Friday 31 October 2014

On Great Gully Buttress

WHERE do all these people come from?” said Len. You would think nobody did any work.” “Including us?” I asked, since the day was Tuesday, in the middle of the June heat wave, and here were we, speeding north to Buachaille Etive Mor for the second time in four days. His remarks were evoked by the sight of so many sun-worshippers by every burn and bay from Loch Lomond side to Rannoch Moor.

Len had managed to snatch an additional day because he had been working over the May holiday, and the marvellous warmth and clarity of the previous Saturday had whetted his appetites After the wettest May in meteorological history, we had almost given up hope of dry rocks. Then had come our good luck, to be on Buachaille  Etive on the first real day of summer.

This looked as if it was going to be a repeat, and car windows down, we were enjoying the fresh scents wafted into us from bluebells, May blossom, rowan and gorse, all at their brilliant best together, in a world of shimmering birches, oaks and beeches. “ I’ve never seen anything better than this !” exclaimed Len. He was almost running out of exclamations by the time we reached Ben Lui, rising  above us with a, thousand feet of unbroken, snow in its corrie.

Then to Loch Tulla, floating snowy reflections from the Black Mount peaks ; and when we stopped to pay homage we could hear the vibrant “reeling” of dunlin, and,surprisingly, the “ tuleep ” of ringed plovers, the first time I have known them here.

Buachaille Etive Mor, its rocks shiny pink in the morning light,looked invitingly clean as we slung our packs and started towards Great Gully. The good weather and dryness ofthe past four days had filled Len with ambition. After our climbs on the Saturday he had talked longingly of Guerdon Grooves, a very exposed and delicate climb, so sustained at one point that the leader needs 150 feet of rope to reach a stance.

He had asked me to bring my long Perlon rope. I kept my apprehensions to myself as we scrambled up the rocks below our route, remembering that some of the best men known to me have retreated from this climb, indeed have had to “ rope-off ” it when failing to find a way. Len had done it once, and I did not know whether to be sorry or glad when, after scrutinising the buttress rising smoothly and without break for over 500 feet, he pronounced it “hopeless.” I could see why.

 The rocks were stained with gleaming patches of wet, on a route which has to be absolutely dry before there is any hope of ascent Let’s do ‘Ledgeway’ on Great Gully Buttress,” Len suggested.You take the first pitch, I’ll lead the crux.” Rock climbing has been rightly called “ a baleful sport”. I always find it so, especially when the first steps of a pitch are hard and unrelenting and I have to fight an inner voice of fear. Yet I never climb well without this ” inner voice.” It is rather like the moment of getting up to give an after-dinner speech. You may feel a sense of inadequacy for the task, but if you have given thought and preparation to the subject, then you will forget yourself as you begin to talk.

On the rocks, the mind takes over from the nerves, as the whole of your experience and training goes into the control and balance of the body,with an effect of exhilaration on your whole being. This pitch docs not let up for forty feet, and when he joined me for his lead, I was glad to hear Len say he found it hard. Marvellous rock. The best in Glen Coe,” he said as he traversed rightward from me. He could have added that it is also some of the steepest rock, and I saw the route was none too easy to find as he explored right and left before committing himself to a line that lefty the rope hanging clear in space behind him.

Then he vanished from sight, behind a bulge,and in a short while I heard his “ Come on!’. The crux was where he had disappeared, a daunting place with an overhang pushing you out with its beak. And no holds for a pull up until you make a delicate move up the smooth right wall and then you can swing boldly onto the nose and enjoy the thrill of your body tilting over the long drop below.

The next pitch was mine, right over Len’s head,for a hundred feet of sheer climbing delight,never easy but never too hard. The route had us purring with pleasure and after it we crossed over to Rannoch Wall,to the foot of Grooved Arete, first climbed by John Cunningham and Bill Smith 21 years ago.

It was this amazing pair of climbers who pioneered Guerdon Grooves, setting a standard of achievement hitherto unknown on Scottish rock. Members of the Creagh Ddu club, they are still active and as good as ever * Wherever their names are linked to a route you can expect something technically exciting. This one is particularly elegant.

Len took the edge of the arĂȘte which soars up for ninty feet of small holds, where every move depends on fine balance. The crux lies above and this fell to me. The problem is to get around the crest of the arĂȘte into the groove beyond. I enjoyed it, but made the mistake of keeping too vertically to the crest above, until I found myself unable to proceed, so I had to climb down again which was very much harder than the crux.

Now we coiled the rope and followed the Crowberry Ridge over the Tower to the summit of the mountain, basking in a sunlit world of peace and silence, strange contrast to the Israeli war which had been dominating our thoughts for a week. Boots off, we gave thanks in silent contemplation of the Lost Valley snows, still filling the cream jug between Bidian nam Bian and Stob Coire nan Lochan.

All too soon we were scrambling down the Curved Ridge, marvelling at the changes which four days of sun had wrought in the hanging garden beneath it, with clusters of buttery globe flowers, sprays of yellow roseroot, starry saxifrages amidst red campion and the white flowers of fleshy scurvy grass.
We felt the world was a pretty good place as we took the winding track along the foot of the crags, stopping now and then to look up at the pink edges of soaring rocks which have given us such intense delight over the years.

* The legendary John Cunningham was killed when coasteering on the Gogarth sea cliffs, North Wales in 1980. He drowned whilst attempting to rescue a student who had fell in the water.His body was never recovered.

Tom Weir: 1967 

Friday 24 October 2014

Applecross days

W. N. Ling and myself- from sundry hints that there was a first rate 'Chioch' on the Scottish mainland, in Ross-shire, not on Beinn Bhan, and not marked on the one-inch Ordnance- came to the conclusion that it must be somewhere in the Strathcarron district, so Friday, 5th June 1908, found us en route for Strathcarron Station. We arrived at mid-day,and after lunch set out for a walk past the Bailachulish then up the hill at the back of the village, and over to Kishorn. The road after ascending 400 feet descends for about a mile through a fine glen beside a burn. On leaving this glen we saw in the far distance two magnificent hills. In 1908 it is too much to hope to find anything good and new in the hill line, but all the same, we felt disappointed when we simultaneously cried “The Red Coolins."

We got some glimpses of crags in the Applecross district, though the sun was too much behind them for us to make sure of any detail,but all the same we altered our plans for the morrow,and agreed to make for Applecross instead of Fuar Tholl. Our way back was cheered by the sight of a very fine buzzard wheeling about, but after we reached the summit of the road, real rain, a present from Skye, pursued us the whole way home, which was considerably shortened by keeping a bad path across the moors, avoiding Janetown, and coming out near Strathcarron Church.

Next morning was fine, and we rose at 6 A.M., and after some delay drove away at 7.45, through Janetown and across to Kishorn, seeing the buzzard again in the rocks above the stream, probably it had a nest there. The sun this time was shining into the Applecross Forest, and we got a fine view of magnificent rock scenery, big bastions of sandstone rising in tiers from the usual horizontal terraces. About eight miles away we passed Courthill, a very southern sounding name for a very Scottish lodge, situated where the finest views of the hills opposite can be obtained.

Just beyond here, and up the hill are the ironstone mines which we were popularly supposed to be prospecting, an ice-axe and an excursion in this direction as soon as we arrived being ample reasons to start the locals gossiping. At last our driver had to ask if we were not going to them, adding that if they were only a success a large seaport town might spring up there — there of all places, as seen on a fine spring morning, with as fine a view as there is on the West coast."But", he said, "they would never have such luck in this glen ! "

We drove a mile and a half beyond Tomapress, and left the machine nearly opposite Courthill, waiting a few  minutes to watch the time-saving driver take the ford and splash across to the east side. We then took to the hill about 9.30, turning over the south-east shoulder of Bheinn Bhan, and were soon looking down on to Loch Coire nam Fharadh, with the magnificent bastions of Sgorr na Caorach rising above it. There was no mistake which spur to make for, and we hoped against hope that this was a find, but felt sure that it was the Chioch. We circled round it, like wrestlers looking for a grip, but obviously there was only one spot from which a start could be made on the south-eastern side, and the route to the top seemed likely to be continuous. The north side had a long grassy ledge leading up towards a gap where the first pinnacle gained the main cliff, but as well as avoiding the climb, it looked as though a slabby cliff, such as one finds at the end of some Torridon gullies, might prevent us reaching the gap.

We lunched at 11.45 (1100 feet), and then set off,keeping always as near to the edge of the rounded first pinnacle as we could, although at first forced a good deal too much in the direction of the big gully. We went up a succession of short chimneys, which a few moments before we had waltzed up in thought. Alas, what a difference when once one tackled them in earnest, and without any slander, the grand old hills of Torridon sandstone are uncommonly deceiving, there being a lack of handhold when one reaches the top of each pitch of rock. The chimneys were lined with steep grass and loose and rounded rock; we went up these, always keeping an eye on our right hand, as we were undoubtedly too far from the magnificent but unattainable face.We turned to our right and made for a steep wall up which there was a narrow crack, but this route was given up as the top overhung, and it is no use hoping for a handhold where you require it on sandstone.

We were afraid that we might have to go leftward to the main gully, but to our joy a way was found round a corner to the right, up steep, but good and firm, rock,with a very sensational outlook, owing to our being on the edge of the arete. Above this we took to a belt of heather which led us to a narrow chimney where the rocks need careful handling, and then over slabs and crowberry plants we practically walked to the summit of the first pinnacle. Alas a cairn..." Collie," we cried, hoping we would still find that it had been some stalker who had ascended the comparatively easy big gully, and descended without tackling the magnificent face of rock in front of us.

As a matter of fact, Collie had ascended the big gully on its right whilst Slingsby and his partners tackled the face at about the same line as ourselves. We sat here for some time admiring the perpendicular view below, and the work in front, about 300 feet of it; then we made a start first down across the head of the dividing gully, which reminded me of one or two Lofoten dips of a similar nature; then up a very pleasant staircase of sandstone, with an occasional small traverse — one of about 15 feet to the right remains in my memory — rock good and outlook to match, but no place or need to slip.

Above this we are under the final cliffs of the main tower, some 150 feet of slabby rock.When aeroplanes become commonplace, say in three years' time, I hope to possess a 6 Sparrow-power Vol au Vent, or a 60 Eagle-power Soarer (according to the state of my physical and financial nerves), and I intend to circle around some of these towers to assure myself how really easy these cliffs would be to climb straight up. Meanwhile we chose one of the very few routes open to us.

We first of all went to our right along a very sensational ledge about 2 feet wide, which probably contours right around the face, and is an ideal traverse walk in calm weather, but as we could find no route commencing from this, we went back again southwards, and up an open stretch of heather to the foot of a big gully. Up this is easy scrambling until a jammed stone pitch is reached. Ling here made good progress and I fixed myself under the stone, whilst he with the usual tactics and a considerable amount of skill wormed himself up on the (true) left side. Once he announced himself firm, I,well aware of his poetical tendencies, had to remind him that " hold the last fast, says the rhyme." Once above this a few feet of scrambling took us to the summit of the tower, and we sat a few minutes discussing whether this was the Chioch or not, and we decided, rightly, that it was, as although there was much vegetation everywhere, still there was a suspicious cleanliness about the likeliest handholds.

We then set along the long broad summit ridge, a walk,except where intersected by the heads of gully and the small rocks at these places, can be either scrambled over,or turned on either side by descending a few feet, and so eventually reached the summit of Sgorr na Caorach (2,539 feet) at four o'clock. The summit is part of an enormous plateau sloping gently westward.

After a rest we remembered the sixteen-mile trudge homeward, and reluctantly descended towards the Applecross road which stretched across the plateau. We reached the famous Bealach nam Bo and the hairpin bends, and are reminded of the exploit of our President, G. Thomson, who professionally assisted in conducting a Martini car up the same pass. I wish he had left one for our use.  The scenery on this pass is very fine, but we could not see much rock of a climbable nature, and we lightened our way homeward by noting how one could ascend  some fine cliffs by walking along sloping grassy terraces.

As the tide was out we crossed the loch, about 300 yards from Courthill, at the north end of a small wood, the water was only about a foot deep, and the sandy bottom everywhere firm. The remainder of the day was mere work until we reached Strathcarron Inn at 8.45. Next day, Sunday, broke grey and cold. I claimed an  easy day, and was let off with a stroll of fourteen miles, partly over some of the roughest going I have met with in Scotland. We went to Couiags by as flat a road as any in  the Lincolnshire Fens, and from there made up a good deer path past a keeper's cottage, from which we were temporarily followed; but as we had a fair start and the weather was then really moist, the occupant soon returned to his den,whilst we wound up a very Swiss path on a loose moraine, until we reached a bealach between Ruadh Stac and Meall a Chinn Deirg — thence across to another dip — whence rise the grey grey slabs which slope to the summit of Ruadh Stac.

Here we were met by a strong south-west wind laden with such chilly rain and sleet that we could see nothing, so we determined to clear out below the mists, and turned down and across the extraordinary slabs at the back of Ruadh Stac : after lunching by a small lochan (crouched behind any boulder we could find), we had a mile of the roughest going, following a stream down the Allt nan Ceapairean, which name, under the circumstances, afforded us an opportunity for much feeble and diluted wit, which the reader may invent for himself if in the same place and circumstances and so minded. Absolutely wet through,we arrived at Strathcarron at three o'clock.

Next day — our last chance for that year — we resolved on an attack or at least a look at the face of Fuar Tholl in the Achnashellach Forest, Being early birds, we took the 6.50 train, and arrived at Achnashellach, on a warm pouring wet day, and inquired for the keeper. We had previously  been warned about new brooms, etc, and only too truly, as the keeper objected, averring that not even the owner dare go up to fish in the corrie below Fuar Tholl at this time of year.We tried to impress him by pulling out some very damp visiting cards as a sign of respectability, but our old gabardines, wet and frayed, were too much for him, and our day's climb degenerated into a twenty-seven miles' walk.

First retracing our way along the line for a mile or two in company with a wet but cheery shepherd, then back along the road past Loch Dhughaill on to Craig, we crossed the railway and went a long way up the Allt a Chonais, before we could cross the burn, then turning south we struck a bealach between Sgurr na Fiantaig and Ben Tarsuinn. At the top of this we went off a short way south to look down towards the Morar country, as by this time the rain and mist were away, then down a long glen to Loch an Laoigh, back to the inn down Glen Udale, nowhere seeing any climbing rocks.

The district around Strathcarron is a glorious one, and given fine weather, the explorer should be rewarded with several more good climbs, although Professor Collie, I expect, has taken the best with the Cioch. A word of warning : if Strathcarron Inn parlour is as we saw it at first sight, do not be discouraged, we were very comfortable there for four days. 

George T Glover: First published in the SMC journal 1911

Monday 20 October 2014

Falling about and not laughing......reprise

To mark the fifth anniversary of Footless Crow, a welcome republication of the very first article to appear; David Craig's previously unpublished 'Falling about and not laughing'. An article that was languishing as a forgotten typewritten essay at the bottom of a drawer in the Craig household, with another early Footless David Craig piece- 'Diamonds and Rust'-which appeared a few weeks later. David has always been one of my favourite outdoor writers and it's been an honour and a pleasure to host many of his past works-both published and previously unpublished. As with most early articles on the site, the quality of the work was not reflected in the viewing figures. Hopefully its reprise will attract a host of new readers who missed it the first time around. 

David Craig was born in Aberdeen in 1932 and is married to Anne Spillard. He first climbed rock on Lochnagar in 1952, then didn't climb again (for several compelling reasons) until 1973 when his children began climbing in the Lake District. Best known in the UK for his classic 1987 climbing book Native Stones which was quickly followed by the equally impressive Landmarks. David has written several non climbing books on Scottish history and culture as well as works of poetry and novels. David appeared in the BBC series Wilderness Walks and will appear in a BBC Scotland outdoor programme to be screened in the future. A long term resident of South Cumbria. David has contributed as a guide book area author and has many first ascents in the UK to his credit,including routes made with Cumbrian legend Bill Peascod. 
He has climbed in England,Scotland,Wales,France,Germany,
Gibraltar,South Africa and America.

It may have been euphoria. I don't think it was hubris. We'd been staying at Sennen Cove again, our mid-winter journey into that place of mild storms and epic winds. The usual gale greeted us and it blew until Pete was about to leave. He is an ideal partner, who climbs regularly in the Avon and Verdon Gorges at E3/4 6a/b, and is therefore so solid on my grade of route-VS/HVS-with occasional forays upwards) that when he's leading it makes me feel I'm wearing a parachute, or wings. But the nearest we got to a climb before he had to leave was to stand on the precipitous tussocks above Great Zawn at Bosigran so that he could eye up the line of Dream/ Liberator, which he fancies for some perfect day this summer.

After he'd left, I was humming with unexpended energy. I soloed around at Pedn-Maen Du, put up a 20-metre Severe at the southernmost end of the possibilities, on a grooved and stepped wall right of Teleology, and called it Roisin Dubh because it's in Irish Lady Cove and the rock is stained deep black.

Coming back along the base of the crags to the home terrain between Sunday Face and Demo, I spied a ladder of knobbly quartz mini-jugs edging out of the granite, which looked familiar but vertical enough to be provoking. I pulled up, it went, it was irresistible. At the finish, when I thought I'd cracked it, I frightened myself trying to swing left through mid-air on an extraordinary beak - petrified remnant of an extinct bird -integral with the crag but so slender - I retreated, sweating, tried a cleft on the right between two crystalline haunches, and got up it by means of jams so secure that they lacerated. Double Overhang, of course - 20 metres, 4b, 4b. By my standards I was going well, and when we went to Carn Kenidjack on our last day, to write and read and scramble, I felt just about ready to nip up Gneiss Gnome, which had been grinning at me for a year or two. But I took the precaution of peering down the final twenty feet of its ninety, and the cleaned slant joint was lined with a paste of winter-moist soil, and the little toe-steps to its right -facing in- were dripping, so I went on down the path with my headier impulses tightly reined in.

Down there, at the foot of the great shield of Saxon and Thane, in that lovely zone of waves swinging in blue and bursting white, I laddered up the first sixty feet of the Gnome, to confirm the no-go assessment. No, I could not make myself slink up that oozing gutter, the fear would be ghastly, the situation beyond control by strength and skill alone, and where's the good in that? So down I went again and along the shingle, looking longingly up at the subtly engraved surfaces of the Carn itself. I'd always wondered how to start Saxon. The first holds are clearly out of reach, so, experimentally, I did a few gymnastics between the giant boulder and the face and it seemed as though back-and-footing might do the trick.

But the footholds gleamed and dripped, so I dried them thoroughly on my selection of bar towels (Teacher's, Marston's, and Stone's), chimneyed up with Fires squirming as the ooze reappeared, lunged for a rim, swung up, edged left, and in no time I was strolling my hands along the flake which crescents across the face like the lower lip of a sabre-cut, feet on the positive wrinkles; eighty feet of comfortable climbing which gave me at least a taste and feel of that rearing expanse, until things became so thin and steep that further progress without a rope would have been, ridiculous and I traversed off and down the Gnome again.

I was so in tune with this pure, cold-forged, wind-scoured world by now that I leaned against the foot of the shield with my arms spread out, my cheek against the gneiss, and a poem came to me, whole lines and the clinching idea, as the gulls' shadows criss-crossed on the sunlit rock and the waves hissed and seethed behind me. Perfect contentment. I kept my Fires on, put on my ruck­sack, and walked along the shore to the little zawn on the left for a last scramble. A short wall beckoned, twenty feet on protruding biscuits but holds galore and easier-angled terrain waiting above. I pulled up, fingered and toe the biscuits; they were sound enough though thin as ginger snaps. I reached up and pinched a sloping arete on the right, bridged off its twin on the left and eased up into the valley above.

A grating and tearing, like a tooth coming out - the wall blazes up past me in a blur - utter, sudden stoppage  ‑unnatural silence, like after a car crash - a boulder to my left rears like a trapdoor falling and slams the side of my head. I've landed feet first on tilted boulders and bounced leftwards against a slab. I lie there, tingling. Black-faced rocks outstare me calmly, keeping their counsel, disclaiming all responsibility for this folly. I haven't blacked out, so no concussion. I work my ankles round and round, and they do work, although my right heel is numb.My hair is wet where my head hit but not streaming. My left haunch and right knee are on fire with grazes and my right elbow has been hammered. But I can make it up the path -with its unavoidable ten-foot Diff rock step- and back to the car where Anne is, quite rightly, as much exasperated as consoling.

So you shouldn't solo, alone, without a helmet, on unclimbed, brittle rock in winter. Of these six factors, perhaps only the 'unclimbed' one is crucial. As I looked up the twenty feet of my fall, I saw that the rock which gave way on me had been weakened by moisture collected and given out again by a tump of sea-thrift. On a frequented route the weak rock -and probably the flowers- would have long since gone. As for the risky aspects of soloing in itself, would they not,in this case, apply as well to climbing an awkward first pitch with the possibility of falling before the first protection halt been slotted home? That is when I've had my last few leader falls, for example one February day at Oxenber, near Austwick, when I skidded back down the freezing, polished chimney-crack that opens Bullroar and knackered my left ankle (I never seem actually to break). The bad thing about a February accident is that it can jeopardize the start of the real rock season. When I went. to Skye that Easter, and we walked up via Keall-Odhar to Sgurr a Bhasteir, and down into Glen Sligachan via the Lota and Harta Corries, the three miles round the shoulder opposite the Bloody Stone were hell because we had to walk continuously on the steep heather slope and it forced my ankle inwards at just the most painful angle.

When I went to Wallowbarrow in Dunnerdale that same month to climb Perseverance and The Plumb the walking up was still much more trying and crippled than the climbing. There's the beauty of rock; it is so much a matter of finesse, so little of brute shove.So healing continued, and the ankle never troubled me again till suddenly, five years later, I fulfilled an old ambition by going to lead Valkyrie on Froggatt Pinnacle. I tackled that leaning and slanting crack by forcing in cruel toe-jams, and by the time I failed to make horizontal hand-jams lodge on the traverse and went whanging down onto my well-planted Moac, I must have stressed the ankle joint too much. By the end of the day I could hardly depress the clutch. And now I have abused that ankle yet again. Will it stand up to this year's siege of Froggatt Pinnacle? You never quite recover from these traumas; they come creaking and wincing back on you years later and make you realise your vulnerability as a thing of flesh and bone. But I can't wholly regret the adventure at Carn Kenidjack: I can learn from it, and it did throw up a poem.

Under the Slab 
Death is over against us.
Stand with your cheek to the rock-face, 
Wheel through 90 degrees and let 
the perfectly hard minerals oppose
their close-packed atoms to the running
And feeling of your blood.

Rise again, look to the zawn-mouth. 
Its stone lids part,
Its blue eye opens,
Like surf the white birds seethe
And the transparent dove-grey shadows
Print their ecstatic glyphs across the slate.

David Craig © 2009

Saturday 11 October 2014

Five Years on...Footless Crow's Greatest Hits!

Just over five years ago, the very first article appeared on Footless Crow. David Craig’s previously unpublished piece ‘Falling About-Not Laughing’. Frankly, back then the hit counter was not exactly off the Richter scale, and for that reason  I intend to re-edit and republish the best of these articles which are well worth revisiting or catching for the first time if you are new to these pastures.

In the last five years I am eternally grateful to have received the support of many of the UK’s finest outdoor writers who have either given permission for their articles to be republished or offered unpublished works. This includes writers of the stature of the aforementioned David Craig, Harold Drasdo, Terry Gifford, Robin Campbell, Bill Birkett, Steve Dean, Steve Ashton, Harry Griffin and Tom Price amongst many others.

The top ten most popular articles list however, is somewhat  surprising in the fact that none of these esteemed writers feature. It is with some mild embarrassment that my own name features quite prominently in the list which is also dominated by John Redhead. Another interesting element is the fact that in a media dominated by mountain writing, it is the occasional art features that are proving  very popular. A fact that makes me consider increasing these features in the future. Book and film reviews always ratchet up the hit count as well so hopefully I’ll be able to offer even more reviews in the future. I was also hoping to offer the odd gear review but as yet I haven’t pursued this idea so watch this space. If anyone out there has something they would like to see published online then just let me know via the email address further down the page.

So....(drum roll)...Footless Crow’s Top Ten Greatest Hits.

An article rejected by Climb magazine which resulted in some heated emails between the author and the magazine’s joint editor Dave Pickford. Something which was shamelessly exploited by myself in a blog piece and picked up by the UKC forum fraternity. The resultant brouhaha sent the stats counter soaring! (Previously unpublished)

An article which was originally to be published in Climber magazine when I think Cameron MacNeish was editor. A change in editor saw the article kicked into the long grass. Essentially the feature surrounds Crowley’s ill fated Kangenjunga expedition and its popularity is obviously down to the world wide interest in all things Crowley.( Previously Unpublished)

 Liverpool based retired academic’s art piece on the visionary artist’s Cornish period. (First published on the author’s superb ‘That’s How the Light Gets In’ blog)

Written to coincide with the BBC4 documentary ‘The Mountain that had to be painted’. The short life and times of the brilliant but relatively unknown Welsh artist, James Dickson Innes who will forever be associated with the ‘sacred mountain’ of Arenig Fawr in NE Wales.(Previously unpublished)

5..Fay Godwin..poetry through a lens (Margaret Drabble)
The acclaimed writers appraisal of the sublime photography of the late Fay Godwin. (Previously published in The Guardian)

James McHaffie and Craig Smith respond to John Redhead’s ‘XS’ piece Fantasy stylee! (Previously unpublished)

 A warts and all account of the life and times of the curmudgeonly fell-walker. Beatified and vilified in equal measure  in the outdoor community.(Previously unpublished)

8..Jim Perrin’s West: The loping hare kicking rainbows fromthe dew (John Appleby)

An almost hagiographic review of West which ironically acted as a catalyst for an incendiary blog-Jaccsisters blog- in which the sisters of one of the main characters take issue with the veracity of Perrin’s interpretation of his relationship with their sister. The intervening years since the review was written, has certainly seen this former climbing literary hero of mine fall from grace as more and more people have come forward to describe their own personal ‘Perringrinations’ around the eccentric author.( Previously unpublished)

Both being extracts from the author’s latest book ‘Colonists Out’ 


So there you have it. A strange list given the stature of writers and the quality of articles which have fallen outside of the top ten. Perhaps as some of these old articles are revamped with new illustrations, they will finally pull in the readership they deserve? In the mean time....thanks for tuning in.

John Appleby:2014