Bristol Blog

Easter Weekend

2010-04-05T12:22:00.000-07:00

A view of Greystones, Sheffield

A Swan at Rubicon Wall

Some King Cups at Cressbrook

Nige attempting Beau Geste E6 6c, Froggatt

A Reminisce

2010-04-05T10:28:00.000-07:00

Hot Tin Roof on the Catstone at Bosley Cloud. It’s a majestic piece of Staffordshire esoterica which can be found half a mile inside Cheshire.

It was going to be a daunting solo. It had been a big deal to lead. And the precarious crux, twelve metres above a rock, was protected by good cams.

Waking at six o’clock there was no time to dither. It had started as whimsy and within hours had become my entire purpose. Getting dressed quickly but quietly, without waking my parents and their questions, I escaped down the stairs. A banana and a bottle of water were put in my bag alongside my boots and chalk bag. A minimal inventory.

Excitement and doubt were my companions as I set off. Pedalling and thinking. It was a cloudy morning. Spring was well under way and it was mild. Despite the early hour the atmosphere was light. The sun was obscured by milky cloud, but you could tell it was already high in the sky.

A slight wind was invigorating and comforting. Sweaty fingertips could make this a lot more harrowing than it needed to be. A good breeze should keep them dry enough for the task in hand.

Making my way along the canal towpath, I meditated on how familiar this journey had become. Bitten by the climbing bug, and lucky enough to be within a cycle ride of decent rock, few chances to climb were wasted.

However this was the first jaunt that had taken place before school. The satisfaction of achievement was buoying my already adrenalin-fuelled mood. I thought about my school friends still in bed. Dreaming of scooters and girls.

After a mile I turned off the canal. The lane that crossed the bridge and passed the sleeping farm soon kicked into a climb. Cool temperatures made it easy this morning. Keenness helped too.

It was nice to do the climb alone. I had been getting sick of trailing my friend’s racing bike up this hill. The sight of him serenely gliding up, opening up the gap between himself and my fat tyres had become a lowlight of our trips out. Today, with nothing going faster than me, and a soloists burden on my back, it was almost a pleasure.

Effortlessly coasting along the canal had left plenty of room for uncertainty. The relentless and physical slog narrowed my mind and left less room for doubt.

And besides, I’d told my friend what my plan was the previous evening. Still buzzing from leading my first E1, the thought occurred to solo it the following morning. He said I wouldn’t dare do it.

After leaving my bike in the usual hiding place my nerves stepped up a gear. It was half an hour since I’d left the house and the world still seemed deathly quiet. As the path came out of the woodland up onto the spine of the hill the Cheshire Plain came into view. Utterly still. The butterflies in my stomach seemed at odds with the the rest of the slumbering world.

The view had led to an odd little thought. The thought that it might be the last time I see it. The adventure was becoming all too real in my mind. Doubt was on the verge of toppling the whole adventure. Why was I here? I could still be in bed. Safe and warm.

It felt like I had gone too far to back out now. I was scolding myself. I thought about lying, saying I’d done it anyway. No. What’s the point? Thoughts of how easy it felt last night were battling against the fear.

Approaching the route from above, I was surprised to see my chalk from the previous evening still there when I looked down. I found it comforting, that my past self would guide me through the crux. A feeling washed over me, telling me it was back on. I felt good again. I got my water out and took a sip. My mouth had become very dry.

With my boots on and chalk bag round my waist, I realised I had forgotten a beer towel to dry my feet at the bottom. I headed down anyway. To my relief the ground was bone dry. And waiting at the bottom was my beer towel.

This reminder of how recently I had been here, how recently I had cruised the route, was further encouragement. I needed it. My heart was beating furiously. Mixed up. Lonely. Driven. Hesitant. Excited. Shitting it.

I stepped onto the slab. The first few moves were easy. The bottom third was dirty and I sporadically cleaned my shoes on my trouser legs. My mind was calmer now. Focused on the task in hand. Just follow the chalk. Whatever you do just don’t let go and you’ll be all right. First rule of climbing and all that.

A third of the way up the real climbing started. Much to my surprise I was enjoying it. As I gained height my knotted stomach was untangling itself. This was thrilling. Liberating. Controlled. Even moving past the gear placements without putting something in didn’t faze me. I felt like Jerry.

The crux section passed by without me noticing. Arriving at the ledge which marked the end of the difficulties my awareness snapped back to a wider reality. The last two minutes had seemed timeless. Just me and the pockets. Vivid yet forgotten.

Now I had to force myself to concentrate again. Two more moves to go… And I was there. Back at the top it was a different place to the oppressive rostrum of a few minutes ago. Absolute euphoria engulfed me. I had got away with it. It felt like my extreme adventures had started. And it was still only ten past seven in the morning.

Thoughts of the real world started to come back. School, breakfast, girls and scooters.

I took one last look at the view. The clouds were letting a little more light into the world as the sun rose further behind them. It looked glorious. I congratulated myself for being here before turning to walk back to the bike. I broke into a run.

America - The Rest

2009-05-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

Despite one or two polite yet half hearted requests, I've decided I can't really be ringed to type out the rest of my trip day by day, so I'll summarise the remaining three weeks thus:

Spent a bit more time in Bishop. Highlights included Soul Slinger, High Plains Drifter Drone Militia, Jedi Mind Tricks and Atari (which isn't as piss as it looks).
Went back to San Francisco for a day or two. Took a few more photos and saw lots of sea lions.
Got a lift to the Valley (Yosemite). Wow etc. Camp 4 - good scene. Stole lots of food from the lodge and buffet hall. Saw a couple of bears. Bouldered a lot in Camp 4. Saw El Cap. Wow etc. Met lots of nice people. Did Midnight Lightning. Get in! etc. Met Ron Kauk. He seemed alright, although he'd never heard of the Roaches. Unbelievable. What did he and Jerry talk about ffs? Left on a bus.
San Francisco for another two days. Bouldered at Mickey's Beach like Chris Sharma off of Rampage. I wore shoes though, like a square. It was quite good. Flew home.

And there we have it. From that, I guess it probably feels like you were there with me. So I'll leave you to meditate on some of the choicest memories of what was a wonderful trip.

Day 7

2009-05-06T05:17:00.000-07:00

Woke early after spending a reasonably comfortable night stretched out on the Chevrolet's passenger seat. Drove into town to pick up some supplies. Found the meat shop Si was banging on about . Pastrami subs for $1.25. The only genuinely cheap food in America so far. Bought seven of the fuckers. Also bought some reduced confections and some horrendously priced apples.

Back up to Buttermilks. Could only get God botherers on the radio. Parked up. Ate sandwich. Needed a shit. No paper. Disappeared into the desert with the first and last pages of Bill Bryson's Notes from a Big Country. Uncomfortable wipe.

Feeling light, went to the Grandma Peabody. Did Essential Peabody the V0 to the top, which was then reversed. Lovely. Also did Go Granny, Go Right V5 and North Face V2 which was amazing, if a tad spooky. Getting hot so went and chilled by the car, but not before being shut down by Roadside Highball V3 on the way.

Sunbathed with Astrid and Philipp and met a chap called Dave from Arkansas. When it cooled, Dave and I went to do Saigon. With some moral support the problem was 'sent' without delay. Also did two brilliant easy highballs on the wall to its right.

Then did Pope's Prow. Topping out a la Spidey in West Coast Gimps. Magic.

Tried Soul Slinger V9 briefly but bad skin and exhaustion stopped play. Went and watched Philipp try the Buttermilker V13 in the dark.

Looked so good. Wished I was a V12 beast.

Back at the Hotel Chevrolet, I ate two more sandwiches then hit the sack.

Day 6

2009-05-06T04:52:00.000-07:00

Left Oakland in the middle of the night. About 5.55am to be precise. Drove to Bishop. Took seven and a half hours. Via Sacramento, Lake Tahoe, Carson City, Mono Lake and a fair few Hicksville, USAs. Absolutely lovely drive. Not half as boring/lonely as I'd feared. Plenty of interesting stuff to occupy one's mind. Only cost about $30 in fuel as well. Handsome.

On arrival, bought a load of bagels and water before sacking it to the Buttermilks. Hot but OK in the shade. Started on the beautiful Green Wall. Did the V0 arete, Green Wall Essential V2 and Green Wall Center (sic) V6. All well brown.

Then went and did Cave Route V6, Robinson's Rubber Test V0, Pain Grain V5 and the sit to Pain Grain V7. Loving it, but the skin's already sore. Boo fucking hoo.

Mooched over to the Tut boulder whereupon I climbed King Tut and Funky Tut V3. Met some aloof Bishop locals. Then moved on.

Crushed Ironman traverse first go. Regadez moi. Then wasted a shedload more skin on a problem called Easy Grit V5, before finally not doing it. Clapped eyes on Stained Glass. Amazing looking problem.

Tried Saigon V6. Backed off. Here's a self timer shot of an attempt.

Then tried Pope's Prow V6. Backed off. Finished off with a lovely solo, The Hunk V2.

Drove up Buttermilk Road looking for camping. Scratched car on flora. Drove back down Buttermilk Road. Scratched other side of car. Found a campfire on the go. Surrounded no less by Seth (Allred) and Astrid and Philipp. All of whom I met in Magic Grades in 2005. Fancy that.

PS. Thanks must go to Si's good friend Will (proprietor of the Dungeon, Berkeley's premier training facility AND well worth travelling to) for the loan of the pads and guide. Holler.

Day 5

2009-05-04T10:20:00.000-07:00

Check out of hostel early and go to pick up car. It's a Chevrolet. And fucking massive.

Sack it over the Bay Bridge to Oakland. Thankfully driving in San Francisco isn't too bad. Reach Si and Jackie's without incident.

Go shopping with Si and Robin, their (sort of) landlady. Trader Joes = Aldi. Wholefoods Market = Waitrose. They go to the latter for their 'bits.'

Off to Mortar Rock with Si and Will, their (sort of) landlord. Warm up on a board in Berkeley called the Dungeon. It's OK, but probably not worth travelling 5,000 miles for.

Mortar Rock is steep, sharp and suburban. And hard. And also not worth travelling 5,000 miles for. This opinion could be because I fail on pretty much everything I try. Including a V9, a V8, a V6 and a V5. Bo.

Si is trying a V12 of Greg Loh's called Chinese Connection. Until I check the guide I think he's talking about Greg Lowe, backpack innovator and apparent V12 beast. Si does OK but no cigar this time.

Eat a sausage and some courgette (referred to in these parts as zucchini) back at Si's. Try to watch Nalle crushing Rockalnds, Switzerland and Font into piles of dust. Can't stay awake and nod off. But not before Jackie goes on a (rather clumsy) rampage with an antique folding screen. Oh dear.

Day 4

2009-05-04T10:12:00.000-07:00

Woke up on the floor of a flat belonging to Si's friends Joel and Maureen. They cooked me an unfeasibly spicy omelette. Felt rather awake. Lift into town. Maureen goes to work. Joel and I go to the wall. Use internet to book car. Use all my American phone credit unblocking my card. Cheers Natwest.

Get a lift to Haight to meet Jackie. Walk to the library with Jackie and my big bag. Library's shut. 'Fucking bullshit!' says Jackie. Wait 25 minutes. Library opens. Jackie joins up while I read a few Raymond Carver stories. Starbucks for lunch. Log. Jackie fucks off to work.

Book back into hostel. Check emails. Go to Union Square to read more Herzog and watch the world go by. Back to hostel via a horrendously greasy pizza. Chill in the hostel reading, talking to Dutch surfers and watching the Orlando Magic crush the Cleveland Cavaliers on the box. Early night.

Day 3

2009-04-04T08:59:00.000-07:00

Woken at seven o'clock by the American girls packing up and clearing off to Los Angeles. Went back to sleep. Woke up again at half seven wide awake. Left hostel at nine after gorging on yet more cakes.
Set off for Nob Hill, one of the plushest suburbs of San Francisco. Saw a brownstone mansion which was built by James C. Flood, who brought the railroad to the west coast. It was pretty much the only house to survive the great fire in 1906. All the rest were built from wood.
Continued through suburbia until encountering San Francisco's steepest street. Which was 31 degrees. Walked up it without stopping. Regardez moi. Along from this was the 'world's crookedest street'. Think a smaller Alpe D'Huez with manicured flowerbeds surrounding each bend.
Down to Fisherman's Wharf. Like Blackpool but hotter. Checked out a few of the piers, mainly because I remember them from Dirty Harry.
Went to Safeway. Sunbathed in a square. Read more of Herzog. Realised I was now quite sunburnt.

Went to a museum in a bank's HQ. Actually pretty good, although I left with the impression American life in the 19th Century mostly consisted of stage coach robberies.

Walked back to Haight to see if Jackie and Rachel were there. They weren't. Hung around until they came back.
Went to the opening of Rachel's boyfriend Karl (aka grafitti artist Hush)'s new gallery. Drank some complementary piss weak beer. Before going into down to drink some much much stronger beer. Shitfaced.

Day 2

2009-04-03T13:41:00.000-07:00

Awoke in the hostel. Ate a breakfast comprised entirely of cakes. Set off to buy a camera. After half an hour eventually found the camera shop. After another half an hour umming and aahing finally chose one.

Took new purchase through Chinatown. And then up to Telegraph Hill. Walked round Coit Tower.

Didn't pay $5 to go up it. Still, a handsome view of the city, bay and Golden Gate etc.
Wandered back towards town. Stopped in Washington Square. Another old 'beat' hangout, and where Joe di Maggio and Marilyn Monroe posed for wedding photos. Read a bit of Herzog and sunbathed.
Quested over a couple of big hills along Union Street. Fancy shops. Boutiques and the like. Had a coffee while Si finished work. Had an Ice Cream while Si ran late. Met Si.
Bus to Golden Gate Bridge. Walked round, under and on it. Snapping merrily away. Went to the best looking climbing 'gym' I've ever seen. Didn't climb but Si was eager for me to see it.
Wandered back through Chrissy Field. Took yet more photos.

Past Marina. Down Fillmore to Lombard.

Mel's Drive-in Diner. Suave burger. The most American place I've seen yet. A fat family even walked in as we left.

Went to meet Jackie as she finished work. Got caught short by a sudden onset of bowel movement. Had to shit behind a bush in a church. Soz God. Also had to sacrifice a sock.
Back to the hostel, where the news was broken to me that I'd be sharing with three American girls frollicking in their pyjamas. Shit.

Day 1

2009-04-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

Flight was uneventful if extremely fucking long. Watched Quantum of Solace, Burn After Reading and Vicky Christina Barcelona. All OK. Thought about Penelope Cruz for a while. Greenland and Baffin Island both looked spectacular.
Got to America. Nearly sent home straight away. Immigation phoned Si. Si confirmed I wasn't going to work for them illegally. Cast into San Francisco a free man. 'Have a good trip sir!'
Bus into town. Heard some rucksack recommendations and extreme 'free climbing' anecdotes from the yank lovechild of John Lennon and one of Spinal Tap. Let's hope they're not all like this. Got into town. Cab to see Si and Jackie. Didn't know the tipping etiquette. Didn't pay a tip. C'est la vie.
Tea with Si, Jackie and Si's sister Rachel. Greek Salad. It's fucking massive and well tasty. Pint of Stella too. Go for walk to Haight Ashbury, the birthplace of the 'beat.' It's like Affleck's Palace stretched out into one long sunny street. And full of homeless people. Sweet.
Walk back with the intention to go for a drink. Realise I've now been up for 85 hours. Sack it to the hostel. Looks like a refuge for the homeless at first sight but is actually OK. Bed is very comfortable.

Dole Days

2008-08-12T15:07:00.000-07:00

I arrived expecting the others to be there already, but was greeted by an empty car park. And a surprisingly warm January sun. Admittedly it was the end of January, but January nonetheless. So I decided to sit outside the car, taking advantage of this unseasonal bonus. Rolling a cigarette always helps to pass a few moments alone. Indeed these situations often lend themselves to taking time over the rolling process, meticulously distributing the tobacco and rolling a rounder than usual roach. The extra seconds, and undivided attention, spent on this almost loving craft, result in a much more satisfying product than a cigarette rushed together between mouthfuls of beer and conversation. After admiring it for a moment, I set fire to my work of art and sat back to wait for the others.

After ten minutes or so a red Clio approached, its 1.1 litre engine mustering a tortured high-pitched roar. The brakes were applied and it swung into the car park, coming to a standstill a few feet from where I was sitting. Perched in the boot of my car. Formal hellos were dispensed with as the four passengers had only left my company an hour beforehand. I watched as they unloaded their gear. It came as little surprise that Ryan had left his bag back at the house.

“Fucking Hell, I checked in the house an’ it weren’t there, so I thought it were in me car.”

“S’alright Ry, Just borrow boots off one of us. What size are you?” someone said.

“Between seven and a half and nine and a half.” Came Ryan’s typically vague reply.

“What the fuck! Does it change depending what day of the week it is?” An incredulous look started to appear on Nige’s face. Unfazed by this comment, Ryan continued with his request, and soon hit the jackpot. Rob had a spare pair and being an eight and a half, they were slap bang in the middle of Ryan’s unfussy size range. With everyone now having boots it would seem we were nearly ready to go.

“Eight and a half, Rob? Quite big feet for someone your size.” Nige enquired with a dubious tone to his voice, well aware of Rob’s ill-fitting rock boots.
“Yeah.”
“Guess you must have a massive dick as well!” Nige continued, laughing to himself, as any seriousness to his line of questioning evaporated. I was listening to this exchange with my back turned, and looked round just in time to see Rob’s reaction to this comment. With pursed lips and a few short, rapid nods, Rob seemed to be taking this compliment on board with no trace of irony at all. I started laughing at this, and Nige’s smutty giggling erupted into a belly laugh, which seemed to enlist Ryan, Seth and even Rob into the spontaneous mirth.

After a few moments more spent rooting round the boot of the car it appeared that we were finally ready to go. I asked Nige about the Pay & Display machine but he says don’t bother, it’s voluntary. A quick check of my car door revealed that we weren’t quite ready, so after I’d locked my car we set off.

The walk to the crag was conducted in silent single file, which gave me time to think about what I was going to do this afternoon. The previous two afternoons had been spent eroding my fingertips to the point of bleeding and I was reluctant to aggravate them again. I decided that I was going to take some photos and maybe do some easy problems, hopefully preserving some skin for later in the week.

Climbing weekends, the skin would only have time to make it to the thin stage by Sunday evening, whereby the sustained assault on it during these last two weeks of unemployment was taking its toll. Despite the discomfort at the end of my digits, this newfound keenness felt reminiscent of my carefree school days. It felt good to be a climber again.

Arriving at our chosen destination, pads and bags were set down, and conversations were struck up again as lines were inspected and holds fondled.

The place was caked in chalk, a remnant of the fine weather we’d had over the last fortnight. I left the camera for now and put my boots on and started to warm up.

I remembered a relatively easy problem from my last visit several years ago. I’d failed on that occasion to top it out, but it felt easy today. It made me keenly aware of the progression you make in gritstone basics over years of climbing on it. Despite no longer having the meteoric rise in grades that fuels your psyche during the early years of a career, I have found coming back to sites of previous defeats and winning with ease a more subtle reminder of progress.

With a couple of warm ups under our belts we soon got embroiled with some of the harder problems on offer. I spared a quick thought for my skin but couldn’t help myself, so I applied some tape to my tips as I joined in with the climbing.

“Go on beast!”

Someone, could have been any of us, was urging Rob up the rock. It had to be said that he was

looking strong today and flashed the problem in fine style. Nige and myself had already done the problem so Seth set off next. The strong American strolled up it, as if he was using a different, better, set of holds to those who had gone before him.

“Nice one Seth.” Someone remarked, although in truth it had been a formality. Next to try it was Ryan who was also expected to walk up it. However, his long slender frame, usually such an advantage to him, was this time his downfall. His knees seemed to scrape the side of his gurning face as he struggled to get his foot in the break. Eventually the tenacity of Bolton’s finest relented as his hands, ever so slowly, migrated down the slopers.

“Fuck’s sake” He muttered as he dropped off looking perplexed.

“Never mind Ry, Expect you’ll have it next go.” I smirked. It wasn’t often I flashed a problem that he didn’t, so I indulged myself and the smirk became a chuckle. Another virtue of gritstone weirdness, I thought, as I remembered failing spectacularly to keep up with him on a recent sport climbing trip round Europe. We moved onto another problem, leaving Ryan to what became a rather protracted siege. After failing on it once I decided to leave it as my tips were now in agony. I took this opportunity to have a cup of tea and another fag. Inspired by my creation earlier, and with time to kill until my brew cooled down, I tried for another example of smokeable perfection. Not so good this time, but fuck it, it gets lit, and I have my cup of tea.

City Break South Yorkshire Style

2008-07-17T14:47:00.000-07:00

The eagle-eyed of those following this blog will have noted that I'm no longer a resident of the city of steel (Sheffield), and as such, my visit at the weekend was technically a holiday

And with the drudgery associated with everyday life slowly shifting its focus to Bristol, I had a handsome time up north.

My visit coincided with two important events in the climbing calendar.
The first being the carnival of crushing that is the British Bouldering Championships (BBC), and the second being Gib's birthday. Two contrasting events it has to be said. One's a wholesome celebration of the pinnacle of achievement in British strength and power, while the other's a bouldering comp in a big fuck off tent.

The birthday was a typical Sheffield affair. Lescar then Slate Street. This once legendary party house is once again finding its feet thanks to the efforts of an enthusiastic Rob Clifton. Even Pickles, the perennial reluctant housemate, is failing to temper this man's mission to piss off his neighbours every single weekend. So mad props to him for that.

On Sunday I only hung around for a bit of the comp before the call of soloing Parker's Eliminate became too strong, and I gave the still-pissed Enigma a lift home via the mighty Hobson Moor. And then back off to Bristol for another week at the grindstone. Which as it happens, is nearly over already. Get in.

Lats Babes and Bouldering

2008-07-16T00:27:00.000-07:00

For those of you who read my first post and wondered what the hell I was on about, hopefully this will work:

http://www.snapdrive.net/files/559816/My%20Documents/LBB.pdf

Literary Hero and a New Motor

2008-07-08T14:14:00.000-07:00

Last night I met one of the major heroes of my adolescence. Irvine Welsh.
He was in Bristol signing copies of his new book Crime, so off I went to see him.
Reading Trainspotting as a 14-year-old absolutely blew me away. A lot of people, swayed by the media outrage from the usually reserved British media, decided it was an appalling work devoid of any merit and should be banished immediately, lest the Nation's youth all started injecting heroin before the credits had rolled as far as Robert Carlyle's name.
Now I won't attempt a ham-fisted review here but, suffice to say, the dark and savage humour impressed me hugely. And nearly 12 years on I've still got pristine veins in my inner elbow. Go figure.
Last night he read a passage from his new book, quite nervously I thought. But then again he's an author not an acTOR, so probably doesn't read to audiences on a day-to-day basis. I was hoping he would field some questions afterwards, but unfortunately he went straight to the book signing.
It was a bit disappointing there were no questions, but at the end of the day at least I shook the hand which created Francis Begbie.
To be honest, the best bit of the evening was shoplifting the book he signed for me. And it was called Crime. Ho ho.

In other news, I've furnished myself with a new car and will hopefully be driving it to the North of England this weekend. Is anyone going to be around for some lower grade crushing etc?

Weak Too

2008-07-03T13:17:00.000-07:00

Well I've been in Bristol nigh on a fortnight and am slowly becoming a fan of the city's environs and the climbing. Which is a Godsend because the people are arseholes.

That, of course, was a joke. The people I have met so far have been friendly, welcoming and generous as I have, looking wide-eyed and lost, attempted to adjust to my new life.

Bristol's a really nice place. It's quite astonishing how different it looks from Sheffield and northern towns. The houses tend to be flat topped and pastel coloured, and the whole place seems to have a continental air of sun and spaciousness. However I'm sure the novelty, or summer, will soon wear off.

Anyway, I appreciate most of the people who read this are climbers, so I'll get down to the nitty gritty. Crags I have visited so far are:

Cheddar - Looks like a bigger version of Stoney, climbs like a much less polished Malham. Really rather good. Crushed a couple of routes of unknown name and grade. They felt about 7aish but I really wouldn't be surprised if they were 6bs (for more grading woes see Avon).

Oxwich Bay, dans la Gower - A friend had to go to get a caution from the Swansea Police for possession of a trifling amount of MDMA so we went to the Gower (quote of the week from plod: 'Although not many people actually die from taking ecstasy, we do hear of a lot of reports of people feeling a bit sick.'). If any of you have been to Ferocity Wall at Anstey's, it's like that but much less steep and a deeper shade of orange. In fact it's almost red.

Ring Road Boulder - Decent sandstone venue just outside the city. Some really good problems here. I'd put it on a par with Bell Hagg. Unfortunately ten minutes extra driving lands you in the flat lands of South Gloucestershire, rather than Stanage. Say La Vie.

Sea Walls, Avon Gorge - This place is well brown. Doesn't look much, but I'd say it's some of the best Limestone I've climbed on. Really 3D climbing that makes you think.

Tried a good looking highball which was abslolutely desperate. The first move alone took over half an hour to work out and I left convinced it was at least V7. However a peruse of the guidebook today revealed it to be an E2 6a. Oh. Dear.

Anyway I'm shit faced so am going to stop typing.

Here's a message from my sponsor:

If any of you monkeys want to cum to the city where the streets are paved with golden opportunities you're very welcome. Talking of welcome, and overdue, a beer from Tetler would be very welcome. And overdue.

Southern correspondent clocking out.

Lats, Babes and Bouldering: A Modest Tribute

2008-06-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

'We decide that as long as we 'go hard,' it doesn't matter what we do.'

These great words come from one of the most criminally underrated minds Britain has produced in many a year. A fabulous thinker, writer and Bachar-ladderer, he single-handedly dragged Dorset climbing out of the cultural Dark Ages, to new levels of sophistication. I'm talking, of course, about Nu-Skool Portland boulderer Jimbo Kimber.

Many years ago (eight) I read the seminal bouldering article Lats, Babes and Bouldering. Easily bouldering's most quotable literary work, it has had a profound effect on me and many of my peers. The above quote alone gives an insight into the human condition which, considering its humble word count, is nothing short of astonishing.

Ever since I read it, I secretly harboured an ambition to move to the South West of England. Mainly, to see if the lifestyle of Kimber and his cronies really could rival the heady days of my Gritstone apprenticeship. It certainly sounded like it could.

Two weeks ago I got an offer of a job in Bristol. Admittedly it wasn't Weymouth, but it was close enough. It seemed perfect. Not only is the job well paid, I could also manage weekend trips to the Neddyfields, or even the Cuttings, without suffering the ridicule such a destination would attract from some quarters.

At the weekend I packed my bags and headed south. I have started this blog after a suggestion from Jon 'I've Read the Entire Internet at Work and Need More' Fullwood. The idea is my Northern friends can read what I've been up to as and when I sporadically update it.

Anyway I'm off to listen to some tech-trance. Of the quality Dutch variety.