Funeral in Courmayeur

Where were you when you heard that Arthur Dolphin had been killed?

I was entering the main street of Courmayeur, where he is buried. just got down from the Noire. After climbing the South Face of Geant, Arthur had slipped during the unroped descent of the easy but exposed plinth of the Aiguille. I was in time for the first funeral I'd have any cause to attend. It was an afternoon graveside service under a scorching Italian sun. Present: Andre Collard, the Belgian with whom he'd been climbing, Jack Bloor and Mike Dwyer from Yorkshire; Geoff Holmes, from London ; the British consul from Turin;  Keith King, and myself...., and the priest.

I think that's right. The cleric raced through the ceremony, perhaps in a shortened form for this unknown foreigner of some unknown faith. The words, having no meaning for me, ought to have been powerless But the frantic haste of performance, the urgent shouted rhythms of the declarations, actually and strongly communicated a poetry of desperation through the barrier of language. Man's days are as grass. I'm not sure in what sense I could say that I was moved. Perhaps for most young men, grief is always contaminated by a sense of the drama of violence on occasions like this. I remember, in fact, feeling a kind of anger, an intense wish to get away quickly. I even felt a real anxiety that I might faint if I were to stand still much longer in an airless heat that seemed insufferable.

Eventually the coffin was lowered and the first shovelful of earth was thrown down upon it. The soil was dry and full of stones and made a loud, startling, conclusive rattling on the wood. With that, tears I couldn't conceal suddenly ran down my face and within a couple of minutes all those who'd known him had joined me for solidarity. He'd never been one of us. He was older and from a different social background. He'd been a hero before we'd started climbing. But he was transparently innocent. His schoolboy humour, his childish delight in weak puns and tongue-twisters, his interest in people and his enthusiasm for the sport overrode any barriers. Having spent several years estab­lishing himself as the leading Lakeland expert he'd found that, from behind and immediately, new challengers were arriving. His instinc­tive response was to inform and to encourage us. 

We'd begun to join him for highly competitive Wednesday evening bouldering sessions on gritstone. After his ascent of Deer Bield Buttress he'd written out descriptions for Pete and for myself and invited our opinions. On hear­ing of North Crag Eliminate he'd glanced at the line and then suggested that we meet for a day on Castle Rock, an invitation so daunting to me that I never took it up. By the summer of 1952 he'd already accepted Pete in an equal partnership which immediately produced routes as impressive as anything seen in the Lakes up to that date. That partnership was over now. He'd made space for us and left us on our own with his monuments.

 

At Duncan Boston's first ingathering in 1986 we were all thinking back to the end of those years and to the courses of our lives. One thing struck me. Jack Bradley had arrived, still larger than life and once again a focus of attention during the weekend. Never a very good climber but always a moving force, his picaresque adventures built a legend. After forty years, and now his death, it's still tasteless to report some of these tales. He had a mischievous, often cruel sense of humour and I pass over this.
 

He also had an extraordinary ability to effect narrow escapes. Once, his party of four spent a weekend in Gaping Ghyll, bivouacking in the Sand Caverns. On the Sunday night, wet, muddy, hungry, and with combined resources of a shilling and eight pence, they were faced with the task of hitch-hiking back to York. Jack led them into a moorland transport cafe and ordered everything the group could possibly eat. His simple plan was to offer their services afterwards for washing up. The lengthy meal drew to a close and no-one else came in so that the only washing up would be their own. The proprietor chatted with them, a likeable man, and finally delivered his bill for twenty-eight shillings. Jack picked up their single shilling, put it in a slot machine, drew out thirty shillings and paid up. Is this story true? Ask Mike Hollingsworth? I tell it as told to me within a month of the event.

I'd last seen him in Ambleside bus station in 1954. He'd just got the sack from his job as plumber or bricklayer but he had four pounds in his pocket. He was about to hitch up to Skye where it would last him a fortnight and he could think up a scheme. Twenty years later Valerie Brown drew my attention to an article in a women's magazine. Four ladies had written on what it was like to be married to a millionaire. And there was a photo of Jack, confident as ever, standing on the steps of his manor, his lady on his arm, two or three well-groomed dogs at their feet.

Yes, that was the unsettling thing about this and subsequent reunions. There were too many millionaires for so small a gathering. The fact made a poor fit with the ragged-trousered, easy-going bunch I remem­bered from Wall End Barn. We almost all came from working-class families. We almost all left school at fifteen or sixteen. But the ways in which these fortunes had been accumulated didn't seem specially uplift­ing. Jack had run building firms, haulage firms, had even made the first commercial aluminium gliders. These enterprises had varied in longev­ity and reputation. Would I have stepped inside a house that Jack built? I'd have taken a pretty good look at the outside first.
 

The property developer who'd arrested one of my falls, now nursing a tray of drinks through the crush, seemed to have made smoother progress than Jack. Apparently he was into nursing homes. Were they the sort of ventures in which the life savings of Britain's aged are rapidly eroding? The figure wedged in the corner was apparently here by chance. I'd never seen him in the barn anyway, though he was one of Dolphin's associates and he was certainly in Langdale in those years.

Wall End Barn: George Kitchin

He was said to be the inventor of the spirograph and his name appeared on those expen­sive children's toys. The senior partner of a juke box and pool table empire wasn't present though he'd used the barn from time to time. His consortium was shortly to be sold for more than ten million. The lady I'd taken on her first Lakeland climb wasn't here either though her sister (not badly off?) was with us. No doubt she was hard at work, minister­ing to the neuroses of the affluent by promoting a G-plan diet.I looked around in curiosity. There were others I guessed might be members of the same club. I turned to Mike Dixon in perplexity. "Are you a millionaire as well, Mike?" I asked. He was amused but chuckled a little uncomfortably. He shifted his feet. "Well," he said, with some reluctance. "I suppose so. But it doesn't really mean anything nowadays, does it? Not like it used to."

He brought himself back to the present and fixed a stiff price for the second-hand, obsolete, slightly faulty word-processor he was about to sell to me.

At the first reunion we checked through the dead and the missing. We'd never meet George Elliott, Alf Beanland, John Greenwood, Frank Weirdon, Alan Bullock, Dave Gibbons, or Charlie Salisbury again. Mountains, other accidents, and now, dismayingly, illness or old age. Some, like Pete Thomson and Ernie Leach had been located but refused to associate with climbers any more. ("Climbers are the lowest of the low.") Others were lost and now someone asked about the Morrells. Oh, they'd been in the art world, hadn't they, they'd moved to London. Then they'd separated. They were thought to have been on the fringe of the drug scene, they were probably dead by now. I'd never really known them to talk to, they were older than me, but I remembered Mary well.

A hot day on Gimmer a lifetime ago, the cliff under siege. My partner and I were sharing a narrow ledge for half an hour with Mary, her hus­band and the friend who was their frequent escort. We were blocked by a very slow party in front and we were pressed by a queue of teams behind. There was no breeze and the men were sitting shirtless, soaking up the sun. Mary, daringly, had also removed her shirt and was filling her bra with outstanding success. Beautiful girl.

Suddenly she made some exclamation, an expression of impatience, of exasperation, of oh ­what-the-hell clouded her pretty face, and with the panache of a magi­cian Mrs Morrell flicked off the bra. Shocking. No big deal nowadays but this was before perfect strangers on a rock-climb high above the Langdale valley in the reign of King George the Sixth. Also electrify­ing. Mr. Morrell stared moodily into space. The rest of us tried to con­centrate our attentions upon the contours of Pike o'Blisco but found ourselves, every two minutes, casually scanning the skyline from end to end.

 

Scissors cut paper, paper wraps stone, stone blunts scissors. Amongst other things this is a book about the appeal of mountains. Now I have to report that in an instant, it seemed, the sun had perceptibly dimmed, the greens of the valley had become a little parched, even the rock was some­how just dead rock. Notice was being served that life would be filled with competing claims.

I relate this incident for another reason. Only a couple of days after the suggestion that Mary was probably dead I discovered that she was alive, well, and still living in London. She was, unbelievably, the clos­est friend of my closest non-climbing friends in North Wales. But she was a surname further on, and though they'd often spoken of her as an artist they'd never thought to mention that she'd done a little climbing when young, or that she came from Yorkshire. A year or two later I met her. We wouldn't have recognised each other but an hour of reminis­cence gave me serious cause for thought.

She'd only climbed for a few years, gritstone, the Lakes, Wales, Skye, and the climbing world she remembered was grossly different from mine. It had centred on days of unhurried fun on classic easier climbs. No­body ever got hurt. And, for her, the mountains would remain forever fresh and miraculous, untarnished by familiarity. "The best years of my life," she said. By contrast I'd gone on and I'd come through carnage. Say, twenty-five or thirty climbers I'd shared a rope with had died climb­ing, and a similar number I'd known on first-name terms. That sort of count is common to most climbers of my age. So what Mary had to say made me consider my investment in mountains. Might a law of dimin­ishing returns operate even here?

And, yet, my own life has been full of compromise. I could never have believed that possible in 1953. In that autumn, belatedly, I'd be going to college. Abandoning the idea of a career in hospital adminis­tration I intended to qualify myself as a teacher of English. From that summer forward I'd have long holidays and soon I'd be earning enough to travel more easily and to buy some decent equipment. I felt certain that I was capable of more difficult climbs than any I'd yet done and I. was confident that great achievements as climber and mountaineer lay ahead of me. My plan was simple. I'd test every one of the enticing unclimbed lines I'd noticed in Britain. I'd get to grips with the most famous routes in the Alps. When I was too old for serious alpine climb­ing I'd visit the Himalaya. And when I was too old for Himalayan moun­taineering I'd take up skiing.

In every detail this plan came to nothing. The summer of 1953 was to be, precisely, the end of the most intensive phase of my climbing. Until then all other activities had been subordinated. From then on, climbing would have to mesh with other purposes. While some of my contempo­raries soldiered on I amused myself. In the summer of 1956 I'd be in Paris with a girl-friend, wandering around the Louvre and exploring the Left Bank. Five years later, as old acquaintances began to go on Hima­layan expeditions I'd join an expedition a hundred thousand strong for a four-day Aldermaston March; my longest roadside vigils would be at Holy Loch and at Greenham Common, before the women discovered the place. Ten years on and I'd be driving to Tangier, enjoying sun and sea. Fifteen years  and I'd be on the road to Istanbul admiring buildings and great cities.

At the same time, I never considered giving up. At the end of the spell in Paris, Frank Davies passed through, I negotiated a loan, and unforgiv­ably let the girl find her own way home. In no time at all, it seemed, we were on the summit of the Aiguille de Roc. After one Aldermaston March, married now, my wife and I went straight on to climb in Corn­wall; from an affray at Holy Loch we sailed magnificently away down the Clyde so that a couple of days later we were on the Rosa Pinnacle. On that first drive through Spain I stopped by the roadside to look at an impressive rock peak of which I couldn't discover the name; a few years later I returned to make a route on it. The Istanbul trip was broken up by mountain excursions.

Further, although I lost any need to prove myself against others I en­joyed periods of strenuous activity whilst writing rock-climbing guides. I went on from teaching English to work in Outdoor Education, moving to the mountain area in which I live to this day, spending a great deal of time on the hills and staying in touch with new developments. I kept my eyes open for every chance at home or whilst travelling. And I learned that I'm an incurably serious climber in this sense: that whatever anxie­ties or responsibilities I may have on my mind, these are erased the instant I lay hands on rock; and that however badly I may be performing from time to time, once engaged I've no choice but to check my limits. Finally, the images of climbing, the kinaesthetic memories, the resultant set of impulses, are a permanent and substantial part of the life of my mind.

My brother once reflected that for decades after the death of Dolphin we still considered him our unmatchable master; whilst in fact, despite his famous routes, his career was brief, his travels restricted, his experi­ence limited compared with our own. It sounded like heresy but on consideration I had to accept it. The rest of this book, by transect, by device and by abstraction, is an attempt to make some sense of my own experience.

Harold Drasdo

First Published as 'An end' in The Ordinary Route: Ernest Press 

George Shields...climbing's lost prophet

Kipling Groove-on Gimmer Crag:Photo-Gordon Stainforth

Scottish climber George Shields was a member of the famous Glasgow based Creagh Dhu climbing club. George was one of those unsung climbers who was with out doubt  one of the top climbers in the UK from the early 1950’s well into into the 1970’s and beyond.  It was in my early youth in the Lake District when I heard rumours that perhaps it wasn’t Joe Brown who had made the second ascent of the then and now still famous Kipling Groove (on Gimmer Crag in the Langdale Valley) but some Scottish climber!. 

In the 1950’s Kipling Groove- first ascent 1948- was looked on as we now look on one of today’s very  hardest trad climbs.  Only the top climbers of that era did early ascents.  One might wonder why there were so few early ascents of a climb only graded HVS 5a. Consider that your only protection was with quarter inch slings (some times doubled ) over spikes if there were any; Ex army steel karabiners and two and sixpence gym shoes from Woolworths.  This presented the adventure in a very different light.  I cannot remember at that time there  being any protection on the first pitch.  To say the least, falling off leading could have a very serious consequences.  Even in 1955, seven years after the first ascent, when with Pete Greenwood I did an ascent of the route, Pete thought it was only the 12th ascent.  

The rumour of a Scottish second ascent faded into obscurity and for many years Joe’s effort was given credit as the  second ascent. Outcry about Joe’s ascent arose from the fact that very prudently, he placed a piton not far below the crux moves - prior to this a very long fall onto thin sling protection would have been the outcome.  It may be pointed out here that Arthur Dolphin who did the first ascent top roped the climb several times before he actually led the route. Pete Greenwood, a big mate of Dolphins, was upset at the so called desecration of Arthur’s route by Joe and promptly did what was then thought to be the third ascent, spitting on the offending peg as he passed it without using it as protection!

  In the 1950’s climbing information was limited pretty much to word of mouth, there were no magazines, and the few guide books were always well out of date. A tatty new routes book at the DG (Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel) in Langdale was the only way to get a clue about any new developments in the whole of the Lake District.  In 1952 a young George Shields and  Mick Noon both members of the Glasgow based Creagh Dhu were at Gimmer Crag . An email from George to me early in 2012  told this  story.  George spotted a great looking line and proceeded to climb it on sight, seeing no evidence of it being climbed, (4 years after the FA)  no fixed piton as this would occur later.  Elated to find such a perfect line they went down to the DG hotel with the intention of recording their first ascent in the new routes book. Hearing this Sid Cross, owner of the hotel and himself a climber, informed them that they had in fact done the second ascent of Arthur Dolphin's route Kipling Groove .  The fact that this climb had been first practiced on a top rope before being led it makes George's clean on sight ascent by any standard one of the great efforts of that era.  When I recently contacted some of Georges old climbing partners, one being his second on Kipling Groove, eighty year old Mick Noon now living in California, I found this was no surprise to him, as his close friends were quite aware of his outstanding athletic ability.

George made first ascents in in the Northern Cairngorms with well known climbers such as John Cunningham  and Rab Carrington.  George was on the sharp end of the rope on first ascents in Coire an Lochain such as The Vicar E1 1969, War and Peace HVS 1968, Nocando Crack E1 1968. On Stac an Fharaidh in 1969 he did some VS climbs with John Cunningham and in 1971 George led a party up The Deluge E3. On Coire an T Sneachda- Fiacaill Buttress Direct HVS and on the Shelter stone with Rab Carrington- Snipers E2-  both done in 1969. According to one of his climbing partners, George Adam, Shields had other unrecorded first ascents on Beinn Bhan and Fuar Toll .In these early days both in Scotland ,Wales and the Lake District the guide books were strictly controlled be the older traditional mountaineering clubs such as the FRCC, SMC and the CC.   Quite often, the small group of friends type clubs such as the Creagh Dhu  were looked on with a certain amount of disdain.

 They were of course mainly working class and not afraid of a bit of boisterous behavior.  Hence some of their  first ascents were  not written down or ignored by the powers that be.  One epic and still  unrecorded climb on Beinn Bhan, in Coire nan Fhamair is a route Shields climbed in 1972  “The Messiah” .  Adam has taken  photos of the face and George recently sat at the computer and drew the line of his ascent, the line has been agreed by all the participants that were involved with the climb. The route is about 240 meters long  and according to the following  account could be  anywhere up to the E3 grade?  The route took a few attempts, due to various partners having problems! The second attempt was with the well know member of the Creagh Dhu, non other than Big John McLean. John was not known as an early riser and the late start saw them having to bale out above a rather large roof.  

George Shields/Bob Jarvie's lost classic-'The Messiah'

John had forgotten about the roof and abseiled off only to find himself way out from the rock and unable to swing back in, time was passing and daylight fading. George still above on the belay decided to cut one of the double ropes and make his way back under the roof in a series of small abseils, eventually George got into a position where he could throw Big John a line and haul him in , John still had to cut the rope he was attached to and swing back onto the rock. A series of small abseils eventually get them to the ground. The third and final attempt and completion of the route was done by George and Bob Jarvie, although Bob took a huge flyer on the last pitch.  The above account was given to Adam by Shields. George Adam gave the name The Messiah to the climb as he felt it was an apt name for one of Shields' climbs. George for many decades was employed as the Aviemore cobbler. He died this last December 1st at 82 years of age, active right up to his short illness . He will be greatly missed by all his friends and family .   

Paul Ross 2013 

 

The Sweet Science-Wide-Boyz review

Grunt and grind: Wide-Boy Tom Randall gives 'The Hastonator'a ride encouraged by Pete Whittaker.Photo..Hot Aches

And so it begins... Brit hot shots, Tom Randall and Pete Whittaker meet at the Edge in Sheffield with Randall the elder deciding that Kid Whittaker might be the answer to his prayers. This particular divine calling being an attempt at the 'world's hardest off-width problem'. Century Crack in Utah. A sensational roof crack which breaks out the echoing shadows into the searing light of the red desert.

Discovered by US off-width specialist, Phil 'Crusher' Bartlett-who despite his moniker looks more like a geography teacher who is into real ale and bell ringing than brutal climbing problems. Crusher- who realizes that it's beyond his powers- hands the project over to legendary Brit hard case,Stevie 'Mad Cow' Haston, who gives it a whirl but who also quickly realizes that he's bitten off more than he can chew. Apart from a valiant  failed attempt, he does achieve one thing. An On the Edge article about the line and his attempts to subdue it ...enter Randall and Whittaker. Stevie's OTE piece lights the blue touchpaper for the intrepid pair who quickly set themselves a two year goal of leading the desert route.

This two year muscle fest kicks off with an unofficial world record for climbing the most routes in a day- 550 !!!- before moving underground. To Tom's Sheffield cellar where,like a mad sado- masochist,he has created all manner of torturous devices, designed to cause maximum pain and maximum muscle.

According to Stevie Haston- whose gnomic interviews act as a narrative throughout the film - 'there are no classic off-width problems in the UK or even Europe'....Really? Certainly Cobalt Dream E5, in North Wales looks the bizz when Pete Whittaker grunts his way through the roof, but perhaps it's not a true offwidth? It's interesting for the average UK climber seeing American climbers like Jay Anderson, Bob Scarpelli, Phil Bartlett and Brad Jackson, each  bearing the subtitle 'offwidth climber'.  I wasn't aware that in the US climbing had evolved a technical sub culture although in the case of off-width crack climbing,that indeed appears to be the case. Bob Scarpelli, who looks and sounds like he used to play bass in The Grateful Dead, offers the philosophical view that this climbing sub-culture is like boxing. Brutal but at it's best...'a sweet science'.

However, before our boys get out there they have to put in a shift in Tom's basement. Lots of almost homo-erotic footage of naked flesh (see pic), rippling torsos oozing sweat and with the participants shouting things like 'Yes..yes...you can do it, just give me one more' as they insert themselves in devices like 'The Hastonator'-bearing  slogans like 'fuck the pain' ! Going back to the SM theme. Things look decidedly unpleasant as the boys increasingly torture themselves with props like a 45lb weighted gilet... what looks like a butane bottle-for pull ups- various weights and dumb bells which you have to crank while spilling out of The Hastonator. It looks wicked but according to Tom Randall..'we loved every minute of it!'......Weird!

When the duo eventually get Stateside,they offer themselves as innocents abroad to their hosts. Brits...what do we know about your funky US passions! However,it soon dawns on the natives that these guys haven't arrived for the sun, sand and sights. After demolishing various classic OW problems,the time has come for Crusher to take them on a 4 hour 4x4 drive into the desert and introduce them to 'it'!

The Century Crack footage is actually fairly concise and wrapped up in quite a short period. It had to be as the film itself is actually quite short. Around 49 minutes. After a prelim session on the crack which leaves lots of cams in situ, the pair return next day and after tossing the tape roll to see who leads, Tom Randall gets first shot and to his great surprise finds himself pulling out of the shadows and into the light. Quickly followed by PW....job done. But not quite. Despite this historic 'lead' things go awry when news reaches the UK. No surprises when the ethic police and trollmasters of UKC give their ascent short shrift as Tom had used pre placed gear. However, their initial elation is even more brutally dashed when 'Mad Cow' himself-Stevie Haston- goes on record to declare that the route still awaiting a first ascent...bugger!

Not surprisingly, given the mixed reception they receive back home, Tom and Pete have no option but to cut short their US road trip and.....well... you probably know how it pans out but I'll leave it for for you to see how it's captured in all its technicolour glory.

Overall,like all Hot-Aches productions,an entertaining fun film which ticks all the boxes required by the climbing movie viewer. Little wonder the film won best climbing film and the people's choice at Kendal in autumn.

Wide Boyz is directed by Paul Diffley and Chris Alstrin and is available through Hot-Aches' as a download or DVD.












John Appleby:2013

Bonington storms out of charity group over Zip wire decision

Sir Chris Bonington...not so sweet on Kendal based charity group.

Britain's foremost mountaineer, Sir Chris Bonington, sensationally resigned his role as Vice Chair of The Friends of the Lake District, after National Park planners once again, threw out a planning application from the Honister Slate Mine company to construct a zip wire from Black Star- close to the summit of 2.126' Fleetwith Pike-descending 1500' to the mine site at the head of Honister Pass.The original zip line planning application was instigated in 2010 by the then Honister Mine owner, Mark Weir who was tragically killed in the middle of the planning process when his private helicopter crashed close to the Honister Mine.

The controversial proceedings which at the time of the original planning application, were being recorded by filmmakers and broadcast on BBC4's National Park Stories in late 2011- See Something in the air-highlighted an increasingly acrimonious dispute between Mr Weir and his supporters in the tourist and leisure industry, and environmental campaigners. Most notably,The Friends of the Lake District who saw the development as having an adverse effect of the mountain's delicate ecology.

At the original planning enquiry in 2011, the elder statesman of UK mountaineering spoke in favour of the application and was  shown to be visibly perturbed when the application was thrown out. After the latest setback for the Honister mine company which prompted his resignation, Bonington was said to be 'appalled by the arguments put forward by the charity'. He went on to say,"I'm sad for Jan (Wilkinson), the owner of Honister, and all those at the mine that have turned it not just into a great visitor attraction, but something that is informative and educational. "The zip wire would have been something that would have given people a lot of enjoyment and excitement and would have been good for the Lake District as a whole."

Bonington's position in support of the controversial application put the mountaineer at odds with other mountaineering organisations to which he was attached; most notably The British Mountaineering Council who opposed the original plans.

While The Honister company and Sir Chris were condemning the planning decision, The Friends of the Lake District went on record to declare their satisfaction at the result of the process. The charity body put out a statement which read;"We are pleased that the Lake District National Park Authority members agreed that the scale of this proposal in this location was inappropriate and the open fell should remain free from man-made developments, protected for everyone’s benefit "This is the best decision for the Lake District’s wider tourism economy now and in the longer-term. “The decision reaffirms the previous refusal, recognizing that recreational activities reliant on man-made infrastructure and harmful to the landscape should not be allowed in sensitive locations. “Zip-wires and GoApe tree assault courses are best located in forest settings as they are in other parts of the UK.”

Company owner and widow of the late Mark Weir, Jan Wilkinson was bullish after the latest setback,declaring that she was 'just waiting for the paperwork to come through from the authority' before putting in an appeal against the decision.

Chris Bonington who is a long time resident of Hesket Newmarket in Cumbria has since been removed from the Kendal based Friends of the Lake District list of trustees on the charity's website.

Snakes and Ladders

Robin Smith: Original photo-Jimmy Marshall

Here is a note in English on the first Scottish ascent of the least vertical wall in all the Alps.
We went for a week or two among the greater mountains, the first, of course, the Matterhorn, a noble pile, so a day or two later we came to the Dolomites. We hairpinned up to Lavaredo, 3 in 1 and 2 by 2, S. and R. for the wheel and meals and Haston and me for the Cima West. The cold at dawn would have blackened the toes of a brass monkey. So around 10, Haston and me, we ambled round to under the North Wall (having made a cunning plan with S. and R.) with 300ft. of rope, doubled, 1 sack, 1 camera, 2 hammers, 6 slings, 8 etriers, 40 karabiners, and (cunningly) 300ft. of line to save us taking bivvy gear.

Cassin climbed it years ago, two men and three days and just a few pitons, 800ft. up the far right edge, then 500ft. of hairy traverse- above the biggest overhang you ever saw- in to the middle of the wall, then, 1,000ft. up a couloir and over the top in a thundering storm, babbling. But nowadays they go for Diret­tissimas, straight up the biggest overhangs with a great beating of pegs and drums. A first ascent can last for years, with time off for rest cures, with an average of more than a piton a yard, and just a few expansion bolts where the rock won't take pitons, and just a few free-climbing moves rudely disrupting the rhythm of swinging free.

The powers of the pioneers to pitoneer and persevere are far beyond the grasp of Stone-age Britons, but all the pitons are left in place so that later ascents are comparatively easy. In 1959, inevit­ably, they finished a direct start to the Via Cassin; and here is how we cunningly climbed it.
We tied on to the double rope, and divided the gear, and one man took the sack, with the line and the camera, and the other took the krabs and stepped up off the path. For 20ft. you climb the rock, because it's only vertical.

The wall has the look of an elephant's hide, flat and smooth from a distance, but riddled all over with pocks and warts, piton-cracks, sharp little finger holds, crumbling jugs, loose flakes, shallow grooves, sharp little roofs, and ledges to stand on once in a blue moon. The route is a wandering line of pitons, 400ft. hither and thither up a shallow, gently overhanging bay, to under the monstrous arch of a roof jutting out about 80ft., and then 200ft. along a magnifi­cent zig-zag piton crack, twisting up and out and leftwards all at once, and round the lip of the roof, and then by another 400ft. of gently overhanging wall easing off to the plumb vertical just as it joins the Via Cassin at the end of the hairy traverse under the couloir.

But we had had but a nibbling foretaste of unelementary piton­eering. So up we bumbled, up two down one, clawing krabs and thrashing air, hurling holds at audiences, otherwise avoiding the rock like a hot tin roof, but nonetheless trapping fingers, baring knuckles, dripping gore on krabs and ropes and beating knees to black and blue balloons. To play it cool, you harmonise your ropes. "Tight on white, and slack a bit of red." Only ours were both a dirty white, synchronically turning speckled red, obtusely-clipped at acutest angles, writhing into tumorous kinks, and hideously twisted like a pair of loving snakes, with the man who was climbing too throttled to speak and the man at the reins too sleepy to listen and the two of us linked by nothing but hate and discord. One man would follow the pitons till he ran out of rope or krabs or couldn't drag the rope any further, then he would sit and swing in his ladders while the other man followed, collecting all the krabs, and clambered over the first, man and up the next pitch. Easy; but night fell at the end of four pitches, which is to say, right away out on the lip of the monster roof.

This was not cunning, but we had a cunning move in hand, and scanned the gloomy screes below and bawled to left and right. But no S. and R., so we passed a worried hour spinning our webs for the night. Haston was laughing, he was at a belay, a rugosity for his seat and one foothold. He faced out, lopsidedly crucified across a ring of pitons, head jammed under a bit of roof, and held in at the belly by Criss-cross bits of hoary abandoned rope. I was 20ft. down and right, hanging free from a holdless scoop, but with pitons all around. So facing in, I wove a net of krabs and ladders and bits of sling, slung around me under my armpits, under my seat and under my knees, with toes against the rock an inch above the biggest bit of roof, seated, as it were, on a bottomless closet, and feeling that way too.

Robin Smith-left and Dougal Haston:Original Photo SMC

I had the sack, so while Haston yelled the odds I took out the line and unravelled it 300ft. down into the night. This was the first, but we feared it was the last of the steps of our cunning plan. But then the plaintive voice of S. rose from the screes. We answered warmly. They had driven down to town to buy us fruit and goodies and bread and jam and butter and chocolate full of brandy, and cooked a thermos of coffee and a dixie of stew and potatoes, and wrapped them in duvets and sleeping-bags with knife and fork and spoon, and tied them all into a great rucksack. But then, it seemed, they had taken the sack to the wrong mountain; and only by chance had S. happened to hear us. So S. went off to fetch the sack and R.

By now it was so dark that I couldn't see more than a blur of Haston, but we both untied from the double rope and undoubled it, with some confusion, into a single length of 300ft. Then Haston tied onto one end, and I tied the other end to the top end of the dangling line and carried on lowering so that the bottom end of the line would reach all the 500ft. to the screes. But meanwhile, hanging loops of rope had embrangled themselves around the dangling line, and as I lowered the rope the line came back up in a loop-the-loop, and I found myself lowering it all over again. A fankle ensued. So I went to work like a fizzling computer, speaking coaxing words to all the little knots, with Haston somewhere up above turning cold and repetitive.

 Meanwhile S., with the sack and R., had been back for quite some time; we could see them waving torches at the bottom. In two hours all but the kernels of fankle were solved, so I lowered as much as I could, and sure enough they caught it in the beam of a torch, snaking down to the screes 100ft. out from the base of the wall. They fixed the sack to the end, and I rigged up a pulley of krabs, and then they beetled off. back to camp and I pulled up the sack. From where he was, Haston was useless, he just froze and swore and moaned, while the rope came up in tiny jerks and down in the depths the invisible sack was monstrously spinning and leaping through the night.

The pulley was all wrong, and once in a while there were bits of fankle to get past the krabs, and the more I pulled in the worse the fankles grew, till even my arms were all seized up in knots, and not until the first faint glimmer of dawn did the sack swirl into sight. I gaffed it to a piton and slumped in my slings, but then I was roused by Haston's groans, so I put on a duvet and sleeping-bag, and gobbled coffee and handfuls of goodies and stew, and Haston pulled up his share, with goodies and stew unhappily all mixed up, and then we slept.

Well into the morning S. and R. returned, so loth as sloths we unbedded ourselves and packed the rucksack, keeping duvets and goodies. Then I lowered it, that was easy, but the ropes were so fankled it stuck half-way, so I had to pull it up (pull it up) and start all over again. Next time it stuck about 60ft. from the 'screes, but I wasn't going to pull it up, so Haston untied from his end of the, rope, which gave me another 20ft., and I added a chain of tatty' slings, and S. stood tip-toe on a rock and got hold of the sack and took it off, and the ropes sprung back so high in the air that I hardly needed to pull them up at all. Then I took our cunning line and hurled it back to the screes, and Haston recovered an end of rope and we tried to redouble it for climbing, but the strain had left it twisted and kinked in psychopathic convulsions, and not for a dismal number of hours did we start to climb.

The climbing was just the bleeding same, with nothing but the beginnings of cunning to balance the loss of blood and vigour. We reached the hairy traverse of the Via Cassin just in time for an hour of beating sun-set, and here was the very first ledge of the climb with plenty of room for two. So we settled for a reasonably typical hunched-up twitching, chittering, wriggling, burbling, hellishly freezing bivouac. Then half an hour of tepid sun-rise hustled us onwards. The Direttissima really finishes up a lot more pitons just left of the Via Cassin couloir. But it looked daft and we were sickened, so stuffing our ladders away, we finished up the crumbling, tumbling couloir. At noon we came out in the frizzling sun and hobbled down the other side all sweat and blood and stiff and sore, with fists rolled up like hedge-hogs, and they never opened till S. and R. had fed us full of food and wine and wheeled us home to the land of rolling Munros.

Robin Smith

from THE EDINBURGH UNIVERSITY MOUNTAINEERING CLUB JOURNAL 1960

Hills of Home

A late evening call from my friend John and a quick check on the BBC Weather was enough to call off the planned walk for the next morning, low cloud, drizzle, poor visibility etc, but as is often the case it would have been better to look out of the window, the morning was glorious with a warm breeze and a cloudless sky, the best laid plans of mice and men eh! With my list of household chores duly ticked off and the day looking better by the hour there must be a 'to do' tick before the girls get back from school.

There was a 'Derelict Barn' scene that I had wanted to take an image of for ages and the sun would have been just right and the visibility was crystal clear so I headed off in the vicinity of Penygroes to drop off a note with Joe the gas delivery driver and then the  new A487 to my barn spot, big disappointment, the barn looked great and the light was perfect and there were even some perfectly sited livestock to add drama, the only thing spoiling the scene were traffic lights, council waggon's, a huge tarmac eating machine and nowhere to stop, hell.

Another slight to the mind and eye and to anyone who wants to take an image of the peaks of the Rivals and the Lleyn Peninsula are three new wind turbines that have sprouted up in the name of renewable energy and a quick buck to the land owner no doubt, it will soon be impossible to take a photograph of a landscape or seascape without these hideous monstrosities so I carried on to the next available turning space and then had a thought, Cwm Pennant, haven't been there for years and never with my camera, don't know why, this was a too good to miss opportunity.

Just past Dolbenmaen a left turn brings you on to the very narrow lane that leads to the head of Cwm Pennant some three miles further. The road sort of pulls you along very easily and tempts you to want to know what's around the next corner, the road follows, as many old roads do the path of the river Dwyfor that flows gently from the slopes of Moel Hebog, Moel Lefn  and Moel yr Ogof that look down into the bowl of the valley on all sides, there is no escape from here to the Gwyrfai valley on the other side except by a steep uphill trek over 'Bwlch y Ddwy Elor' and down to Rhyd Ddu, my birth place.

The very name 'Bwlch y Ddwy Elor' gives this place a feeling of antiquity and 'Hiraeth' it translates as 'The Pass of the Two Biers' and I remember my grandfather telling me tales that he had been told of the struggles that took place to carry the dead from one village to another over the hillside, swapping the 'biers' on the summit ridge and then carrying the deceased down to the chapel for burial whilst taking the empty bier back until it was required another time.This gap in the col is itself at 427 mtrs above sea level so a sombre journey carrying a deceased family member especially in winter months must have been a hard and sorrowful undertaking.The link between Rhyd Ddu and Pennant must have been significant and I assume because there is no cemetery in Rhyd Ddu the dead were buried in the chapel in Cwm Pennant, it seems a long way and difficult to fathom why such undertakings would take place in so remote a spot.

The day I was there, despite it being a glorious Autumnal day the chapel looked forlorn with a somewhat 'down in the dumps' feeling to it,the path into the graveyard was overgrown and it took some effort to open the gate, on inspection the guttering was falling off the sides and the door was well and truly bolted, I suppose it rarely gets much use these days and the relatives of the dead and buried have moved to pastures new leaving their ancestors in pastures old. Looking at the stones I came across some very old inscriptions and one was dated 1632 and 1636 respectively for a young couple , the woman being 20 years and the male  (her brother/husband?) only 22.

Strangely, nestled amongst all the dark slate headstones there were some newish white marble ones which stood out like sore thumbs, although the slate quarrying here ceased many years ago and must have originally supplied the headstones I found it rather sad that they had to resort to importing such an alien rock to a valley full of slate.

“BLOWS the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying—
  Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups* are crying,
  My heart remembers how!

“Gray, recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
  Standing stones on the vacant, red-wine moor,
Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races
  And winds austere and pure!

“Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
  Hills of home! and I hear again the call—
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying,
  And hear no more at all.”
                                              Robert Louis Stevenson

*Whaups: Curlews

There can be no doubt that this valley is one of the most beautiful of all the mountain valleys in Wales and the poet Eifion Wyn who grew up in the area has two lines in his poem 'Cwm Pennant' which has found its way into Welsh folklore , "Pam, Arglwydd, y gwnaethost Gwm Pennant mor dlws? A bywyd hen fugail mor fyr?"    roughly translated it says: ‘O Lord, why did you make Cwm Pennant so beautiful and the life of a shepherd so short?’

These few words sum up the whole of Cwm Pennant and its geology, industry and the very people who live here and existed amongst the most dramatic backdrop possible. If you are to be interred anywhere then this sacred spot would be hard to beat, you can rest in peace for another millennia without the though that there may be a chance you could be tarmacked over or have a huge wind turbine shaking the ground you lie in, it just seemed a safe place to be with its grazing sheep and gently flowing river to keep you company and only a raven's tumbling flight to the summits of spirits, where you would be amongst the sleeping warriors awaiting their call to arms once more.

The Autumn colours were overwhelming and the silence rather difficult to get used to, there were no jets flying despite the clear skies and no farmers on their quad bikes to break the solitude and in all the time I was there i met only two others who had cycled up the valley from Garndolbenmaen.we chatted for a few minutes, mainly about their ongoing battle with a huge wind farm development that was going to despoil their village near Welshpool and had caused great divide between folk who had been friends and neighbours for many years before the development raised its head. after putting the world to rights we went our separate ways, they to explore the upper reaches of the cwm and I to head back down the valleys winding track.

I stopped at the little bridge that crosses the Dwyfor higher up the valley to take some shots, the pools here were perfect for a spot of summer swimming or just about paradise for a picnic lunch, on the whole six mile round trip I hadn't passed another vehicle at all and stopped here to have a brew from the flask, I got to thinking about the rivers name and why do so many think of it as Dwy (two) for (sea), it doesn't make sense for it to be called a river that flows to two seas and the head of the cwm has a spur off called Bwlch Dwyfor and it is from here that the river has its source as well as the flow off the peaks.,after some research I discovered that its name derives from 'Big Holy River' and there is a tributary, the River Dwyfach, the 'Small Holy River'.a spiritual spot indeed.

There are some magical names doted around the cwm: Rhwngdwyafon- Between two rivers, Cwm Llefrith- The Valley of Milk,  Cwm Sais- The Englishman's Pass it all sounds a bit 'wild west' and probably stems from the pioneers who came here to mine the ore and quarry the slate, leaving behind them some great signatures which will live on for future generations to ponder over.

Hut Circles and House Platforms abound throughout the landscape which shows that the valley was much utilised prior to 'modern man's' exploits to extricate the ore and the stone, it must have been a perfect shelter for iron age settlers and agriculturalists from the middle ages drawn by its  abundant timber sources and the constant supply of water, once the timber clearance took place and the ground being even and fertile due to past glacial deposits it was ideal for settlement and animal enclosure.The sea was also within close proximity and easily accessible for fish, shellfish and seaweed for drying and composting, so with all its attributes this cwm provided the perfect natural and secure enclosure that was needed.

Although I had to return home I was reluctant to leave such a beautiful place having spent such a short time here, I could have easily spent the whole day exploring its hidden gems, mind you it was a stunning day compared to the last time I was here, some 25 years ago, we came to 'do' Hebog from the Pennant route but the more we climbed up the road the worse the weather became and on arriving at the head of the valley it was more typical of a day that had been forecasted at the beginning of this tale, that particular day we quickly turned turtle and headed to Criccieth for some stunning ice cream, it must have been an age ago as Cadwalader's at the time were like Henry Ford, 'you can have any flavour you like as long as it's Vanilla' as that was the only choice available.

Evening meal was Fish, Chips, Peas and Gravy from the 'Castle' chippy opposite, the fish suppers were so good here that my climbing buddies Gary and Bob and I drove all the way from Liverpool one evening just for that and then all the way back, 200 miles round trip, you'd need a mortgage for the fuel alone for that these days let alone the Fish Supper.

If you need some solitude and an escape from the crowds, especially in midweek and the sun shines down on you then take a trip up to Cwm Pennant, bring a flask of Quarryman's tea and some sandwiches on big hunks of home made bread and get into the spirit of the place,you won't  be disappointed I can guarantee you, of course don't tell any body else about it.

Ken Latham: First published on Dragonsnappers blogspot
All photographs-Ken Latham

Dead Climbers Society

About twelve years ago, I turned up at the family home in Llanrwst, North Wales of John Kerry, a long deceased climber of local repute. I was hoping the family had found the late climbers journal which detailed all his first ascents in the area. An extensive domain which stretched from the lower reaches of the Conwy Valley around Betws y Coed to the sea.

Some decades previously,Tony Moulam- who was in the process of writing a new Climbers Club guide to Carneddau- had also visited the Kerry home, accompanied by Harold Drasdo where the local tiger showed them his comprehensive journal detailing his first ascents in the area.The fascinating thing for me- who at the time had a small part in a forthcoming Meirionydd guidebook-was the fact that most of the Kerry climbs were on unknown and unlisted crags in the area. If we could find 'The Kerry Files' it would open up a whole new area of climbing in North Wales.

John Kerry was hardly a household name nationally, but amongst the local climbing fraternity in the 60's and 70's, his name was synonymous with hard first ascents in the area. Most of these new routes were on isolated crags and quarries scattered down the Conwy Valley. An area which to this day has never had it's many isolated crags and climbs documented. It might surprise climbers who believe that pretty much all of North Wales and indeed UK climbing venues have been recorded, documented and published through guidebooks, but in fact dozens if not hundreds of crags and climbs have never seen the light of day in a guidebook. Many of these 'new' crags will belatedly feature in the next Carneddau guidebook for the first time when it is published, but not the Conwy Valley crags which still retain their mystery.

John Kerry had died in his mid 40's of heart failure induced by a bout of pneumonia. He was found in a caravan during a harsh Scottish winter. A painfully premature death of an unsung Welsh hero far from his home in the small market town near the head of a valley, which is in character is lush and fertile. In contrast to the harsher uplands of Hiraethog and Carneddau which contain it.

As a local activist, John had created something of a personal fiefdom within the valley on crags which even to this day never see the white paw of a climber. Crags like Rhyd y Creuau which looks down on the A470 near Betws y Coed and where- according to Harold Drasdo,another local activist-  he had made over twenty first ascents in the 1970's. Many which were hard extremes. As someone who climbed about six lines on spec there in the 90's, I can say that the crag is never going to become a post modern classic by virtue of the encroaching trees and its vegetated face. Certainly on a recent visit the crag looked dank and unappetising. However,who knows what gems lie beneath it's green mantle?

I imagine that when Kerry climbed there 40 years ago,it was relatively open and clean as the mix of mostly oaks and birch trees would be mere saplings then. I can remember climbing there with Harold Drasdo one warm summer's day and nearly falling off the climb I was on as a sudden dark shadow fell over me. Was it a tumbling boulder... a giant bird.. a falling climber??? No..it was a hang glider practically clipping the top of the crag above my head!

Al Leary on John Kerry's classic E1-Dinas Mawr Eliminate:Photo Mike Bailey

Last week,on my way up the valley towards the coast, one of John Kerry's mystery crags hove into view as I rounded the straight towards Tal y Cafn. It's pale stone face capped with impressive overhangs stood out, illuminated in the searing winter sun set in a deep blue sky. A mile further on I had a 'sod it' moment and turned the car around and headed back to take a look. The ground below the crag  is heavily wooded and the frozen, steep ground made the going tough. Reaching the crag I discovered the path beneath the crag had been taken over by vicious blackthorn trees and brambles. However,the main cliff looked impressive beyond its thorny barrier, with a dramatic outlook looking straight down on the  languorous Afon Conwy winding its way to the nearby sea while in the distance, the snow capped Carneddau range completed the painterly vista. Another impressive piece in the Kerry Gold jigsaw...another slice of the mystery.

It appears that the Kerry journal is still lost and his-quite possibly-hundreds of first ascents are lost with it. Although there are some recorded climbs we know about in the Betws y Coed area, many of which are starred routes or at least will be when the new guide comes out. At least a fair few of his many climbs were recorded via the conventional channels. It has now become common for us when engaged in exploring a remote local crag within Kerry's fiefdom, to find a rusting old peg in an outrageous position and shout down, 'looks like John Kerry's been here'!

Those years ago when I followed in Tony Moulam and Harold Drasdo's footsteps and arrived at the Kerry household, his sister brought out a rucksack which had been brought down from Scotland after his death in 1991 and which had not been opened since. With all due reverence and respect I carefully emptied it out on the living room carpet. Amongst the usual tat of the crag rat, a school exercise book with some notes. Sadly, they only related to some new climbs he had done in Scotland. I looked at his passport.  His photograph showed a bearded aquiline face with a fixed intense stare. Just as I imagined he would look. A hard climber.. 'a loner' according to his sister but a loner who had found the uncharted cliffs and quarries of the Conwy Valley a perfect arena for intensive pioneering. Will the Kerry files ever turn up? Probably not but I for one think his exploits and what he represented is worth remembering and bringing to a wider audience.

Some climbers with a far inferior pedigree in terms of creativity are relatively well known while John Kerry is now largely forgotten. Like so many other talented climbers who saw their star burn briefly and brightly before disappearing over the horizon into the void.

*Following the publication of this article, I was contacted by Colin Ogilvie from Glasgow who climbed with John Kerry in Scotland. Colin offers this fascinating insight into JK's activities up North......

"I still live in Glasgow where John was resident from about the mid to late 1970's, and climbed and socialised with him on several occasions. John continued his pioneering of routes on Welsh crags that others had failed to see the potential of here in the west of Scotland, notably in Kircudbright on such sea cliffs as Meikle Ross in 1975, and close to Glasgow at Craigmore where he gardened out numerous good short routes and also at Auchinstarry and other quarries near Kilsyth, where again the Kerry ice axe and brush were used to good effect and some excellent routes discovered.

Most of these routes are still popular with local climbers. John had no personal transport of his own (like many of us) and often travelled by bus to these crags, complete with gardening equipment!
Auchinstarry, like many quarries is partly flooded and soon after the first routes were done in about 1976 or '77 the water level started to rise making access more difficult. It so happened that the Planning Officer based in Cumbernauld at the time who had responsibilty for Kilsyth was a Mr John Kerry, and before long the the Council had been persuaded of the potential of the quarry as a recreational resource! The water level was lowered, and it was made safe for water sports. A level path was constructed around the water perimeter giving access to the climbs; landscaping and a car park were built, all due to our man. This area is still in use today, and enjoyed by many local people.

It does not surprise me that records of John's new climbs in Wales are hard to obtain. He did not record any of his climbs in Scotland in the established Journals, though he did contribute to a Guide book to the aforementioned crags, published about 1977 by a local shop, Highrange Sports, entitled Western Outcrops, Volume 2. What he did do was create a lot of good routes from some pretty unpromising raw material, a fact not appreciated by many people.

Many other climbers active at the time in this area besides myself will remember John well, having like me held his rope whilst being bombarded with falling debris on occasions. Names that spring to mind are Jim Reader, and Ken Johnstone. As far as I know his ice axe was reserved for gardening crags, not climbing snow and ice. John was a good rock climber and as well as his pioneering of local outcrops in Scotland did some of the established hard classics in Glencoe such as Yo-Yo, Unicorn, Carnivore and Shibboleth.

 I don't know of many ventures farther away except for a whole sunny week spent at Creag and Dubh-Loch in the Cairngorms with  Ken Johnstone, where John was allegedly sustained by tins of Irish Stew as was his habit. Other than that, I heard that he later gave up climbing and had gone underground as a caver! "...CO: Glasgow...January 2013

One of John Kerry's 'lost crags' in the Conwy Valley.

John Appleby 2012