous roads of West Yorkshire I came to realise that discovery is necessarily a product of loss! Guess what, I was very lost.

I didn’t find the parking.  I knew I was close, but I couldn’t see any landmarks. There was a trig point and a pylon to guide the way, all I could see was a plantation of pines.  I parked at the edge of a forest, took a deep breath and headed in the direction I thought might yield the best return. I have a beard you see -  like all the best adventurers. I’m no stranger to mud.  I could find my way (or so my Y chromosomes were telling me), no need to ask anyone.  I could live out my outdoorsman fantasies as I went. The dog was in his element as he stalked along forgotten paths discovering bridleways, horses, ramblers, paintball camps, and eventually some boulders. 

Fatneck feeling some vibrations on Wavelength

We had arrived!!

It was eerily silent.  Where was Fatneck? Where was the famous Hunters Roof?  Why were the boulders so small? Where had my ego led me? My sense of adventure disappeared and I just felt a little sad and alone.  It was time to drop the pretence; I’m no man of the wild!!  Like the soft city gentleman I truly have become in my thirties I reached for my mobile phone.  My beard morphed from adventurer’s weather proofing back to hipster chin apparel.  I rang Fatneck.  He gave me instructions, he gave me tips, it didn’t help!!  Eventually he guided me in by bellowing my name (he sounded a bit like a musky bull attracting a mate).  Other countryside users looked scared, the dog looked happy to be saved from a directionless future; I was more than faintly embarrassed.

I may have had my initial enthusiasm blunted slightly that day on the way to Hunter's Stones, however by the end play I had redoubled my desire for adventure, getting lost, being found and eventually having an experience that may have been overlooked in search of numbers.  Hunter's Stones and the neighbouring Norwood were great venues made up of free-standing, naturally sculpted Yorkshire grit, something I had almost forgotten about when questing on the small crimps of the white stuff!!  I’ll accept that grit climbing can be a bit luck-based, but it wasn’t the moves that got my juices flowing that day, it was the devil may care, see what might happen approach to a climbing session.  There may not be much inspiration in climbing magazines nowadays, however instead of stopping the quest we should quest even harder and further for the new and exciting.  Numbers and projects have their place, but there’s nothing quite like getting lost to remind you what’s there to be found.

Pictures from the Huthwaite and McShane collections.  Thanks again to Sam for the video work!