Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 31

I kicked him to make the tea. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?

This morning I wanted to see how he was on the rock. One of the other delights of the camp site is its position right below one of the finest beginners’ crags in the country, Tryfan Fach, a sweep of wrinkly slab up to 200 feet high and offering easy but exposed climbing on lovely rough, sound rock with lots of protection. I normally warm up for the day with a an unroped solo on big holds up the left hand side, across the top and a walk back down from the right, but I did not want to freak Geoff out. I ran through the commands to make sure Geoff wasn’t just a gym climber, and off I went. Hard Severe, eh? I wanted to get a feel for his strengths so I sprinted up a thin crack to a stance on a big flake which I KNEW was too big for an eight-foot sling…which is why I made my own nine-footer some years ago. I brought Geoff up, tied him on and as soon as he had me on belay I was off again.

There are cracks all over the slab, but the angle eases as you go up, and I fancied some gibboning, so I went straight up on little ripples and sharp edges, just the odd runner to keep Geoff happy. He seemed OK so far, but I think he was feeling the height a bit.

I had chosen slab climbing to ease him away from thoughts of Tony, and I felt that the horrible day at Castle Martin had opened him up a lot, so that he could see things in their own right at last, rather than as associations shrouded in pain. He was actually joking as he climbed, and seemed to be enjoying it. We topped out, off down the right side and traversed down the face a few feet off the ground just for the hell of it. We did a couple more routes, then I told him we were off to the real stuff, loaded the van and went back down the road to the Idwal Cottage again. Of course, that meant another cuppa from Dafydd.

The walk up to Idwal Slabs is one of the nicest I know, with the vista opening wider with each step. Clogwyn y Tarw, with its mix of routes, fronts the Gribin ridge on the left, while the stark hollow of Y Garn looms to the right. The well-surfaced path goes through a gate, with an information board on which the writer has juxtaposed the heights of the two lakes, Bochlwyd and Idwal, and then past that second lake. Twll Du, the Devil’s Kitchen, slashes through the headwall of the cwm, and Castell y Gwynt can be seen on the skyline. I told Geoff the legend of the drowned prince, and how as a result no birds fly over the water, and at that point a common sandpiper did exactly that, its alarm call echoing from the cliffs.

Dear, patient reader, you will by now have realised that I know and love this place well and deeply, but there was more than that. With each step I was realising what I had so nearly lost, as I had known at the bridge the night before, and was doing it with this lovely man, who was even carrying the rope as well as his own sack. Not only that, but in a couple of days the rest of the clan would join us for a birthday celebration; I made a mental note to pick up a copy of the Herald Gymraeg to see if there was any chance of some live music locally.

The Idwal Slabs are just like Little Tryfan, apart from being bigger, steeper, thinner (fewer holds) and a lot harder. They also have a sting in the tail, but I wasn’t going to tell Geoff that….yet. We were going to do Hope, and maybe Tennis Shoe afterwards.

I usually string the first two pitches of Hope together, and this time I suggested Geoff take the first lead,

“See how you get on as far as the ledge, and if you feel OK do the second.”

“OK love, ready to climb”

“Climb when ready”

“Climbing”

“OK”

He made short work of the easy first slab, and grinned down at me. “Piece of piss, this!”

I couldn’t resist it, and said “I’ve reversed that carrying a lamb!”

He muttered something, then set off around the little bulge that starts the official second pitch. He spent a little while working it out, but the protection is good and he was quickly onto the next slab.

“Stop at the next stance, it gets tricky after that”

Indeed it does. The Twin Cracks bracket a rectangular flake which forms s huge jug-handle at the top, but is so polished by decades of climbers that it is a slippery little sod. All you have to do is move up five feet and you have huge holds…I all but jumped it, and set off up the mass of pockets that rise above it and to the left until I tied on at the foot of the long final corner. Two extra large nuts behind some flakes, and a cam into the corner, but I could only see part of Geoff.

“On belay!”

“OK!”

After a while, his voice came again, “Take in!”

“Taking in!”

I pulled the rope in until I heard his call of “That’s me!” and threaded the rope into the belay plate. “Climb when ready”

A pause, then “Climbing!”

The next few minutes brought a slackening of the rope ,a subsequent jerk, an obscenity, repeat…..six times. Finally I heard “Got you, you bastard!” and from then on he moved a lot more easily over the pocketed slab. Soon he was at the little ledge at the foot of the long corner, breathing hard and with skinned knuckles. I smiled

“Bit of a shock for a V Diff, isn’t it, that bit?”
He just shook his head. “What’s next?”

“My favourite bit. First, though, just look around and enjoy the view. This route is about 400 feet in length, so you are quite a way up now. The next bit makes you feel really out there but it is very, very easy, so just enjoy the exposure and don’t lose any of my gear” which I followed with a kiss.

Once we had rearranged everything, I floated up the corner, just enjoying the position, the knowledge that only a climber would ever be able to enjoy this exact place, and still the mantra running through my mind of how very nearly I could have lost it. I realised, to my surprise, that I could recall no time when I had ever been happier. Not Christmas, not playing with the family, and knew without doubt that it was all due to the skinny man who kept falling off the crux of a V Diff. A raven kronked as it went overhead, to be drowned out by the roar of an RAF jet trainer flashing down to Má´n.

I brought Geoff up to the final ledge, and we sat for a while having a cereal bar each.

“Steph, thank you so much for showing me this, it’s so different to the little crags in Sussex. Which way is the walk off?”

I pointed at the tumbled slabs above the ledge.

“Two or three hundred feet up there and then back down to the left.”

“You are taking the piss, woman!”

“Nope. Want me to carry the rope?”

And off we went. Up, up, to the perched boulder, then down some steep stuff to the path back to the lake. I won’t bore you with more long descriptions of rock, but we did Charity, and then Tennis Shoe, with its huge central expanse of easy but featureless slab. I talked him through the crux on that one, telling him where to find the hidden two-finger pocket that just keeps you from sliding off the slippery foot hold on the final exposed tower.

He had done well, so that night I went teetotal so that we could drive down to the Bryn Tyrch pub in Capel Curig and have a decent meal, picking up a bottle of wine to share when we got back.

Life is good. Being alive is better.