AN article for the journal? O.K. Now what do I write about? A good route, now what have I done? Nowt. Oh well, there’s always Avon this Sunday. What can I do there? Malpractice sounds good enough (depending on which guide you use). Now what do the other guys think of it?
Neil: "Hard."
Z: "Waste of time."
Oh well, it was a nice thought.
M.A.P.: "I found it really gripping, but there’s a peg you can use on the crux."
Well, I might as well give it a burl.
Sunday comes and figures loom out of the darkness to colleet at the Senate House.
"Morning Glebe."
"Morning all."
Grumbled greetings exchanged, everybody settles on their sacks to await the arrival of the van. A crash of gears echoing up King’s Parade herald its approach.
The monotonous four-hour cross-country drive is punctuated only by the occasional scream from the mass of cramped, contorted bodies in the rear. As we pile into the cafe at Oxford for a late breakie, the Gog Magog representative indulges in one of the Club’s oral activities. Still, it was pretty stuffy in there.
Climbers, tourists and dogs alike jump out of the way as the van grinds into the Gorge car park. A quick brew and then, being sufficiently gripped, we got Mike to show us the beginning of the route.
"Where’s it go?"
"Up there, there, across there and then up there, just follow the spikes."
An awkward mantleshelf to start leads to the bottom of a smooth slab. It looks like it goes left here.
"Hey, Glebe, you should have gone straight up" – Neil was next to us on Malwhatsit. A look round the corner reveals a ledge system leading to the two spikes.
"It’s O.K., I think this is the alternative start."
Belaying with the spikes between your legs certainly gives you a nervous sweat. However, no fear, Roj gets up the pitch O.K. and positions are exchanged. Where now? A climb up the rib on the right gives a couple of runners. A shout comes from below: "I can see the peg five feet above the triangular overhang."
Oh hell that looks a wee bit committing. A couple of trial prances then here it goes. The flake reveals itself – a beautiful layback – a stupendous layback and there you are – footholds as well – what more could you ask for?
The peg is threaded and from below comes a muffled threat. Sitting astride the spikes, Roj is looking a trifle worried about his future married life. A couple of months of climbing certainly shows itself, the arms are beginning to feel a bit knackered.
Let’s see what is above the peg – a quick foot change and a move up shows good holds, but in the wrong position. A rapid reversal and then a clip onto the peg for a rest. There go the ethics. Now if the left foot goes on that wee hold and the right foot goes up...
"Here goes Roj."
Unclip and up we go. Great, huge jugs all the way up – now what are you shaking for? A short rest and then an unsuccessful cowboy act to get a forward rope onto the next phallic spike. A quick swing down, a runner on the spike and straight across the slab to the tree belay.
"Right, Roj, your turn."
He climbs up, pulling out the many runners. A few minutes rest at the crux and up he comes.
"Good, wasn’t it?"
"Great, apart from your singing."
The steep groove above goes, easier, then up to belay off the park railings. Hundreds of grockles abound and there’s even a Mister Softee. Roj appears, the belay is unclipped, and then a race for the first ice cream.
A slide down the muddy path and then brews and butties in the car park, beans and chips on the motorway and plenty of tubes at the "Whale". Now what about next year’s journal?