Staycation

Weight: 61.5 kg (for you euros out there)
Bottles of Pepsi Max: 56
Finger Tendon Integrity (FTI): 0.72

This was a mistake. 

Jules and I huddled together in our tent for warmth as the gales drilled the rain sideways. Earlier still we had gazed into the hollow eyes of the only other team fool enough to stick it out on the Catwalk. And, before that, a text from Toby - "If you're heading to Malham, turn round now". Not an auspicious start to our 2 weeks holiday in the Dales. The following morning revealed the full extent of the damage; Malham had soaked up the rain like a sponge and sulked with a black face at the head of the dale. In the pub we checked flight prices, EU breakdown cover. Too expensive. Time for plan C. We packed the sodden tent and went home. 

Take 2: LPT. Different crag, same scenes. We try to press ourselves into the cliff face to escape the showers and icy wind that is howling round the bay. If we could summon the energy to look up it would be clear that Welsh climbers are a hardier lot than their Yorkshire counterparts. Every dry route is adorned with a suffering climber. It's too much for us, so we head back upstairs to the relative shelter of Parisella's Cave. Between the wet streaks are some damp holds, and we manage to warm up for the first time in several days. I get some nice ticks by performing extended hikes from one random point to another. Apparently, this passes for a boulder problem in the cave*. It's clear that my strength and fitness is on the up! Later on, Caff emerges from LPT to show us what real men are capable of - quietly confirming he despatched his 8c+ project despite the damp holds and arctic weather. We head to the Bangor Travelodge for some sleep, then bang out another Parisella's session the next day. It is wetter. We go home again. 

This holiday is becoming a farce. It's clear that something radical needs to be done. But what? We look at buying a house in Spain, or giving up climbing, but in the end we decide to go Trad climbing. Once we've managed to find our rack we drive down to Pembroke and our punt pays off - we pass the Gower to emerge blinking into the Sunlight. The strange warmth of the Sun on our faces is like the best food or drink I've ever had - enthusiasm and energy floods back into me as we sit in the tent, waiting to go climbing. 

However.

I'd forgotten I'm the worse trad climber in Britain. I kick off the weekend with an attempt to romp up the classic "Get Some In". My body doesn't quite know how to behave. I try to dance lightly up the rock but my arms are locked rigid and my hips are fused by nervous tension. If this is dancing, I'm listening to Kraftwerk. In the mistaken belief that I can banish my fear by sacrificing my wires to the crag, I empty my rack into the cliff. Nut after nut vanishes into the depths. Unsurprisingly I become pumped, and climb down to the ground to stare meaningfully out to sea until the pain subsides. Then I repeat the whole shameful exercise, only to run out of wires entirely shortly before the crux. Any resolve I have disappears with my last wire, and I lower to the ground. 

Jules staring meaningfully out to sea. This is what Pembroke is all about.

Thankfully, the brilliant thing about trad climbing is that it's brilliant. So I spend the next few days climbing classic E1s and E2s in the sun, and remembering how gear works, and what ice cream tastes like. Jules outdoes herself. She used to have the worst trad-sport differential imaginable; failing on VS in the same month as climbing 8b. This weekend she takes it all in her stride and leads her hardest trad routes in all environments, multi-pitch, tidal - you name it. By the end of the weekend we are emptying our racks into routes of the same difficulty, so she's officially better than me now, since my sport onsight grade is higher. It's the best bank holiday weekend in ages, and ages and ages. But you can't just spend all your time having fun, can you? And Malham must be dry by now. So we drive north with tanned faces and smiles that run deep.

Enjoying the Malham sun in our massive tent

Malham is dry. And hotter than Venus. A cruel twist of fate - the heat we prayed for a week ago has undone us. But heat at Malham is only an issue for those without patience. We drink coffee and lie in; waiting for the sun to drift away from our projects. Some mornings we enjoy our newly discovered love of trad by sampling the crusty classics on the right wing. The evenings are reserved for Rainshadow efforts. It is going well; I feel strong on the crux, and easily better my best links from last year. 

Malham in the evening sun. Ellis-Butler Barker finds out that Bat Route is longer than Anstey's Cove

When we were living through the ice-age at LPT, Caff and I had been chatting about Rainshadow. He said he'd be red-pointing if he'd done the links I had. The thought squatted in my mind like a toad. So when Saturday came and the mercury dropped I squeaked my boots and set off from the ground for the first time...

...and promptly fell off. 

Actually, I did alright. There are two really hard moves on the crux - an optimistic lunge for a tiny RH pinch on the lip of the roof, and the following snatch to a much wider pinch above. I managed the first hard move, and fell of the second. In theory only one hard move lies between me and a chance to break onto the easier upper wall. However, progress towards that move can be measured in a million tiny increments. On my first RP I had about 500,000 tiny increments to make up. My second and third RPs were much worse - I barely managed the first hard move at all.

But we're away! I am officially on RP. I'm also starting to lose finger tendon integrity (FTI) on the crucial finger, so attempts are going to have to be few and far between, and I'll try and make them count. Because if that lanky clown Barrows can climb 9a, then anyone can...



*only kidding Parisella's. I love you really.