© J A D Healey 2014
Frank drove Margaret, Bob and me to the station, calling round the town for some more colour film on the way (Bob had to be content with the more expensive Kodachrome, instead of the Ilford he prefers) and then we settled down for the journey to Newhaven.
The "Worthing" had already left; we walked through the customs in great comfort and were some of the first on the "Brighton" and booked some seats, but didn't seem able to claim them later!
We watched the crowds from the boat trains arrived, almost the only familiar face was that of Dennis, who, being on his own, joined us. He was to join Clive and co. who had already had a week in the Dauphiné. As usual we were some of the first in the dining room and enjoyed our meal, thinking that the more we ate on the boat the less we should need to eat in France, where money was so limited.
We had no reservations for the Paris trains, but we were able to find a free carriage and arrived soon after 6 o'clock.
Margaret insisted that we crossed Paris by the Metro, and certainly it was far cheaper than a bus, let alone a taxi, but it was rather crowded. At the Gare du Lyon we left our rucksacks in the cloakroom, confirmed the time of the train and then set about finding somewhere to eat. We didn't even examine the menu of the Café European, but Margaret noted the prices of the next restaurant and, after a fruitless search along a few back streets we came back to this and had the fixed price meal. Bob ordered fish, Margaret and I pork, Bob was the lucky one for the pork was minced up and unrecognisable.
We reclaimed our luggage, said goodbye to Dennis, and found our train. We walked the whole length of the train (quite a feat!), but the carriages got nowhere near our reservation. Then we found that the train on the other side of the platform was a duplicate, but again it didn't get up to 46, or whatever was the number of our carriage. Fortunately Margaret's knowledge of French was able to get the information that there was a third train going our way. To save walking all the way up two platforms, we walked through the second train and then crossed the track – after all, this was Paris and not London!
This third train, we found out left 13 minutes after the scheduled one, and we soon found our carriage. While walking along to our compartment, I was called back and found Don Cowan, Don Chapman, Don Willins and Nat, they had crossed on the "Worthing" and I stayed for a chat.
The three of us had a carriage to ourselves, and had a wonderful night; it's such a grand run to Dijon, and then, as it gets light, the country begins to get interesting.
We arrived at St. Gervais at about 8 o'clock on a brilliant morning and found seats on the 8.15 to Chamonix, where I continued to act as my party's guide to the peaks, as they came into view (the view from this train was more familiar to me than that from the last).
At Chamonix at 9.30 I was disappointed to find that the C.A.F. office hadn't opened at 8.30, as the booklet had said, so, after Bob and Margaret had made a few enquiries about trains we proceed to the Biolay, to be greeted by Madame, and to make the tea. We had made out a shopping list in the train to Paris, and we soon had our provisions for our three day stay at the Albert 1ere hut, and also had liver and potatoes for a meal before catching the 1.23 train to Mont Roc.
There were many familiar faces at the Biolay, the first and most welcome was that of Mac. He had been there a week and had done one climb and had spent the rest of the time recovering from it – that climb was the Aiguille du Diable! Dave Fisher, Roger Chorley, and then, a more friendly one again, George Band, besides Levers, and 'Crystal', also Margaret and Ralph Braithwaite.
At Mont Roc at 2 o'clock, I realised that I had forgotten two things, my compass and the lemons. I seemed to surprise Margaret with my French when I asked the railway official if there was a shop in Tours where it was possible to buy lemons – he replied cautiously that there was a shop! – we found later that there were no lemons!
I took the wrong turning out of the village, fortunately Margaret was able to enquire about the right way.
We had read up the various ways of reaching the hut; the first way, the book said, had little to recommend it, but when Bob realised that it was the tough way, he thought we ought to take it and, remembering it was the way Pez had taken us in 1948, and being loath to admit I had got soft in the meantime I agreed.
Margaret was forging ahead in the field made bright by the brilliant colours of the legs of the noisy crickets, when she decided she ought to go at a more alpine like pace, and came behind me. Bob refused to go in front, although I felt that my pace must be very frustrating for him. After nearly an hour from Tours, I asked whether we should halt before the water, and was told no, so I continued to make myself stagger up the zigzags, across the dry gully, and then on, up and up. Round each corner I'd think that now surely we had got to the level of the water, but no, there would be another zigzag.
All things come to an end, even the zigzags to the Albert 1ere. Suddenly there was only a level track between me and the water, which was our pre-arranged resting place. We threw down our packs, even I drank water, and Bob prepared bread and butter and hard boiled egg. We wasted a good hour there, Bob wandered off to photograph flowers with his colour film, and I tried to snap the photographer.
Only I knew what was in store for us – the interminable moraine – we had one or two standing halts on this, and then had the last irritation of the stones at the top, but eventually, at about 6.30 we were at the Albert 1ere and giving our name to the guardian.
We started to take our primus outside, as the hut was a little packed, but someone told us that was unnecessary, and certainly all the table tops were of metal, so we soon retreated inside and made the tea, to be followed by soup with spaghetti and corned beef.
At Mont Roc Station there had been a very English looking party of about a dozen and, as we passed, an authoritative voice had said, "I think it's time I issued these" – so we guessed it was a Ramblers Association or some such party and, a few hours later, they began to trickle in, complete with the guide, Pierre, who had said he'd seen me about the Biolay last year. I had never been impressed with him, but they told me he'd climbed the Eigerwand the previous week, so I tried to adjust my ideas about him.
We went to bed in good time, and I suggested that we should get up at about 6.30 for the Aiguille du Tour, but the guardian said he'd call us at 4 o'clock.
For the first time in my life I slept for my first night in a hut and this despite the change in the weather, for a wind had sprung up, and the metal roof made such a good sounding board for rain.
Someone got up at 2 o'clock, but soon returned; we got up when called, had a leisurely breakfast and then, as it wasn't actually raining, we set out.
We took the lower track onto the glacier and then, as the first glacier was 'dry' (theoretically) and quite steep, and a little 'verglaced', we put on crampons, Margaret having the usual trouble with the quick release fastenings. We continued on up, and then round above the little Rognon and, great event for Margaret, we crossed the first crevasse. Very soon after this we held a council of war and I tried to point out that, if we got wet through today, when the weather was obviously bad, we might miss a climb the next day when the weather might be better. Other parties were retreating so we did the same, taking the same track back as we had taken up, but noting that some other people took a higher line over the rocks, avoiding the dry glacier.
Really I was most amused to spend yet another day, weather bound in the Albert 1ere. We went back to bed at first, and I got on with my knitting – I badly needed the mitts I hadn't finished! Then, during the day we brewed either tea or soup at, I should think, two-hour intervals, to pass the time and to warm ourselves up.
Some of the R.A. party helped us to pass the time; in the afternoon Bob had us playing a cross between tiddlywinks and shove halfpenny – a sort of table football with them. There was another Englishman at the hut, Dick Cook, who was a friend of Grace. Of the Ramblers, the man from Bristol gave his address to Margaret, the boy from Kendal (according to Bob) was the card of the party and then there was young Peter "As I saw you at Mont Roc I said to myself – those three may be wearing the French uniform, but they're British" (actually we all three had on British anoraks!).
During the day the rain had changed to sleet, so I went to bed thinking that either we should have an interesting day with the new snow on the Tour, or else it would be 1948 all over again.
Having had all day Monday to sort out our things we seemed a little disorganised in the morning, and got away sometime after the Ramblers.
It was fortunate that we weren't bound for a serious expedition, for there were so many diversions, even on the way up to the Col de Tour – birds and photography. It was a perfect day for the latter, as the book says, there is a superb panorama from the Tour, and we had that view with clouds in the valleys. I soon shot off the three or four exposures on my old film, and then realised that I had forgotten to bring a spare one!
After a short descent, and final slog up, we came to the Col de Tour, where the R.A. party were disporting themselves.
There were two women in the party, the younger one remained on the col and would hardly give a civil answer to any of my remarks, the older one was tied on the rope next to Pierre. Now Pierre led up a snow slope where the snow had not adhered to the ice beneath and, as the second tried to follow him, that snow was further disturbed, leaving the ice in which no steps had been cut. At first, Pierre was in no position to give any help with the rope and how that poor woman struggled. I hoped Margaret noted when Pierre told her off for holding the axe by the shaft and not by the head.
Soon the others started to find their own way up the slope, and eventually someone cut steps in the ice, after several had had little slips. Eventually, I realised that Margaret also was in need of practice, so we went a little way up, to slide down, breaking with the pick.
Eventually, we continued on our way, having the thrill of making the tracks in the snow. We hadn't needed our crampons, but continued to carry them in case we should decide to traverse the mountain, and not come back to the col.
I misread the diagram; what I thought to be the Purtscheller was in reality the south peak of the Tour but, despite this, I maintain that the diagram is wrong. It marks the route going up the right hand side of the buttress, instead of the left. The snow was treacherous, lying on top of icy stuff. Bob led us safely up over the little bergschrund and up to the foot of the rocks, where he offered the lead to me. I made my way slowly up the rocks, finding holds beneath the snow, until I found a stance and belay. I was worried as I knew there was an easy route near, which we had missed. Bob was enjoying the fact that we were finding something interesting on an easy peak like the Tour. I continued up a few feet and then found that the way wouldn't 'go', so I suggested a rappel down to the right. We hadn't a spare rope, but the 150 ft we were climbing on gave us plenty.
Bob and Margaret went down, and Bob cut steps traversing to the right until he got to a miniature couloir he could cut up, seconded by Margaret. I kept the rope through the rappel sling for as long as possible on a belay, but eventually I had to untie and recover it and follow the others, firstly up the ice steps and then over rotten rock.
I realised that I had had far more experience than Margaret at seconding, but at the same time it was better to have her in the middle on a traverse.
Near the top a party passed along the ridge and told Bob to keep to his right and not to come up the gully; I was relieved to see them, for I knew that the way would be obvious from that point and it was a delight to get onto firm, easy rock. The other party turned out to be guideless Swiss and very friendly when we met on the summit, the woman immediately making a place so that I could sit by her. We ate, then the two parties photographed each other and exchanged addresses, and started off down. The snow was softening rapidly and, soon after the place where we had joined their route, we found that beneath the soft snow the rock was completely shattered. The other party waited for us at strategic points on the way down.
The woman obviously wasn't very experienced and, when it came to a jump at the bergschrund she wasn't at all happy, so, in sympathy, I said that I also didn't like jumping, at which their last man offered to take my rope (although I belayed behind) and Margaret thought he was going to pull her off.
We had another long halt at the col, the Swiss climbed the snow mound, while Bob and I climbed the little rock tower the other side. It was typical Chamonix: firm, bright coloured granite, and the way led up over slabs to a chimney at the top. We went up the left hand side, and down the right, and eventually we said goodbye to the Swiss, collected our things and started back to the hut. At the top of the little rise, I remembered that I had left the guidebook at the foot of the climb, and we left Margaret where she was, and Bob and I set off to recover it. Very soon after we started up, I realised that Bob was going too fast for me, so, as there were no more crevasses, I suggested that we should unrope and go at our own paces. I soon saw the folly of that, as Bob started to run up the slope. Just as I got to the foot of the rocks, Bob called out that he had got the book, so I stayed where I was until he returned. We stopped for a photo or so on the way down, and altogether my carelessness had wasted about an hour.
We finally arrived back at about 7 o'clock to find the hut packed, so we cooked outside. At about 8.30 we asked the guardian about the Chardonnet and he told us to go upstairs quickly if we were to have beds. We were shown into the single decker dormitory and told where to sleep, the trouble was there was only room for two, and the French were very loath to move up; however, Bob wormed his way in eventually.
One party got up at 1 o'clock, we had an hour's respite and were called at 2 o'clock and proceeded to have a leisurely breakfast and then pack our rucksacks (we were taking two this time). I asked the guardian whether a spare rope was necessary for the bergschrund, and he said we'd better take it. Soon after 3 o'clock we were ready to set off, lit the candle lantern and left the hut (Bob began to take a little more kindly to the lantern after using it). At first there was a light far up the glacier in front of us.
We roped up as soon as we reached the glacier and found some tracks which we followed. In the half light of dawn we were in some wonderful ice scenery, fortunately the largest crevasse had a most substantial bridge. We didn't bother with crampons, although there was one slightly icy place where we had to traverse down. We continued to follow the tracks, but I got a little worried as they led up and up, more towards the Col du Tour instead of the Chardonnet and the book diagram marked the way coming along the foot of the Chardonnet from the right.
Eventually we reached the Rognon mentioned in the book; we had taken exactly guidebook time to reach it, and realised that we were on the route described, but not on the route the people ahead had used, for there were no tracks leading down to the Chardonnet, but this part of the route proved perfectly straight forward. The fun had been earlier on, fortunately Margaret soon realised my weakness in jumping crevasses and had been most helpful.
The way steepened, as we followed the way up towards the ice arête and soon we were overtaken by a very strong party of about a dozen, from the Swiss hut. They didn't put on their crampons but, below the upper lip of the bergschrund, we stopped for ours, and I was very glad of mine for the climb up the upper lip, for, if the holds were large, the wall was practically vertical, making the balance precarious, and there were only pick belays.
Then we made our way up slowly to the beginning of the arête and into the sunshine. There was quite a hold-up here, we found our two friends from the Tour in front, and Bob wondered where the lady was – he didn't realise that he was the only mug to take women on such a do!
The last Swiss party were forging ahead, and overtaking everyone, and there seemed to be a very long rope hanging down. I asked someone what this was and I thought he said , "Man courant" – that made no sense to me at all, but later we found it was "Mal courant" – that made equally little sense, but at least both words were French. The next part looked desperately dicey to me; it seemed incredibly steep (the book warned that it was 53º) and even the later parties were having trouble with it, for occasionally they'd enlarge a step. When nearly everyone was up, we made our way along, so as not to waste any time when it was our turn, but the man at the bottom asked us if we'd like to use the Mal courant, which by this time had been fixed as a handrail for the whole of the steep icy bit. "Yes please", said Margaret and I, and we mounted that part with the rope in one hand, and axe in the other, not pulling on the rope, but knowing that it was there 'just in case'.
Bob was very scornful of the rope and wouldn't touch it, much to the disgust of the Swiss, who were waiting for us. When Bob was up, the Swiss took in Margaret's and my rope, which made us practically run up the last few feet and completely exhausted us.
I asked the length of the Mal courant and was told 150 metres.
We traversed to the left and then back to the right, where we sat down to await our turn in the queue. I realised that we were an hour behind guidebook time already, but I was perfectly happy. The view was superb over towards all the Vallais and Oberland peaks. There wasn't patchy cloud below, as there had been in the view from the Tour, but just a hazy mist this time. This was the only time this day we could really study the peaks. The day before we had examined them innumerable times. The Zermatt groups changed from blue in the morning to white as the sun got round and showed up the new snow on them.
Eventually it was our turn to continue, and Bob led very well up the steep and awkward ice, and soon had Margaret and me up, on top of the ridge, ready to negotiate the rocks and snow 'collet'. Poor Margaret apparently didn't realise that she had a few more hours in front of her, before she reached the summit.
Bob did a very noble thing at the sight of the rocks, he offered their lead to me. Not only did that mean that he couldn't lead them, but it also meant that he carried the pack with the three pairs of crampons, and the axes in it (Margaret had the 100 ft rope in hers, and we climbed on the 150 ft).
I had a fine time on the rocks, with nothing to carry, on the whole they were only moderate, but of such lovely, firm, yellow granite. I had suggested that Margaret should climb at the end, so that Bob or I should have the middle position with its complicated rope management, and I hoped like this we should be a little quicker, but I soon saw that quite a lot of the rock involved traversing, on such a gentle angled ridge, and thought Margaret had better change back to the middle of the rope. There was quite a nice little downward traverse which was, I suppose the grade III mentioned in the book, and then we came to the first snow collet. I got Bob to lead these, I didn't like them. The snow on top of the ice was melting rapidly and the steps the others had used were anything but firm; however, in this first one we were soon able to reach the rocks, over which we continued for some way, until there was a place where we used a doubled rope as a handhold to swing down a couple of feet. This brought us to the snow bank in Terray's photo; I tried to take a snap, but it would have been much better had I still been on top of the rocks.
We went on and on, and eventually we were approaching the rocks on which I had seen people sitting, and sure enough, when we got there we found it was the summit, which we reached at about 12 o'clock, i.e. we had taken half as long again as the guidebook time of 6 hours. I expect we'd been kept waiting a good hour on the first part (although I was more than thankful for the parties ahead, for it would have been impossible to belay on the ice) and then on the rocks we'd moved as a one and a two, instead of altogether, as we should have done had we been a more experienced party. Margaret had found the rocks strenuous, which surprised me, but of course she'd had a pack, while I had been free.
After a rest and a snack we set off down. How thankful I was to follow down in the steps provided. It was a mucky way; the rock was shattered, so different from the Forbes arête, up which we had come, and the soft new snow on top of the scree didn't help, except that there was no mistaking the way with the footprints in the snow. We could soon see the descending parties and I was later most thankful that I had a good idea of the first part of the way down. We were surprised that the others weren't further ahead, but I suppose it took us some time to get down to the Col Adams Reilly, after we'd left the summit. We made slightly over to the left to the col before a gendarme, and then up and down to the Col Adams Reilly. There was one patch of nasty snow; I could see that the other parties had uncovered bare ice, so I impressed on my party that we were to take the utmost caution. Actually we were able to descend the snow quite easily, for it was reasonably firm to the side of the ice, but I was glad to think that I had a rock belay when Bob came down it.
I expect my precautions on snow will make Margaret as bad as me. I never mind being considered the excuse for great care being taken on the stuff. From the col, we descended the rocks a little way, but this was most unpleasant and I was most relieved when I found some abseil slings and realised that we rappelled the last 40-50 feet into the upper bergschrund. We tied onto the rope Margaret had been carrying and rappelled with the rope we had been climbing on. As I was going down I heard Bob saying to Margaret, "Now you have rappelled before, haven't you?" "Yes", said Margaret, "Once, nearly a year ago, a very short rappel below Scout Crag".
At the bottom we roped up again and started traversing the couloir to the right hand side. This snow seemed very bad to me, and I insisted on going one at a time. The snow wasn't deep enough to get a shaft belay, so I scraped it away and tried to get my pick into the ice beneath, but I had a good idea it was purely psychological. The steps were only made in the soft snow, and I was afraid of this peeling off the ice beneath. Eventually we were across the couloir and looking down into the bergschrund.
We had been in mist since the col, and the lack of visibility didn't minimise the excitement of our position. I looked about for a champignon, but nothing was cut and, at first, there seemed steps going down the vertical snow wall, then, as I went further over, I saw a little stick in the snow. It was only about 6 inches long, and I don't think the others thought it any reason for a whoop of delight, but I soon had the spare rope round it, and gave it a push, which sent it a little too far in, and then I set off down the 50 ft ice wall. Half way down I was afraid I might miss the snow bridge, but it was quite broad, and then I climbed up the other side and found a splendid axe belay and took in the rope as Bob came down as last man.
Poor Margaret! I felt such a brute as I watched her forcing herself down; I tried to tell her it was easier if she came quicker, but I quite understood that that was not the place to experiment.
Once down, she didn't seem very eager to examine her surroundings, for above the cliffs went up into the mist, while below the bridge my guess was that the bergschrund went down for hundreds of feet. Margaret won't forget Bob's remark at the bottom, "Now for a quick dash back to the hut", for we all knew that we were quite half way up the couloir. At one time, I felt very foolhardy, for I thought it was starting to snow, and I knew that, if the tracks were covered, it would take a long time to find our way across the glacier. It didn't come to anything, and we even got out of the mist at the bottom of the couloir, and that revived our spirits a lot. The rest of the descent had been quite straightforward, following the tracks and going round a few crevasses. We belayed on one or two parts, but there was nowhere we felt that a slip would be fatal.
I was going gaily along the tracks to the Col du Tour when Margaret called me back and pointed to the tracks making for our hut and these led us very quickly to our route of that morning, which we joined just before the icy bit we had to ascend this time (it had been much easier in its frozen early morning state) and so back to the hut at about 7 o'clock.
As Margaret said, she just hadn't realised that it was possible to keep going for 16 hours without a break, yet on the way back she was running and glissading over the glacier until old slowcoach in the rear would stop her because she couldn't keep up (glissading makes my legs ache was the cry of the most experienced skier in the party!).
Margaret tried to save some places in the dormitory, but they were full when we went to claim them. We were on the third storey, and I was quite comfortable, but Margaret was very cramped and moved down to the second storey as soon as some climbers left. There was no room for Bob, so he got on the floor, until someone was called and, apparently he didn't find the floor very soft.
Bob had said we must get up at 6 o'clock, so I was most annoyed to wake up and find tht my watch said 6.30. I felt quite drugged with sleep after this most unaccustomed lie in, but forced myself out of bed, and down to light the primus stove and make the tea. I was surprised to find no-one else up at this hour, only the guardian who was taking the opportunity to 'do' the hut.
After about an hour the tea was ready and I took it upstairs, where people were beginning to stir, and where I learned that my watch had gained an hour! It was most amusing to see the other non-climbers in the hut. Margaret had asked me what the other girls (quite bright young things) did, and I assured her that they could do the Tour at any rate and possibly bigger things, but we found that morning that quite a number of other people weren't climbing. We took an age over breakfast and packing, and I think it was about 9 o'clock before we settled up and left. Soon after we reached the moraine, Bob realised that he'd left his hat behind, but he didn't go back for it.
We pottered down, taking a few photos on the way – it was a lovely day, far too good not to be climbing – and eventually reached Tour. I think it was the thought of the return to Chamonix which made me rather fall I love with the village; we stopped for drinks at a little hotel, and found that the inside was most delightfully designed, and I thought that, if I ever came this way of a winter, this might be a good place to stay.
At about 11.15, we enquired the times of the trains back to Chamonix and learned that there was one in 10 minutes time, so we hurried down to Mont Roc where the train was 20 minutes late.
All went well until the tunnel just before Les Tines, where, as soon as we were properly in, there was some shouting and we stopped. Then we went on again, there was a flash, the lights went out, and there was sparking all along under the train. "Sortez, sortez", said a woman, and everyone started queuing for the door. Margaret and I didn't join the queue, as we couldn't get in it. I looked out of the window, and realised I could get down there, I remembered how, in British express trains, the fire had spread along coaches in a matter of seconds, but of course that was when they were running, and the fire was fanned by a considerable breeze. However, in a few minutes the sparking stopped and everyone sat down again. Soon a man in a long greatcoat came along, he was quite a picturesque figure; he carried a torch and a bar, and he'd do something to the underneath of the carriage one side and then rush over to the other side and do the same before hurrying on to the next carriage.
We struck matches and looked at the map, and wondered whether it would be quicker to walk, but eventually the word came round that it would only be another 3 or 4 minutes, and eventually we started, at first free wheeling down. It was well after 1 o'clock when we got to the Aiguille du Midi Station, where we got out and walked to the Cremerie Mont Blanc at Les Pelerins, and ordered a meal.
I was disappointed not to start with melon, but the hors d'oeuvres was good and when the main dish came, Bob's immediate reaction was to jump up and take a photograph. I suppose our eating a proper meal was such a rare phenomenon. It was the first we'd had since Paris. We ended with ice cream, instead of the usual fruit, and I was afraid that this signified that prices had gone up, but the bill was still between 300 and 400 hundred, even with a little wine and beer.
Time was getting on, we hurried back to Chamonix and shopped and caught the 5.10, the last train to Montenvers, by the skin of our teeth. At the hotel we found that they were much more organised with the dortoire; we had to fill up forms and pay in advance, and then we were told to go to no. 53, the one with about a dozen beds in it.
We soon had the whole room looking rather chaotic as we cooked our supper using a form as a table. The other beds filled up. We set the alarm for 2 o'clock and so to bed, but not to sleep, until the next room quietened down a little.
I was awake before the alarm went, my watch said 2.30 a.m., so I hoped that it was still gaining. Soon the alarm went, and Bob and I had breakfast. Margaret wasn't coming and she refused tea at that time of the morning. Just before 3 o'clock Bob and I set off along the long track. What a lot the foresters' hut cuts off. We found our way round most of the zigzags of the Nantillon track, but then took a higher track onto the moraine. It was just about light by the time it came to finding our way down off the moraine and we put on crampons as soon as we reached the ice, for the lower part of the glacier is so difficult (I consider).
Now began the real slog, up to the Rognon. I zigzagged to and fro, and eventually we were up to the level of the traverse onto the Rognon, and, of course, this icy part presented no difficulty in crampons.
We ascended the rocks in our vibrams and then had a rest at the top. Bob had decided that we weren't going to take the rucksack, so we had a good swig of the lemon juice, put our chocolate in our pockets, I had the spare rope on my back and we roped up, put on our crampons again and set off.
We left our crampons where we left the track down the glacier, and the way up to the rocks was a little dicey without them; however, we made it, and then set off up the rocks. The first pitch was a little awkward, but then we were on easy ground. The trouble was that everyone else was for the Charmoz, those ahead to do the double traverse, and the two lads just behind for the one peak, so we had to find our own way up the couloir. It was easy enough at first, over loose stuff, and then we got to a few rock pitches. Bob stayed a long time on one, much too long for it to be the route, but he wouldn't come down. Eventually I climbed the rocks to his right, wondering if that were the route, particularly as there were some old abseil slings, and I stayed some way up while Bob descended his pitch. Then I went on a little further to make sure that my way "went" and found that it didn't. I descended and explored further to the right – a delicate slab with pitons – and looked over the buttress and saw nothing but sheer rock walls and knew we must be already too far to the right, so went down until I reached what was obviously the way and Bob slowly traversed across to me, and continued to lead up. I soon realised why the double traverse is so popular. It is because this couloir is such a shocking place. There was a lot of ice about, sometimes with snow on top. We avoided it all we could for the rocks to the side, first of all on the right and then on the left. We lost hours in this part. As we neared the top the last of the parties for the double traverse passed up, and before Bob and I reached the sunshine, I had watched the last man climb the Mummery Crack. I could see they were making the traverse with the use of the pitons.
Eventually we came to the 'diedre' where Bob hesitated; I also hesitated when it came to my turn, but then I was out in the sunshine, and we waited for the mist to clear a little from the Géant before taking photos.
Next we were belayed at the break by the Mummery Crack. I climbed up and put the rope through the piton and Bob proceeded to make the traverse (with difficulty) into the crack. Next I insisted that he had a runner on the chockstone – he had difficulty in getting this on, and I had difficulty later in taking it off and I don't think it was necessary for, once in the crack, Bob got up quite easily, and I took the rope out of the piton and tried to start the traverse. Previously I had carried the spare rope, and Bob had the axes slung on this back, but I said that he'd better not lead the crack with them. It seemed a lot of trouble to untie, free the rope from the runner, send it down for the luggage, and then for me to tie on again, so I said I'd bring up the axes, as well as the rope. I should have known better (at least that is the only excuse I have for making such a mess of the crack!). I found the traverse desperately difficult. The thing to do was to reach up for a piton round the corner. This was miles out of reach so, in desperation, I took hold of the rope as a handhold, but all that seemed to do was stretch. Eventually, after a climb which had seemed to me of the nth degree of difficulty, I was in the crack, which I knew not to be too difficult, and I felt and found lovely flakes for the fingers and, after a rest, I tried to move up. I soon discovered I wasn't the climber I had been 3 years ago, the last time I was this way. How I panted for breath; how I wished that Bob could give me a real good pull. However, inch by inch I moved up until I was on easier ground, and trying to recover while Bob took over the axes again.
It was easy enough to walk through the Tron de Canon, but again I found the crawl back onto the Nantillon side most awkward, and then we were confronted by the Rateau de Chevre. This again was strenuous, but not nearly as bad as the Mummery.
We got our spare rope down the Grand Diable; I put it round the other corner, in the approved manner, but still halfe way down I couldn't believe that I'd ever get into the landing place; however, I did and then it was Bob's turn. Next there was a perfectly easy slab, but Bob seemed a little demoralised by the look of it, and actually accepted a shoulder for the start. With the confidence given by a rope above me, I felt more in my own element on this, and soon after we were walking along the famous cycle track. This time we went through the Boite au Lettre and then were confronted by the final problem.
Bob had a look at it, and then agreed that a shoulder might be useful. Fortunately he reminded me of the axes we had left round the corner and I was about to come up without them! I still hadn't learned and I still climbed with them instead of sending them and rope up first. I began to understand why the Swiss were impressed by the way Margaret and I hopped up this in tricounis in 1948. The first move was terribly overhanging, but it was after that that I thought I wouldn't make it, it was a case of an arm-pull, a movement which I say isn't necessary in climbing, which only needs finger strength! I'm sure Bob was hauling with all his might on the rope, and I suppose eventually he was able to take enough of my weight for me to be able to make the move, for I was up eventually.
I have never before thought very much of the Madonna, but this time she repeatedly gave both Bob and me dreadful shocks. I know I'd feel I was being watched, and look up and find this figure looking down at me.
There was one good thing; we weren't troubled by other parties this day. We could enjoy having the summit to ourselves, but we didn't stay very long. We soon had the spare rope through the sling, and I set off down the rappel. It seemed an incredibly long way and yet there were yards and yards of rope over. Once on firm ground, I walked along the balcony to the Brèche Balfour and belayed, took in the spare lifeline, and set my camera before telling Bob to come on, for I have always wanted to photograph this rappel from the Brèche. We soon had the spare rope coiled, and set off down the familiar way. At the second rappel, I went down too far; there were tracks in the snow lower down, so someone must have gone down that way before us, but we went the usual way, making the delicate traverse to the corner and then having a rope for the hands, before slithering down à cheval.
Again I found the pull up to the terrace a mighty effort, but after that, all was straightforward, despite the patches of mist swirling around us at times.
The glacier was very easy, no icy parts at all, at the top, and we recovered our crampons O.K. at the couloir. I should have dearly loved to have had them on for the icy part just above the couloir, for near this we could get no satisfactory belay. After this we unroped before the last glissade down to the Rognon, where I utterly disgraced myself by sitting down (involuntarily) and nearly rolling over.
We recovered the rucksack and finished off the lemon juice, and then made our way down the rocks. At the bottom I stopped to put on my crampons, Bob started along the ice in his vibrams, but when I caught him up (very soon) he also stopped to put on his crampons. Once off the ice there would have been pleasant glissades, but I said it'd be worth keeping on our crampons for the lower icy part, which is always so wet.
We reached the moraine and then, going across the boulders, there were so many flowers that I was terribly sorry Bob hadn't his extension tubes to photograph some of them in colour.
On the main Montenvers track, Bob stopped to photograph the Aiguille with a tree in the foreground, and I was very grateful to use his viewpoint as well.
It was getting on for 7 o'clock when we arrived back, so another night in the dortoire seemed indicated. Margaret was just putting on a brew when we arrived, and told us we were short of paraffin. We were also short of food, so, after the tea, we went along to the sal des guides. The other two ordered soup and I ordered omelette, and we all ordered haricot verte. Actually we shared the soup and omelette. Originally we were going to have a plat de jour, but thought otherwise when we saw that it was 350 francs.
Half way through the meal, a French voice "Hallo, Eileen". It was André; we talked about various things, Jo and the Col Eccles, Porridge and the Mer de Glace face on a diet only of lemons, not to mention the Spencer Couloir! When he'd gone I asked Margaret if she'd like to do a climb with him the next week, and she said yes, so we called him over again and discussed it. He kept suggesting the South Ridge of the Fou, but that, like everything else he suggested, I had done, and my only suggestion was the Ravannel and Mummery, and this was eventually agreed upon. André said he didn't think he'd be able to get to Couvercle until Tuesday night, but it was possible he'd come on Monday.
Back in the dortoire we found that our room-mates were a very young crowd, hoping to climb the Petit Charmoz the next day, some of them spoke very good English.
We were up in reasonable time, strolled leisurely down to Chamonix, and then Margaret accompanied Bob on a hectic hour and a half's shopping; he had provisions to buy, and also to try to get his boots repaired before having a meal and catching the 1.23 train again, this time taking it all the way to Vallorcine, for he was on his way to Martigny, where he was meeting Ron and K. that evening.
Margaret and I then wasted the afternoon, and, at about 6 o'clock we set out for the meal we had promised ourselves at Les Pelerins. We just got there before the rain started, and then we learned that the evening meal wasn't served until 7.30 or 8 o'clock; it was cold and wet outside, so we hung about inside, feeling very much in the way, until it was ready.
It was well worth waiting for, lashings of soup, and then ham and two eggs for anyone who wanted them, to be followed by the main course (liver I think).
We finished with a fresh fruit salad. It was magnificent after our frugal diet of the last few days. I don't know why, but I was practically rolling home afterwards and the only alcohol had been in the fruit salad!
Margaret and I determined to catch a train to Montenvers at about 1 o'clock, but somehow this Sunday we weren't as well organised as we had been the previous Sunday, and we had a hectic rush. Our meal consisted of liver and 'haricot verte', but we didn't realise what a time the beans took to cook, and that put us out. Eventually we were ready, it just remained to fetch some more paraffin and leave a message at the bureau for André.
I was soon thoroughly demoralised – everything I had was soaked in paraffin, the stopper of my bottle was cracked and the stuff was pouring out. To add to this, the man at the Drogerie Mont Blanc wasn't at home and we couldn't get any more.
This wasted so much time, and I was so late arriving late at a hut, that I suggested that we delayed our ascent for a day, although it meant a day hanging around in Chamonix.
To me it was a most miserable afternoon. I was too lazy to change out of my hot clothes and, as usual in Chamonix, I felt half doped, and should have loved nothing better than to go to sleep, but thought it would be interesting to accompany Margaret on a bird watching expedition.
We went past the church, inspecting the inside of it, and then made for the woods on the Brevant side. They were all Christmas trees, there was no variety and there were no birds, so we soon came down and walked along in the direction of Praz until we came to a bridge over the river. On the other side of the valley there was more varied foliage, but still practically no birds. Fortunately we could console ourselves with a large stretch of wild raspberries, and then made our way back to Chamonix, where we had to explain to everyone why we hadn't gone to the Couvercle.
Don Cowen and Willans were down from the Fourche; they had wanted to try Route Major, but Graham Brown had also been in the bivouac and had warned them that the weather wasn't good enough. Nat and Don Chapman had also accompanied them on their first climb, the Ryan-Lochmatter on the Plan, but after that those two rested on their laurels for the rest of their holiday.
Pete Perkins had arrived that morning, but had gone straight up to the little hut.
Mac, George Band and Arthur Dolphin were back, they had done the North Ridge of the Peigne; they had got up alright, but hadn't got down the couloir before dark. Actually it was later that Mac gave me some of the 'harrowing' details of the climb, as he said, he'd be jamming up a crack, no holds just a hand jam, and then he'd look up and find that there wasn't a hold in sight, and so he'd have to go on, jamming up for 100 feet – and that pitch was only a V, not even a V sup! – but if he will engage on 2,000 feet of one of the hardest rock climbs in the district!
Margaret and I decided to get out of Chamonix as soon as possible, so we caught the 8.45 or so to Montenvers, after buying the paraffin and leaving the message for André. I decided that life would be simpler if I took Bob's primus and tin of spare paraffin, which solved my difficulty of the leaking container.
Even at that time of day the track to the Mer de Glace was pretty crowded, so we were most thankful when our route left that down to the grotto! I thought the first move onto the ice most awkward and then we set off up, keeping well to the side, and having no trouble with crevasses. We reached the second lot of moraine, and then we came to the stream, well above the moulin, and had to continue up some way before we could get across – a couple of men passed us at this point and cut a step for us, but I preferred a lower crossing. We followed these men onto the moraine, instead of looking for cairns, and then we had quite a game, until we came to firmer land, and the cairned way to the marked boulder below the ladders.
There was a wooden ladder to get up one boulder, and then we started up the usual way, stopping for a meal at the top of the ladders. The top part didn't seem quite as long as sometimes. The army were still camped on that lovely site some way below the hut. At the top something quite new awaited us. I looked with horror at the name "Refuge du Couvercle" and something about the C.A.F., because, for a moment, I though they had neon lighting! Once I realised I was wrong, I began to admire the building. It is definitely one building, not the old hut which has been extended. I admired the stone entrance and staircase to the first floor. Once inside we found there were two main rooms, the smaller I always thought of as "self-cookers". The guardian smiled in a way which might or might not show that he recognised me, but there was no doubt about the others. They immediately told me that I had climbed with "Dida" two years ago and, hearing that André was coming this time, they made out our bill for the name 'Bossoney'.
We made some soup, arranged our things very neatly in a corner of the "self-cookers" (at this time of day we had the room almost to ourselves) and then went outside to look around (we even went inside the old hut), take an occasional photograph, sunbathe and generally laze.
At about 6 o'clock when we came to cook our meal we found that we were gradually being turned out of our corner. Murder was nearly done. Eventually I asked the guardian if anyone might use the cupboard in the main hall and, on being told 'yes', we moved our things there, which was much handier.
It was such a well organised hut that evening, everyone was in bed by 8.30 at the latest and the guardian had managed to put all the 4 o'clock people together in the same dormitory.
I had slept on until I was called, and in consequence felt absolutely doped with sleep when I got up and staggered down to light the primus. Margaret was in a worse state than I was. Eventually breakfast was over and we set out up the familiar way to the Nonne.
Fortunately we didn't put on crampons for the first patch of snow, for we found that this was followed by scree; eventually we came to an icy part and put them on, but this was on the glacier proper. At the foot of the couloir we saw a dump of axes and crampons, but, seeing a cramponless party ahead make heavy weather of the ascent, we kept our crampons on (I'd always intended to take axes). The other party kept to the right, and it looked most sensational; I traversed to the left, and recognised the usual rock start. It was a little while before I could get off the ground in the chimney, but it wasn't difficult, and then I had the traverse; this was easy when I stood up, and then I was belayed and letting Margaret sample the delightful rock. We climbed one at a time and I was delighted at the way belays popped up at regular intervals.
Then I came to the dividing of the ways, either left, or right, into the gully. I tried to the left first of all, but hadn't the courage of my convictions, and returned and went up the gully, which was loose and not very pleasant. The other two got ahead while I was playing about. A few pitches higher up we found more good rock to the left of the gully, and enjoyed climbing it. This brought us to the top of the ridge, and next we traversed down a little and to the right, before continuing upwards.
On a lot of this we ought to have moved together, but neither of us felt very bright, and I couldn't be bothered to shorten the rope to bring it to a manageable length, so we continued to climb mostly in the English fashion.
Soon we were on the ledge below the chimney where we left the pack (with axe and crampons) and started up the slightly more serious rocks. Margaret belayed at the top of the chimney while I tackled the last pitch (although it is the sort of pitch that Margaret leads much more easily than I do). I can see why a taller person is not impressed by it, they can reach the top handhold straight away, after stepping across. I have to step up with only a finger-nail hold until I can reach it.
Margaret was up in no time, and then climbed the next lump of rock for a photo.
Margaret got down the rappel quite easily, otherwise I should have wanted her to practice a few more before the Ravannel and Mummery.
Two Frenchmen who had arrived at the top offered me a lifeline, but I refused, and then felt rather silly when I didn't do it particularly well (my karabiner wasn't on properly at the beginning).
We coiled in the rope, and then sat and ate, and watched another couple climbing up. The man went up the chimney and then asked the woman if she was coming. She asked what he could see up there, and he said other people, so she said she hadn't meant that. In the end she didn't go up, and I couldn't really understand why she had got so far.
Next we started down, moving together, until we came to the arête. The easy tracks continued to descend, but these weren't for us, we continued along the knife-edge!
If only I'd thought, I could bring out the exposure of the situation, I should have tried to photograph the notice stuck on the beginning of this part – a notice torn from a railway carriage said "Il est dangereux de se pencher au dehors".
Margaret amazed me on this part. She was obviously impressed by it, for nowhere is exposure more obvious than when there are no holds above, but only low down and I'm sure the slab to the Charpona Glacier goes down for thousands of feet, yet she insisted on leading it all and it can never have occurred to her to make shorter pitches of it. Each time she'd lead out the whole 120 feet of rope.
The French lads followed us along, but the man and woman preferred the easy ways.
After the arête everything was tame, so Margaret and I tried to make a little more interesting by keeping higher; however, this soon seemed a little silly and artificial, so we rejoined the easy way which joined the Nonne-Eveque couloir about half way down. We were soon passed by faster people coming down from the Eveque, and then continued down the shattered couloir until we thankfully reached the snow and then had an easy walk until the icy part at the end, which proved shorter than we'd anticipated.
Back at the hut we had some tea and then proceeded to wait for André. By 6 o'clock we were hungry, so we proceeded to cook the supper – soup and then macaroni and corned beef. We ate our share and there was still no André. The guardian had worried me by asking me whether I was sure André was coming, so at 7.30 or so I asked him what we should do. He seemed quite annoyed and said "Dida monte se soir", so then we asked in the kitchen if they could keep André's food hot so that we could make more tea in our pan. When the tea was almost ready, André arrived and greeted us as though nothing had happened! He was thirsty and soon had a bottle of wine.
While André ate, Margaret and I made frantic preparations for the morning, putting lemon juice and sugar into the water bottle etc.
Eventually we were shown up to our dormitory. Just as the night before, everyone was in bed by 8.30, so this night no-one was in bed until 9.30, and it was another hour before all was quiet.
While waiting for André to appear for supper we had got into conversation with an English woman who was waiting for her party to get down from the Verte, after traversing it from the other side (it was 8 hours up to their bivouac, she had said); she said she wasn't really worried as they were with Pierre le Rouge. Just as we were going up, Pierre's party arrived and then when we were nearly asleep they were shown into our dormitory. We shouldn't have minded that, but they brought up rucksacks, crampons and everything, and hadn't even taken off their boots. One of them put his rucksack across Margaret's two feet and when she sat up to protest, his excuse was that he wondered where it had got to!
One party was called at 2 o'clock, our call came half an hour later. Margaret asked me what the guardian had said to me, so I half translated "Chaussers in the hand" – and added "In other words, don't wake people". The first part had caused a shriek of laughter from a French woman, who later we found was called Denise. The second half, I expect, was lost on those for whom it was intended.
We crept downstairs and put on the primus and André had the despised tea for breakfast. Next André gave me to understand that I was to carry his spare rope. I asked him how many metres he had, and he said that my 45 metres would be plenty long enough, so I put my nylon in my pack as being considerably lighter than his hemp. He actually volunteered to carry the gourd, but said it would be quite soon enough to put in the water when we got high up on the mountain.
At about 3.30, we set out on the path down to the glacier. There would be a respectable distance between André and Margaret, and then I would follow Margaret closely. I suppose I did a silly thing, I must have undermined Margaret's confidence in her guide, by criticising him. For instance he had told us not to take crampons, so, when the way got a little icy, I started to say that I supposed he had left his own behind at Chamonix, instead of giving him the benefit of the doubt and saying that he was trying to improve our ice technique.
It was a most lovely moonlit morning, reminding me a little of another day out from the Couvercle, the Verte in 1950, but somehow the day wasn't quite as carefree as the Verte had been!
On the icier parts, André would cut a step or so, but they were the meanest little nicks; we felt that they were intended only for himself, for he was some way ahead and we had great trouble in finding them. Some guideless parties overtook us at the bergschrund; they were following the old traces which worked out better than André's route! Next came the way up the shattered rocks. Some way up André asked two youths if there was water in the gully to the left. When they said no, André contradicted them, but he also couldn't find any when he went over there! however, he found it as we traversed over to the right, just a trickle, but enough to fill the bottle.
In 3 hours 10 minutes we were at the top (when André had said 3 hours the night before, Margaret had said 3½ hours for her) and sat down for second breakfast.
Soon another guide appeared with Denise and the two guides disappeared out of sight to cut crystals. Margaret and I had been rather thrilled to look down onto the Argentiere Glacier again, and we speculated as to which was the Chardonnet.
Eventually the guides were back, ropes were produced for the first time and we were tying on and proceeding towards our Aiguilles. We went a little way down a rather nasty gully, and then traversed obliquely up to the right, until we came to the foot of a steep pitch with a piton. It was a little more strenuous than anything Margaret had done before, and I realised that I had chosen this climb for my own and not Margaret's benefit.
After this we continued to traverse until we came to a vertical wall of about 8 feet, which needed to be climbed. There was a flake for the left hand, and then I reached over with my right hand for a jug to pull myself up on, and all I could find was crystals – all of them needle sharp. André tightened the rope, and I was glad, for with its help I could grip the crystals a little less fiercely. This was the only help I needed on the climb. I remember looking down on Denise's guide on this part and took a dislike to him as I watched. Next came a couple of delicate traverses, where André wasn't as patient as he should have been, on the second he tightened the rope at the wrong moment, a little more and he'd have had me off; despite my panic, my shriek was "Non, non", instead of the English equivalent.
Next we were on the col between the Aiguilles and waiting for other parties to rappel down the Mummery before we started up it. I was amazed at the way, as soon as the difficulty was over, André took no further interest in the rope, not minding if Margaret tripped over it, or not. I was also amazed how André made his short length of rope do for the two of us, and also how he'd managed to safeguard the two of us pretty well on the traverse.
Eventually it was our turn for the Aiguille; it looked a terrific wall, yet when we came to it, there was nothing above a IV. André had seen me flourishing my camera at unsuitable moments, so he pointed out one suitable place for an action shot. From along the ledge I could photograph both him and Margaret, as they climbed a most fierce looking crack. The climb was sheer delight, nothing too strenuous about it, but nicely varied with cracks and more delicate parts. On the top pitch was a piton, it wobbled a little; André said it was alright, but I used it as little as possible.
On the top, André immediately took my spare rope from me, but didn't put it through the sling, but round a rock, and, without a word to Margaret or me, he abseiled down out of sight, and from the noise we heard, we concluded he was cutting crystals and sending half the aiguille down at the same time.
Margaret and I admired the view, noted the clouds coming lower on the Grande Jorasses and talked to Denise and her guide.
Eventually we were tired of being deserted by our guide, and decided we could get down without help, so we tied on the two ends of the climbing rope and I belayed, but then when I touched the rappel rope to draw it up, I was told by André to leave it alone, and I realised that he had been hanging on to it all this time, but the other guide was such a helpful sort and said that we could use his spare rope. Eventually André showed signs of re-appearing so Roger told him that he needn't bother to come up again, he'd see us safely down. Denise went down first – without a sling and very well. Margaret was next and she immediately swung against the rock, but after this she simply sailed down. At the bottom she told me that she had hit her knuckles and her head, and, in a half dazed state she had leant back and forced herself to go on down, and then she realised that that was the secret of rappelling – after this rock climbing came second to rappelling, as one of the greater joys of living, as far as Margaret was concerned!
The first rappel was terribly long, and then we had to climb down over the awkward corner to the piton, where André was fixing the second rappel rope, while Roger pulled down the first one. Again the other two went down before me, then it was my turn; I put the rope over the other shoulder to last time (I believe in using them alternately at this game) and started down, with the rope behind me in my left hand, soon this caught in the angle between my thumb and my first finger and I knew it was rubbing a blister, but somehow there seemed nothing I could do about it, and the blister was broken by the time I had got to the bottom! And I always considered myself such an experienced abseiler too! - and there was Margaret, the novice, full of the joys of her new delight!
At the bottom I found that André was trying to exchange me for Denise on his rope, but Margaret said she'd rather climb with me, so, in the end, we continued in our original order. We had seen from the Mummery that the way up the Ravannel was far less interesting, the only move I remember was when Roger tried to help André by getting Margaret to put my rope over a rock, so that he could safeguard me from below, the only trouble was that I wanted to go up a different crack from the one my rope was going up, so I preferred to wait until my rope was taken in from above.
At the top we found that the sun had gone in, and there was quite a chill wind, so we began to think about the descent straight away. Again, André went first, leaving Roger to pay out the lifeline to the three of us; these were some of the longest rappels I had ever done – there were two of them, one after the other – even Roger's rope was barely long enough for the first. I'm sure mine would have been most inadequate. Next there was a little bit of climbing for which André was happy to have Margaret and Denise on his rope, and then the third rappel which brought us down to the foot of the first grade IV pitch on the traverse to the col.
I remember on the way down there had been a slight shower of snow as I came down the second rappel, and as I waited for the third one. I had shivered slightly in the chill wind (my woolly was left in my rucksack on the col), so Roger, a most considerate guide, had rubbed my back until I was warm, also he carried both rappel ropes back to the col! On the debit side, on the subject of Roger Simmond, was the fact that he called Margaret "Maggie", although they had never been formally introduced! Back at the col we were beautifully sheltered, and sat down to eat again – André fancied Denise's food more than he did ours – I remember she had Chamonix goat's cheese and some cold meat which hadn't come out of a tin. On our side, all we could offer that Denise fancied was our lemon juice.
Next André made a terrific racket, pushing boulders down the Argentière side – terrific things – but it was the look of fiendish delight on his face which amused me. I remarked in English that I didn't think he had the right attitude of mind for a guide. Roger asked Denise to translate my remark.
The other two were down to the glacier long before us. I thought André had lost the way, but no, he was able to retrace the route we had followed up. Again he kept his repectable distance in front of us, but he went up a little in my estimation when he saw us safely down one piece of rock, one of those infuriating places, where you barely touch the foothold when fully extended from the handhold.
By the time we got down to the bergschrund he had found our axes which he had hidden on the way up, against my advice (he kept his own and I said that, if there was going to be more snow, I'd rather have mine – but there was no more snow).
I was horrified at the thought of going unroped down the snow, but tried to put a bold face on it, and the first part was easy enough, over the bergschrund. After this there were one or two crevasses, and one of them was a little too wide for me to jump easily. Now with any other guide I think I should have tried to hide my feelings, but with André I knew that the more I put up with the more I could put up with, so I made a great fuss, Margaret eventually pulling me across (André wouldn't come back!). Actually this had its effect, for after this André waited and let us take hold of his axe as we jumped the crevasses, which were smaller after that.
All day I had been on about the icy part of the glacier, so, when we reached it, I found that Roger had waited and, as we started down it, André took hold of Margaret's arm, and Roger made for me. Now I had asked for this all day (I'd told André he'd have to go back to the hut for my crampons etc.), but when it came to it I was furious, yet I didn't see that I could refuse help, so I tore down the glacier as fast as I could, with Roger hardly touching my arm. I suppose it was because I went fast that it was so easy and I suppose it was because I had the guide that I dared to go fast, so I shouldn't grumble.
The rain started just before we got back to the hut, but we didn't get very wet.
It was about 2 o'clock when we got back and I considered it an interesting morning, but, having a guide, I had found it less tiring, even than the Nonne. That has always been my impression of guided climbing, and all the time I had promised Margaret a carefree day with André, but I don't think the Ravannel and Mummery was Margaret's idea of a carefree day!
In the hut Denise said that we must have a drink with her and insisted that a Pernod was a suitable drink to celebrate a return to a hut. This was very kind of her, but really tea is better! Our tea was ready next and Denise and André actually had some with us, as we could offer them lemon to put in it (Roger couldn't be persuaded to try it). Next Denise and Roger ordered a meal from the guardian, while poor old André had to wait until we had cooked something for him. We had soup, and then, when we were waiting for the macaroni to cook, André helped the others to get through their peas. We thought we'd open the tin of pilchards as a change from André's pet aversion – corned beef. I put it on the table and dried to open it, but my tin opener wasn't sharp enough. I think every man but one at that table made a move to help me – needless to say that man was André!
I don't think André like the pilchards, but he said the macaroni was good and he had already ordered himself plums from the guardian – I made a resolve that next time I afforded a guide, I'd afford food in the hut for him.
Soon André was ready to go, I said we'd pay him in Chamonix and then I tried to sound him out about another climb – Denise soon appeared as translator. I was pleased in one way to hear André say that he'd take me up any climb for which I could pay him; I said I'd like to do another climb on Saturday and the Mayer Dibona on the Requin was suggested. André seemed a little taken aback when I suggested that he should find another client to share the expense with me. I suppose it was asking a little too much.
Margaret and I decided on another night in the Couvercle for various reasons:
1. we'd have got wet going down
2. it was no more expensive than the Biolay, and far cleaner
3. we still had plenty of the food we'd brought up.
Margaret tried to follow Denise's example and have an afternoon nap, but there wasn't much peace in the hut that afternoon, so at about 6 o'clock we got up and cooked supper, and went to bed at about 8 o'clock.
This time we were in a different and larger dormitory and everyone else was in good time, and that is all I have to remember about that night. The trouble with Margaret is that she understands the language too well, and could understand all the dirty jokes which were told. "What would Joy say" almost became our battle cry.
André and Denise had had a fine time all day, laughing at some of my pronunciations, but Margaret could turn a little laughter onto herself, as far as André was concerned by turning all Parisian and using the subjunctive. Eventually Denise admitted that Margaret's French was very good.
No-one was called to climb, it was still raining in the morning, and when the mist lifted a little we could see that there had been a heavy fall of fresh snow on the rocks.
Margaret and I had a leisurely breakfast, packed, paid, and set off down, as it had almost stopped raining by this time.
It was much easier finding our way down the moraine to the Mer de Glace, for we could follow the cairns right from the start. On the main glacier I resolved to go down to below the Moulin, and we walked down in our vibrams until we were overtaken by a party in crampons, which made us stop and put on ours.
As far as I can remember, this is the first time I have cramponned up for this glacier, although it's not the first time I've known it in an icy state.
Below the Moulin we traversed pretty well straight across the glacier, and then had reason to thank previous wearers of crampons who had been that way, for the marks clearly indicated the way.
We hurried past Montenvers and stopped for milk at the half-way chalet, and eventually reached the Biolay where Margaret, who had lost her appetite, had a nap.
I was disappointed that Margaret's appetite didn't return for a last meal out together; I spent my time making inroads into our store of food.
Soon after 6 o'clock, we made our way to Bureau des Guide to pay André – we reminded him that the tariffs were baissé 5% and I agreed to call again at 12 o'clock on Friday.
I saw Margaret off on an early train, and then I shopped, getting food for another night in a hut, and, soon after 12 o'clock, I called at the office again. André greeted me by saying that he hadn't a client, and my face dropped, and I said nothing for a while, wondering how to break the news that I was willing to pay him for a climb by myself. Before I had started to explain this, André told me that he was going to do the Fou the next day. I asked him if he had a client for it, and he said two. He asked me when I left and I said Saturday evening and I was waiting, wondering how to ask for another guide, when the usual man in the office joined in, saying I looked sad. André turned to talk to him and I was suddenly so mad that I walked out of the office in disgust and went into the woods to try to cool off a little.
The trouble was that I felt that I had not only walked out on André, but on the Chamonix Guides Bureau, and I couldn't bring myself to go back again – also I was afraid that if I just asked for a guide, they might give me someone like Roger Simmond, so, in the end I took the easiest course and did nothing, and gave up the idea of a last climb. How I hoped it would rain all night, for I felt I had just worked up a little form, and I was longing to get on some more rock.
I went back to the Biolay and told everything I wasn't having a last climb. That evening, when Mac heard my tale, he asked me why I hadn't got someone from the Biolay to take me.
I had a thoroughly boring afternoon at the time listening to Mac and Pat Vaughan talk motorbikes – it was an afternoon which became quite amusing in retrospect.
Later I saw Nat and the three Dons off on their train, using the same platform ticket as I had bought to see Margaret off that morning. Margaret had left to spend 36 hours in Switzerland, preferably looking at art galleries etc. to try to get herself in the right frame of mind for meeting Isobel in Zurich.
It's amazing the different types one meets in the Biolay; late that night two Scots climbers turned up and they proved to be the two who had climbed Route Major the same day as Clive's party. It was quite interesting to have their version of that expedition – after hearing Clive's the previous day ("a terrible climb") and Dennis' ("a magnificent route")!
I was up in good time, and it was a glorious morning. I thought of André high up on the Fou. I had breakfast and started to tread the familiar track when my eye was caught by a notice to some cascades, and I followed the little track and soon came to the end of it, but I had become rather intrigued by the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other on a path which led uphill, and I started to follow paths going up and up until I got to the Plan de l'Aiguille, only stopping on the way to pick sprigs of bilberries, off which I cold pick and eat the berries. The hut looked its usual dead self, so I didn't stop, but continued up until I got to a position from which I could photograph the Aiguilles. My sandals had carried me up, but they weren't quite such a good idea for the descent – I only took one short cut and how I regretted it!
Back at the Biolay at 1.30, I made further inroads into my provisions and then had a last trip into the town to buy the Dauphiné guidebooks (a sudden impulse) and get fruit and patisserie for the journey and got back to shelter before the violet thunderstorm broke.
Bob didn't arrive on the 4 o'clock train as I had expected, so I made my way to the station in good time for the 6.11, getting rather wet in the process.
Very soon at St. Gervais they ran in the Paris trains and I managed to get a seat in the same carriage as two Englishmen from the Biolay, Pete and Bill, and I saved a corner seat for Bob until a mutilé claimed it; I expected to see Bob on the next two trains, but no, so I was glad I had brought his things, and thought I'd see him in Paris.
Considering I was sitting up all night I slept quite a lot!
Outside the station we had the usual debate about means of transport. The ordinary buses happened to be waiting, so that settled the argument. At the Gare St. Lazare we took our luggage into the station and reserved our seats and then Bill went off to collect his luggage left elsewhere in the city (he couldn't afford the few days he'd hoped to spend in Paris). Pete and I took it in turns to guard the luggage, and (in my case) have a breakfast drink of hot chocolate.
While I was looking at the queue for the train, a man spoke to me as though he knew me; he turned out to be leader of the Ramblers' party at the Albert 1ere. He said the party had climbed three peaks. They didn't do the Combin as the party weren't ready for it so soon as the first Thursday and the weather broke at the end when they were all set, with three extra guides engaged, for the Matterhorn. He seemed a little disappointed in his party, a little slower than he'd expected for Ramblers, but he was meeting another prty who he was taking to Yugoslavia, so he wasn't doing so badly.
As I made my way along the train eventually, young Peter leaned out of the carriage to tell me that the weather had prevented them trying the Matterhorn.
I felt rather guilty going on this 9.30 train without waiting for Bob, but I had to go where my reservation sent me.
The time soon passed to Dieppe (I dozed) and then we made our way to the boat, which turned out to be the "Arramanche", and the first boat; I was one of the last aboard, and didn't get into the first sitting for lunch and queued for the second one, while we were getting further from the shelter of the harbour.
Fortunately, before I went in, I realised that I didn't want it! As I walked away I was amazed at the devastation all around and how fast the bowls were filling up; there were people lying all over the floor and everywhere in the third class part, so I took a leaf out of Margaret's book and went along to the 1st class. This was practically deserted, so I sat down to enjoy the motion of the boat, when I began to realise that I was in danger of joining the common herd, so I retreated to the staircase near the ladies' for I wasn't so far gone that I wanted to be sick in public!
Eventually the woman from downstairs got tired of seeing me there and suggested that I went down to a bunk. Now that was just what I could do with, after my night in an upright position, and I was sorry when we got to Newhaven.
Clive's party and the Ramblers (I saw Margaret's friend from Bristol) were on the boat, but no Bob, so I got out through the customs as soon as possible. The man asked me what I had bought, so I showed him my Dauphiné guidebooks, so he gave me the notice and told me to read it while he read my books – but he found nothing hidden in them! Then I went and had a cup of tea, and returned to watch the people get off the next boat.
The "Arromanche" was half an hour late in, but the "Brighton" had only lost 10 minutes, so I didn't have long to wait. I let my 4.45 train go, and waited until it was time for the 5.45, and decided I should prefer to catch that train than wait for Bob.
I had my usual little luxury, a taxi home from the station. The driver was a very friendly sort, and wanted to know all about my holiday.
Usual trains, usual changes, usual cup of tea at Chester, but different assortment of companions. I met Bob and John Eaton at Nottingham, and John and Jim from Loughborough joined the train at Trent. At the junction only the first train was in, so we got in that, I had a carriage to myself and got out my bag and spent a pleasant few hours, regaining consciousness only occasionally. I was packed up in good time to get out at Bettws, where I intended to settle down in the ladies waiting room, but I found Bob intended to make coffee in the general one, so I stayed in that.
Eventually our fellow traveller started to talk to us; he comes to Capel every weekend from London; he has just bought Llygwy Cottage and doesn't like the type of clients he had inherited from the Arnolds – he would prefer climbers!
It was a glorious bus ride to Capel, the colours in the sky were incredible, but I can never quite appreciate a red and green sunrise before a day's climbing. At Capel, Joy was waiting and there was a spectacular bank of cloud over Snowdon. Joy shepherded us to Mrs. Pepper's, where our breakfast was read – porridge, bacon, egg and fried bread, and toast and marmalade, not to mention the large pot of tea. As Bob said afterwards, we didn't make the most of the breakfast, we left butter even! I hadn't liked the thought of Joy paying for an extra breakfast for herself so I was quite glad that she was contenting herself with tea and telling us of her experiences during her week with the Mountaineering Association. The weather had been bad, certainly, but we felt that she should have got in more than one day's climbing; when she said that Scotty's party had done more, I blamed her guide – actually later when Joy told me his opinion of me I forgave him all he had done (or not done) to Joy – but actually I felt it must have been a case of mistaken identify, as I didn't know that guide. Joy said that there two people from Brighton on the course who knew me. They turned out to be Ian and Marjorie! I was amazed when Joy said that everyone on her beginners' course had been climbing for two or three years.
When Joy said that Campion was taking them out on Saturday I immediately said that, of course she must go with them; I hope she didn't take it that I didn't want her with us, it was just that I felt the Mountaineering Association owed her another day.
Joy half emptied my rucksack, for, she said, she'd be going along later by jeep and could take the stuff with her and it was left that, if she wasn't climbing that day, she'd walk over the Carneddau as we were climbing on Craig-y-Ysfa, so Bob had decided!
We walked along the road to the farm, bought some milk and chatted to the farmer, and then pitched camp in the usual field. I started to put the tent up on a sloping bit of ground and then thought I saw a better site, with the ground sloping down in the middle and I put it up there.
We had no cooking to do, and were off by 10.10 and at 11.20, we were sitting down and eating at the dividing of the ways, i.e. where the track left to go to the foot of the crag. We soon got cold sitting still, and it was obvious that it wouldn't be fine much longer, so I suggested Great Gully for obvious reasons, e.g. one usually gets wet in it, so one might as well do it on a wet day, also it would be more sheltered than an exposed climb etc.
We went down and along, and then easily found Great Gully, "The one beyond the one it is expected to be". We scrambled up to the beginning of the first pitch and then roped up; I suggested that I should tie on behind Bob and John Eaton and that Jim should lead John Drewry – theoretically I was to give Jim a rope down should he need it, but I wasn't afraid he'd need it. I tied onto the middle of my 120 ft, having the 60 ft to drop behind me, if necessary for Jim didn't know how he'd like the green rocks in vibrams!
After the 10 ft pitch there was quite a length of scrambling. This was repeated in the next pitch and then we were at the Door Jamb. Bob wasn't going to pass this without a look, but when he realised that there were no holds behind the brilliant green moss, he was content to try "the steep groove on the right". We didn't bother to get into the gully again for the next pitch, but continued up the alternative to the right and then up the "deeply cut chimney on the right", as the left hand alternative was so green and wet. I found the traverse out of this a little delicate; I think I was too low for Jim stepped round with no trouble at all, at a slightly higher level.
This brought us to the chimney; Bob got up in the back and foot position, but announced that he couldn't get up any further, that he must come down and rest, so Jim had a half hearted go, but saying that he'd never done anything so difficult before and he was very soon down. All along I had been offering to take a rope round the easy way, but I realised that after all the advice I'd given to Bob I'd have to show what I could do on the pitch; actually I was down even quicker than Jim, despite my boast that I hadn't found it difficult five years ago! The easy way wasn't quite so straightforward, the slabs were so slimy that I put on a runner half way. The top rope didn't seem to do much good. Everyone eventually came round the easy way and Bob then overtook me and led up the next pitch and then up another chimney, all easy enough until we came to the 9th pitch, the "difficult undercut chimney". I was very interested to see this, for last time it had been covered in snow and I knew that the old guide had described it as technically the hardest part of the climb.
Bob tried the delicate traverse on the right and wasn't sure he like it, so I foolishly offered to go up the chimney. I undid my coil of rope as I realised that there wouldn't have been room for that besides me in the chimney, and then started up. Soon I realised that John was putting shoulders etc. under my feet, and I was able to progress upwards, but then I seemed to stop; next I came further out and found it much easier, but still couldn't seem to get any higher.
The infuriating thing was that there was an excellent flake for the left hand, but my fingers were too numb for me to make any use of it (actually there had been little holds all the way up for warmer fingers). Then Jim was called in to help (this wasn't my idea) and with his hands under my feet I got up, and then Bob found the traverse very easy! The other three came up facing left, but I still think it was better to face right. Poor old Jim had pushed up all the others, and then had to get up unaided himself.
Next we were confronted with pitch 10; Bob didn't listen to the guidebook and so got up onto the chockstone quite easily (no pirouetting to the south for him!), but then he had a shock and was complaining all the way along the traverse until he got to the end, when he announced that there was nothing in it at all. The others then got up onto the chockstone with varying amounts of difficulty and then, after the traverse, they all echoed Bob's words. I was last, but Bob safeguarded me by throwing down another rope which went under the inner chockstone. Eventually, feeling very cold and dripped upon, I started up, with a lay-back type of move I got myself standing up on the footholds and then realised that there was no higher handhold – I thought "Oh dear, how shall I ever get up" and (rather like Margaret's first rappel on the Mummery) in my misery I leaned back, and found that my head was against a wall, so I pressed with it and soon I had my back against it and was up in no time and was starting along the traverse. I was different from the others when I got to the end. I said that I had found it the same as last time; I felt that if my foot should slip, my handholds wouldn't have been good enough to hold me on – but actually they weren't put to the test.
We unroped and scrambled to the top – looked down at the parties on Amphitheatre Buttress, and so down to the rucksacks, and a little to eat before the return to camp. We dropped straight down to the reservoir, and then joined the morning's track at the leet. We were in our tents just before the serious rain started – on the climb there had been no more than a very wet drizzle – I changed and then sat in Bob's tent, as he was making the communal brew. I returned 'home' and decided to start heating some water for when Joy arrived and sitting in the tent I realised what a foolish site I had chosen, the hollow down the centre was acting as a drain, and my groundsheet wasn't' water proof enough for that. I consulted Bob and he agreed that if I tried to move the tent, the inside of the walls would touch and it would probably leak, so I hoped that it would soon stop raining. It was still pouring when Joy came and I got her to help me with the tent – it blew about quite a lot, so I was very lucky not to have it leak afterwards. Next I sat outside in my cape while Joy changed her clothes and Bob made tea for us, and then we set about supper – tomato soup, fried bacon, sausage, tomatoes and beans, to be followed by ryvita and jam and more tea.
Next we settled in for the night; I put our two capes beneath the groundsheet and then John's groundsheet which he had lent us over the join in mine, and we just managed to keep dry like this. It stopped raining for a moment, so we put our clothes on the wall to dry in the wind overnight.
It was a long night, but Joy was a grand companion, instead of complaining that the flapping of the tent was keeping her awake, she spent all night saying how wonderful it was to be so warm and snug in her bag!
Towards morning it stopped raining, but the wind didn't abate, and the rings at the bottom of the tent walls started to pull out. We'd put the pegs back into the canvas of the sod cloth, but this would only tear, and our haven became rather draughty – far too much so for the lighting of a primus, so we gave our food to Bob to cook, and lay in our sleeping bags until our breakfast was handed to us!
I had been amazed to find that our clothes were still on the wall; I had visualised them half way to Capel by that time – possibly they were too sodden to blow away! After breakfast someone put up a clothes line and they began to dry rapidly on that. I got my tent down and away in the dry, as also did John D. and then there was a heavy shower, but John and I were able to shelter in John E's new Itisa tent.
Soon after 11 o'clock we were away and walking along the old road towards Ogwen Cottage, but here two disappointments were in store for us; firstly Mervyn's was closed, so that there were no cups of tea, and secondly no-one was at home at the Cottage so that we couldn't order a taxi. There didn't seem time both to climb and walk down to Bethesda, so, of course, we had to do the latter. Bob was most disappointed, but I wasn't so worried, for I don't think I could get into the monolith these days!
As the day was wasted, we decided to go down at once so that John and Jim could catch the earlier train and get to Loughborough in reasonable time. We were a slow party walking down the road, but just caught a bus at Bethesda and got to Bangor at about 3 o'clock. The five of us had a pot of tea and cakes at the Sportman's Café, but Joy made straight for the station. She was a little stiff about the arms after her ascent of Pinnacle Rib the day before, and didn't enjoy carrying a rucksack.
We all caught the 3.25 after all, the four of us saying that we'd spend the extra hours looking round Chester. We had to change at the Junction, and then left John and Jim at Chester and made our way to the refreshment room and sat there until our train came, instead of seeing the city! We had more tea at Crewe, and then slept the last part of the way to Derby. In the Nottingham train John left us at Beeston and then Joy suggested that we could have a taxi to Shakespeare Street – I had to agree that it was a well spent 2/-.
Our suppers had been left, and we continued our tea drinking before having a bath and so to bed.
Bernard picked me up at 2.30 p.m. He had already collected Jack and we set off to find Ernest at Derby. It was a great thrill riding in the Sheerline, but I felt that Bernard was frustrated by not being able to use his speed on the crowded roads. Ernest didn't recognised us at first when we drew up at Rolls Royce. Apparently he had expected a black car, and we were beige! Once we got away from the traffic in Derby we expected to be able to make up for lost time (not that we had lost any time by normal standards!), but soon the sun was shining dead against us, and by the time this had gone we were past Shrewsbury and on the winding Welsh roads. It had been interesting to see the first part of the journey by daylight, and I was so thrilled to take the left hand, Welshpool fork instead of the usual Llangollen road. As someone remarked, not only did Bernard provide the transport, but in addition he provided the sandwiches for the party, and a flask of tea.
The rain was coming down in sheets in Dolgellau, but Bernard didn't hesitate, he went right through the town and then took the left hand fork up the hill, although he'd never been there before. We went up and up, and some of us started saying that we'd come much further than the 2 miles Bernard had promised us, but eventually stopped at the Gwennan Lake Hotel, where we were staying. I was under the illusion that we were on the Tal-y-Llyn side and was looking across the valley to 'Cader', only to be told that the mountain was behind me!
It was about 9 o'clock when we went in, the man who showed us to our rooms, said he didn't know anything about Bernard's request for supper. He didn't do the bookings; he was only the Chef and the Waiter. The sandwiches were rather tasty – ham – but we had to drink coffee with them, we couldn't have tea, for some unknown reason.
Nesta and John arrived about 10 o'clock, saying that Marjorie Dawson wasn't coming, as she had a cold.
Breakfast started with tomato juice, but then, after cereal or porridge, we were disappointed to have only a hard boiled egg, but there was plenty of toast and marmalade. At about 10.30 we set out in the direction of Cader. There had been no sign of Geraldine's car with the Marriotts and Bob; I was glad no-one suggested waiting for them, for I was afraid that would have wasted half the day. We soon found that our hotel was looking after us even on the hills – the two dogs couldn't be persuaded to go back! There was a spaniel type, obviously a country dog, but the other was a little uncut French poodle, with a woolly back, looking just like a black sheep, and pathetic eyes looking out from beneath its mass of hair. It didn't seem to have much 'country intelligence', it merely imitated the bigger one.
At first we took a lovely track over moorland, passing Llyn-y-Gafr, and on to Llyn Gadair. There was a most exciting pinnacle ridge to the right of the Llyn up to the Saddle, but we kept to the Foxes path which went up the scree to the left. We kept on up until we reached the mist, and finally the top of the ridge. A frantic gale was blowing at first, but it eased off as we got off the ridge and onto the mass of Cader summit.
On top we went up the cairn and looked around and saw the ruins of the tea hut; we went in this, but decided it wouldn't make a very good bivvy spot, and then continued down by compass towards Craig-y-Cau, where we thought the Great Gully was to be found, for Ernest had a rope in his rucksack, and I also was not averse to a little climbing.
Fortunately the mist cleared and we realised that we were going down towards Mynydd Pencoed, instead of turning eastwards to get down to Llyn Cau. We had lunch above the Llyn, but it wasn't a very sheltered place – the dogs assisted us with our ham sandwiches!
Next, Ernest decided that we should find the climb; we passed two little gullies and then stopped beneath the one we had looked down from the top. It had been a magnificent sight from the top, a sheer wall of rock on the right, a view as good as that obtained on its namesake on Craig-yr-Ysfa. Bernard and the others went on to see if there was another gully further round, for this gully didn't look as exciting as we had hoped – also Ernest said that correspond to the diagram in Abraham's book, which we had left behind at the hotel, it being no pocket guide, and also belong to the Fell and Rock. Ernest took out Bernard's little Haslett Smith guide and read the description of Craig-y-Cau. Nothing corresponded so he turned back to make sure on which cliff Great Gully was situated, and found that it was Mynydd Pencoed, so we joined the others and made our way up the steep grass to the right of the cliff and gave up the idea of climbing for the day. When we got home, we found that we were on the correct crag, and that Mynydd Pencoed was the name given by climbers to the pinnacle which forms the magnificent right wall of the Great Gully.
Half way up the steep ascent, the dogs seemed to think we needed a diversion as an excuse for a halt, the big one started tearing up moss and then digging out soil from beneath some rock – at times he seemed to tear up moss for the sheer joy of it, but the real joke of it was the way the little one tried to imitate him, but doing no good at all. After this, I continued up to the ridge, but the others had still another halt some yards down. Soon, three familiar figures came down to me, they were the Marriotts and Bob. Apparently Geraldine had driven them round to our hotel – they complained that the people weren't very obliging. When they had asked for coffee the man had hesitated before saying yes, saying that it was rather near lunch time – actually it was twenty to one, I found out later! Geraldine had then driven round, and they were walking back. Although the tops were clear, it was rather windy, so we didn't stop very long, but turned north, and then walked along the west ridge. I remember we stopped on the Saddle, and Arthur gave us some of his Spitzbergen experiences, and we finally parted company where the main track crosses the ridge. Bob was very keen to climb, so we told him to take Arthur up the gully on Mynydd Pencoed, for Ernest decided that he and I wouldn't have time for it, as I had to get back that night – and it was suggested that we should try a ridge onto the Saddle. Bob didn't seem at all happy about the arrangements, but there seemed nothing else we could do. Bernard did some good work on my behalf. He persuaded Ed to stay another day, so that Geraldine could take me back in his place. I was so surprised that Ed agreed. I was so sure that he'd have some decorating to do!
The four of us went along to Craig-las, where we finished our biscuits off, and the dogs went mad seeing the paper being blown miles up into the air – or so it seemed to us. The view was lovely by this time, glorious billowy clouds, and light and shadow on the sea. When it came to going down, it seemed to me that there could only be one route, the track which had stood out by its colour. The path was brilliant green grass, zigzaggy up the steep hillside (definitely a track to descend, and not ascend), but the ground between the zigzags was bright red with bilberry leaves. This part was so smooth and steep that the easiest way to get down was by a sitting glissade!
Soon after the steep part, there was a heavy rain and hail storm. I sheltered at first behind a wall, while those with capes put them on, but I soon dried out.
Along the road we ate blackberries as we told ourselves that our hotel wasn't the sort of place to served tea at 6 o'clock.
Very soon on the right, there was a cottage plastered with advertisements of ways to Cader, and teas and minerals, and I went in to order a pot of tea, only to be told "Good gracious me, the kettle's gone" – I hesitated as there was a kettle on the fire, but the woman then added "sorry" and the air of finality in her tone sent me out. Back at the Gwernan Lake I wasn't refused, but I don't think the others believed in it. At any rate they mostly trooped into the bar, but in due course a pot of lovely tea arrived.
We hardly saw the dogs again, they'd had their last excitement on the way down, when the big one startled a hare, and gave chase, yapping as loud as it could, the little one followed right in the rear, also sounding rather excited! When I was telling another hotel guest about the way the little dog copied the big one, she said that the cat copied the little one!
Dinner was a pleasant meal, oxtail soup, ravioli, chicken, cherry pie and cream, and cheese and biscuits. As we settled down to coffee in the lounge, we were very sorry we had said that we'd meet the others at the Tal-y-Bont that evening. Eventually we left the fire and all crowded into Bernard's car (perhaps 'crowd' wasn't the word) and went round through Dolgellau and Cross Foxes to Tal-y-Llyn – it was a glorious evening by this time, for the drive along by the lake, and so to the hotel where Arthur told the tale of how he drank Vodka with the Russians, and John eventually fixed Ed and me up by agreeing to take me round to the campsite at 5.30 and bring Ed back to Gwernan Lake.
Much too soon we were turned out – now that wouldn't have happened at our hotel! – and we returned to our own fire.
It was pouring with rain when I woke up and by the look of things it had been like that for some hours. At least we thought that Bob wouldn't be looking in the wrong place for Great Gully!
Breakfast was a little more cheerful with bacon and egg – again John didn't want his egg and Ernest accepted it. We didn't realise that another table were getting their amusement from us until the lady said, "Well, now you give him your bacon". Ernest apologised and handed over half his bacon! In an optimistic frame of mind, Bernard ordered sandwiches, but we sat in the lounge and looked at photographs, or out of the window at the rain until 11.30, when we order morning coffee. Next we suggested going elsewhere to try to get into better weather, John suggested the Lleyn Peninsula, but once outside we decided that the sky was brighter towards the south. We all piled into the Sheerline thinking that it'd be more matey that way. We first went to Dolgellau and filled up with a dozen gallons of petrol, and then went along by the left hand side of the famous Mawddach Estuary, and then south along the coast, through Llwyngwril. It had cleared up by this time and the moors on our left were most attractive. We turned inland as soon as we could, and were rewarded with a valley more like the Lake District than North Wales – seen at its best of course with the rich late September colourings. The most fascinating thing of all in the view was the Bird Rock, or Craig-yr-Aderyn, for Nesta had given Ernest lessons in Welsh all the way along.
We ate our sandwiches and then went along to the foot of the crag, where Nesta soon showed that she was in the native county of her father, the way she ran up it.
There was a magnificent little ridge in miniature, with little gendarmes it was possible to climb. I said what beautiful firm rock there was on the gendarmes, but Ernest didn't agree with me.
The steep grass on the upper section seemed to me to be good practice for Cloggy – I felt that nails were definitely an advantage over vibrams. We sat on the top for quite a while, admiring the view (although the top of Cader was still in mist) and the colours, and then came down a long ridge, and so back to the car. We returned by Tal-y-Llyn; it was interesting to see the lake by daylight, especially on such a lovely evening – there was one lovely straight bit of road where, at 85 m.p.h. we hardly seemed to be moving, and then we were past Cross Foxes, Dolgellau and home. I was pleased to see the Daimler outside the hotel, for it seemed to me we'd cut it rather fine for John to change over Eddie and me. I had very soon packed and changed, and then we ate our afternoon tea and talked until about 6 o'clock when the others made some sign of leaving.
Geraldine drove, and I sat in the front with her, and Bob and Arthur were behind. We set out at a very moderate pace – but it was interesting to see the country in the daylight; we soon ran into the rain and, soon after dark, we were at Welshpool where we patronised a milk bar.
Again at Shrewsbury, Geraldine thought we ought to stop – this was rather a lengthy halt as we firstly had soup in the milk bar, and then called at a pub, and then Arthur phoned home. Eventually we were on our way again, and through Wellington, but the occasional patches of fog slowed us considerably. Then we had a puncture! It was amazing the number of people who stopped to see if they could help. Bob was invaluable, he seemed the only practical one amongst us. We hadn't a torch so he lit a candle so that he could see what he was doing. Fortunately Ed had put his jack in the back; this was too tall to fit under the axle, but Bob got it under the spring, and eventually the wheel was changed, and we were continuing on our way. The tyre was a little soft, at one point we stopped at a garage which said "open", but Geraldine wouldn't ring the bell, for she said she couldn't fetch the man simply to ask for free air, so we continued. A few miles further on, after more extensive fog, the progress of the car again became erratic – it was another puncture! – this time on the spare wheel, which was very hot, making Geraldine think that something that side was rubbing.
We hadn't even a pump, let alone a puncture repair outfit, but soon we realised how good was the fellowship of the late night road travellers; I expect it was about 11.30 p.m., but hardly a car or lorry passed without stopping to ask if there was anything they could do. At first it seemed to us that no-one carried a pump or repair outfit, certainly no lorries did, but then the car of "Brumigen" boys stopped and lent us a pump. Bob soon found that it wasn't just a slow puncture we were suffering from, and we continued to ask passing vehicles for repair outfits, but without success.
One or two people coming from Cannoch direction told us that there was an all night garage about 4 miles further on, and eventually the "Brumigen" car left three boys in the cold with us, and then took Bob and the spare wheel to the garage, promising to bring them back.
At first we all stood in the road, trying to be sociable with our friends, but we only go colder and colder, so eventually Geraldine and I got in the car and shut the doors.
We had just put our heads on the backs of the seats and shut our eyes, when there was a scream of brakes behind us, and then a bang. I tried to get out, but found that the door only opened with difficulty so I feared the worst. The back panel was completely caved in and the upper part of the boot was exposed; there was no sign of a bumper and a hefty piece of wood was splintered. Later we found that even the crank was nearly bent double. Behind the car, the radiator of a beautiful modern car was rather buckled and the bumper broken. What alarmed us was the groaning going on inside the car, but we found that it was only a woman suffering from shock. Thanks to this woman, not a word was said to the driver of the car. We had only sympathy to offer.
We exchanged names and addresses; they promised to report the matter to the all-night garage and then they drove off.
It was quite foggy by this time, but not bad enough to excuse the crash, I thought, for the Daimler had two good rear lights, visible from some distance. I could see the skid marks, instead of drawing out, he had steered in towards the grass.
Geraldine had stopped some distance from the grass – about a yard, and then refused to pull further in, she was so afraid of running on the flat tyre. I had suggested that we ought to get the wheel off while Bob was gone, but Geraldine didn't agree, and it was lucky for us that she didn't, but I thought Bob was a little disappointed when he came back and found that nothing had been done.
Someone said that they could smell petrol, but then we decided that there wasn't a leak in the tank and we gaily lit the candle for Bob to get on with the wheel changing – with the aid of its light Bob was able to see that there was a steady stream of petrol from, the tank!
After that, Bob worked in darkness! Our friends stood by all this time and then followed us to the garage in case we should need more help; fortunately we didn't. Geraldine drove in the garage and I stood by our friends while we gave them a gallon of petrol. Presently one of their number who had watched Geraldine's entrance came back and gave an account of it.:
Geraldine: "Please, I've been run into behind."
Garage man: "Now, isn't that too bad."
Geraldine: "Well, what are you going to do about?"
Garage man: "I don't think there's much I can do about it".
(Actually the other car hadn't given the message to the garage as they'd promised.)
We said goodbye to our friends and went back to the garage, by this time I was quite happy. At first I had been most annoyed, thinking another few hours gone from my sleeping time. I kept thinking shy doesn't Geraldine give the order to abandon ship, and then I can hitch back, for there was plenty of traffic, but Geraldine was made of tougher metal than I had thought; she wasn't going to abandon her car and, as soon as I realised that, it was bound to be an all night session. I cheered up and determined to make the best of it. We seemed to wait hours for Bob to bring the tyre back. I realised why when we went to the garage, it must have been nearly 12 miles away, in Cannoch.
In the garage no-one seemed to be doing a thing. We put the billy under to catch the petrol. They said they could do nothing about the leak, and Bob took off the wheel, so as to be able to see it better. Eventually the man had a look at it, cigarette in mouth, but could offer no suggestions.
As a special favour they mended the spare tyre (they were only open for selling petrol, not for repairs, they said), but on the whole they merely lent equipment (e.g. jack) to Bob.
We had a wash there, and then made tea over their fire (besides warming ourselves up on it). They sold their last tinned gallon of petrol to Geraldine and then let us put that which had dripped out into three bottles, and eventually we were ready to go. Against our advice Geraldine had two more gallons of petrol put in the tank (apparently she didn't realise the danger of the petrol dripping onto the exhaust and we set out at 3 or 4 a.m.
I was still sitting in the front with Geraldine, and somehow it seemed disloyal to go sound off to sleep while she was having to keep awake, but somehow for the last 10 miles or so, I was repeatedly dozing off. I got back at just 6 o'clock, which gave me a good hour's sleep before starting the day.
I caught the usual 9.06, but was told to buy a single ticket as I was coming back a different way. The tea hut at Tamworth was obviously under entirely new management and had a great variety of food, but I left it before "Bill" arrived, and read quietly in the ladies' waiting room, by the light of the flickering gas.
The Crewe train was very crowded; I was sitting in a first class corridor when someone came out of the carriage with the drawn blinds, and told me there was a seat in there. I think he (a 3rd class type obviously) was glad to think that a 1st class passenger would have to take his luggage off a seat.
At Crewe they put on the Windermere coaches as usual, and a lady and I shared a carriage, which I left reluctantly at 6 o'clock at Windermere.
I had only a light pack, and I thoroughly enjoyed the walk along the road. There was a brilliant moon at first, and wispy clouds, but then the moon sank behind a bank of mist. Later on it began to get light and there was a lovely sky reflected in the lake which was as calm as the proverbial millpond. Just before Waterhead, a lorry stopped and insisted on taking me to Ambleside, which I reached just after 7 a.m., to find the snack bar already open. I wandered round the village and then, at about 7.30, Joy appeared; she explained that she had quarrelled with the hostel warden, so hadn't bothered to collect her card. Apparently Margaret and Joyce had arrived in very good time, but Isobel had been late and couldn't get in, so she had gone off to find the Y.W.C.A.
Joy and I drank tea together and the others all appeared in good time to catch the 8.40 bus.
It was a very friendly journey up the valley; at the shop at Elterwater some people got out and bought various things, including a large tin of peas, then in Chapel Style I got out and bought bread, and eventually we were dropped at Raw Head.
We made our way to the barn, made more tea and booked the two bunks which had been allocated to us, and then set off for a climb.
The weather looked rather showery, so I suggested Scout Crag again. This seemed a sensible thing to do considering that Joyce hadn't climbed for about 3 years and I didn't know what Chamonix had done to Margaret's enthusiasm! I needn't have worried, certainly Joyce had never climbed in nails and, apparently, didn't intend to, but she seemed very game to try anything in rubbers, and I found that Margaret's enthusiasm was greater than ever (I was so glad. I had wondered about it ever since Chamonix).
Margaret led the left hand climb up on the 50 ft cliff below Scout proper, with Joyce as second and I was at the end, and then we abseiled down. Firstly, I did a classic abseil over the overhang – how I hated it, how it made my hands ache, and how the rope cut! Margaret made nothing of it with a sling, but Joyce preferred to go down the easier one, as she was so out of practice and we hadn't a second rope to use as a lifeline.
We each did several abseils, eventually we all did a classical one down the easier one. Next we went up to Scout proper, but waited until the rocks had dried after a rainstorm, before setting off up the route over the nose.
We climbed in the same order and Margaret had difficulty in finding belays (I have the same trouble myself on that climb!). We found two ways up a boulder problem at the top to the left and then went down again to the others and had something to eat and watched another, very serious minded party start up the other route.
Later Margaret said that she couldn't believe that she had done the same climb as had impressed her the year before. She said it was like the part we did with André unroped, all the time she was waiting for the real climbing to begin.
We contoured along, found an easy place for crossing Mill Gill, and then set off up the Dungeon Ghyll track. Margaret, I knew, was itching for another, better climb, but the higher we went, the windier it got, and there were odd little rain showers too.
I had vaguely mentioned Harristickorner, and Margaret thought that'd do, but I thought it'd prove too difficult to find. After seeing Gimmer, we continued up to the right of the path, following the D.G. stream up until we could cross it (somehow I shall always associate that bit of moor with Joy's descriptions of her fellow inmates at Huddersfield).
We got rather too close to the rocks, but then more deterioration in the weather sent us on to the top of Harrison Stickle, fortunately.
We spent some time on the summit, picking out the view, and watching the cloud come down on Gable, but then we realised that the cloud was coming our way, so decided to get down while we could see the way.
There was a little hail, but this shower was like the others that day, very brief, and we soon dried out afterwards.
We followed the track down to the old D.G. for a pot of tea. Arthur Dolphin and Marie came in later, having climbed on Side Pike. Back at Raw Head the cooks set about supper, sending Joy for milk. For soup we mixed green pea and mushroom, and had started it before Joy came back. She explained that when I said "Go to the bar of the new D.G." she thought I meant barn, so went poking about all the barns, but, as none seemed to sell milk, she had gone into the first lighted room, which happened to be the bar.
A figure sitting on the guests' side asked her what she wanted. She explained that she was looking for somewhere where she could buy milk. The man was quite indignant, "why, she got it from him. Where else would she expect to get it from?" and then he kept her talking about half an hour. I knew at once that Cyril Bulman was at home this weekend!
We may not have had any potato for our main supper course, but we did very well with peas, tomatoes, sausage, mince and steak. Isobel had made a delicious fresh fruit salad to finish with and, of course, there was tea.
We were the only people cooking supper that night, apparently many dinners were held in Langdale this weekend (for instance Raw Head Cottage was taken over by the RAF Mountaineering Association).
There were three M.A.M. girls, and one other girl had appeared, complete with slacks and earrings, so there were four beds left for the five of us. It didn't seem worthwhile for anyone to go down to Elterwater Y.H. for I thought, two of us could share a bed.
We were very happy sitting round the fire, but I insisted on going to the pub and Joy and Joyce accompanied me. Joyce got lost on the way, making a phone call, so Joy and I walked in together. Bulman greeted Joy, "So you're back again" and to me, without hesitating, he said, "Hallo, I haven't seen you for a long time".
Joy had orange juice and Joyce and I had draught cider. Cyril Bulman makes a real host. He goes from group to group chatting and, where possible, making cross introductions (this is hampered by the fact that his memory for names isn't as good as his memory for faces. He was very pleased to be able to introduce Edmund Hodge to Fred Hoyle, and then he went round to the other groups, explaining in loud stage whispers that Hoyle was the astronomer. I was very interested to see him, for he looks as he sounds, not in the least like a learned scientist; I remember how surprised I was the way his "expanding universe" talk had gripped me.
Cyril was interested in Joy's Zermatt skiing pendant, and the other men in the room seemed to be keen skiers from Ilkley. Hodge remarked that once he skied every month for 15 months.
Back at Raw Head, we found Isobel and Margaret in bed, and Joy and I shared a bunk.
Margaret brought me up tea in the dormitory; she and Isobel had got up by 7 o'clock. We had breakfast; some people swept the downstairs, and we were away by 9 o'clock before the rest of our dormitory were up.
It was an incredible early morning, with the colours on the bracken, and that clearness which one never gets in the summer.
We set out along the road towards Gimmer, but by this time there was mist on the top of Bowfell and the Crinkles, and, as we seemed in for another day like Saturday, I suggested White Ghyll as an alternative, and we duly trudged up there, the sweat literally dripping off my face. I wanted to find Junction Arête and kept looking for two holly trees, until I found myself at the foot of the slabs, and I knew I was at the top and not the bottom of the slabs, as I had intended.
Since we were there I suggested that we should try the easiest slab route, and I changed into rubbers, and undid the rope. Margaret didn't seem keen on leading and Joyce wasn't eager to come at all, so I set off up.
I soon realised that I should have started on something easier, for, on the first pitch, I didn't like the look of the way straight up, and traversed to the right and then back again. Margaret, of course, came straight up. I dithered also on the next pitch. The holds didn't seem quite adequate so I retreated and tried a lower traverse, and again retreated. When I again tried those first holds they proved quite adequate, it just shows that it was all a matter of getting my mind adjusted to the steepness of the rock, and the smallness of the holds. On the next pitch it was just a case of changing feet on a small hold and then all the difficulty was over, on the climb. At the top of the 145 ft we decided to finish up the last 80 ft of the other climb, instead of doing the scrambling the book mentioned as the finish of our route.
Joyce had watched us all this time, Joy and Isobel had wandered around, spoiling the alpine scale of things by appearing much too large on little humps.
I was so pleased that Margaret had said that she hadn't been scared once. Joyce agreed to accompany us on an easier climb. Isobel decided to watch us, and Joy said she'd go for a walk and meet us at Raw Head. We passed two boys just starting up Haste Not, and then four more lunching in the ghyll before starting up Hollin Groove, and we went down to the start of Garden Path. Margaret and Joyce put on rubbers, and then Margaret led up the first pitch (rather slimy); Margaret didn't like the look of the next pitch, into the niche, despite the fact that the rock was dry, so I went up. I was in the middle of the rope, but I didn't take Margaret's advice and change places with her, thinking that she'd probably like to take over the lead again.
Even on a rope Margaret didn't like the move into the niche (I suppose it was because it was impossible to do it very neatly) and so I went on, on the next pitch, just hoping there'd be enough rope. There wasn't so I had to get Joyce to untie (she was on a real 'garden path') and then I tied onto her end and reached a belay.
Next there was a long delay while Margaret, from 20 ft up, got Joyce to tie on again (M. had tied onto the middle) and then J. climbed up to M. Margaret made much less fuss than I had, about the step round the corner! - and was soon up, with Joyce following quite easily.
The top part of the climb was a dead loss. It was so loose (none of this part has recovered from the fire and some of the essential trees mentioned by the book are missing). Isobel had left us about 1.30; we were still climbing at 2 and 2.15 and I began to get a little anxious, although I got my amusement watching two of the booted party move very slowly up Hollin Groove, and I shall never tire of watching the valley. This time I particularly remember the incredible brilliance of the green as the sun patches moved up the valley (possibly it was in contrast to the red brown of the bracken that the fields looked so green).
I was in boots so I hurried down to the things we had left in the ghyll, and then hurried back to Raw Head, but Margaret soon caught me up. It was much quicker than I'd expected, descending the ghyll, and we were back at Raw Head by 2.45 to find the soup all ready and the rucksacks collected together etc. What should we do without Isobel? – for apparently Joy had only just got back, having been over Pavey and the Two Pikes.
We left at 3 o'clock and had time for a drink of grapefruit in the usual shop before catching the bus. On this journey, besides the view back up the valley, I remember Margaret getting very interest in climbing technicalities, even wondering what happens when people are taught to climb, instead of being left to pick it up!
At Ambleside, Margaret and Isobel left to hitch, while the rest of us drank tea before catching the bus to Windermere. 'Scruff-pot' from the Couvercle was also there, but apparently he didn't recognise me!
We passed Margaret and Isobel, just as they were being picked up by the fishermen who had given Margaret and Joyce a lift from Skipton to Ambleside.
We drank more tea at Carnforth and Joy left us at Skipton to bus to Ilkley, and at Leeds Joyce hurried to catch the train to York, while I tried to wake myself up before getting into the Derby train.
At Derby a man with a large suitcase got into my carriage and started talking, started telling me about his weekend in Langdale, where he'd been staying at the new D.G. with a party of 20 Yorkshire men.
As usual I was in by about 2 a.m.
I caught the usual train, the 9.06 to Tamworth, read all the way, and was most amazed when I got out to find that John Drewry had been on the same train! We made our way to the tea hut for a cup of tea, but didn't stay very long, the locals had already arrived! One of them was pointing me out to a girl as one of the sights of the place, but she didn't seem the least bit interested in a mountain climber.
The next train was rather crowded, but I got a seat after Stafford and was most reluctant to get out at Crewe. In the refreshment room we met Jim and found that he had joined our train before Tamworth.
We had to cross over to platform 3 for the train, but they added the four Windermere carriages. I had a side to myself, leaving the other two to have a compartment between themselves.
At Windermere at 6 o'clock, I was woken up by the shout of "All change" and realised that it wasn't at all a good morning; John and Jim decided to wait in the station and catch the first bus along; I said that I had better start to walk as there was a faint possibility that Bob would come along on his motorbike and give me a lift to Ambleside.
It was a very dark morning and I realised that I should not be looking in the lake for Littorella! I didn't thumb the lorry, but it stopped and took me to the bus station at Ambleside, too early for the snack bar to be open, but with about ½ hour to spare for the 6.55 a.m. to Langdale. I was the only passenger, and so, apparently, I didn't need to pay! It was pouring as I got out at Raw Head; I was glad to see a light in the barn, and Jack (Bloor?) opened the door and, almost at once, offered me a cup of tea (how did he guess!). He also offered it to two others, Ian Ogilvie and friend, who had spoken to me in the road, they thought they were looking for the Rucksack Club hut, actually they wanted the R.L.H.
Presently the rest of Jack's party appeared; it included Alf Gregory, but he wasn't very talkative about the Himalayas!
I cooked all my sausages and then ate two or three with tomatoes, and then made my way to the new D.G. for milk. The second bus arrived as I was coming away, and I was able to show John and Jim the field where I had camped with Don and Nat in 1951, and to direct them to Mill Beck for permission. Back at the hut I made a large pot of tea, and sat down by the fire to drink it and also to read. By this time other hut residents were stirring, the first to appear was Dennis Davies, and a little later Ralph Braithwaite came down, followed by Margaret.
I discovered that it was the Fell and Rock dinner in Keswick that night, so the district was a little crowded.
Eventually Bob appeared; apparently he had spent the night a few miles down the valley, where his petrol had given out! His things seemed rather wet; I gathered he had sort of wrapped the tent around himself! Life hadn't been dull for long on the way up, his lights had given out as early as Leeds, and apparently with the coil ignition with which that bike is fitted, that meant that the engine wouldn't go!
After Bob had breakfasted he hung up some of his wettest things in the harness room and we started along the road, calling on John and Jim on the way. John had pitched his new Arctic Guinea tent . When I felt the material I understood why he was so proud of the tent – even the sod cloth, where there were pools of water, was so well proofed that the water wouldn't touch it, but the tent looked quite ridiculous as the centre panels either side were obviously made of unproofed material. Bob was able to tell John how to start the letter which one sends to the makers when returning the tent because it leaked the first time out, "It seems utterly incredible to me that a tent costing nearly £20 ….." – he had learned from Norman Kershaw.
We all set out together up Mill Gill; it was terribly tantalising for the photographers (I had left my camera behind in the hut). There was everything they could wish for in the way of full waterfalls, trees still with leaves and glorious coloured bracken, an interesting sky, but the sun never really came out. Several times it tried and Bob and John stood with their cameras ready, but it never quite managed to come through.
There was no incentive to stop by Stickle Tarn; we moved towards the rocks, for Jim was very keen to try Rake End Chimney, while nothing less than a severe would do for Bob.
Bob chose Crescent Slabs, and we stopped at the foot of it for a little to eat, and then Bob started up. He was some time making a long stride over towards the waterfall, but then he shot up to the belay. Then it was my turn, on the whole the rock was just as slimy as I had imagined, but the holds were far more incut than I had expected. In fact there were such beautiful flakes that I couldn't believe they were firm (actually none of the rock gave me any cause to doubt it). Soon I was up to the awkward step across, and I spent an age there. I couldn't reach the left handhold Bob was pointing out, but at long last I discovered that if I moved higher, I could step across from there, and reach the handhold later. I think I rather moved up on my knees after that. On the next pitch, Bob soon thought better of the groove, but ran up the slab to the left of the holly trees. Again I stopped in the middle of this pitch – I don't know why, this time.
The next 35 ft were easy enough and then we were below the "crux". There was a heavy rain shower at this moment. As Bob was looking at the difficult bit, even without this additional water, there was a steady stream on the rocks in front of Bob, so he retreated and said he'd try to the left. He brought me half way along, and then continued the traverse on moss and other vegetation, to the blazed trail of crescent climb. We continued up a little way further, and then made the traverse. There was a waterfall from the rocks above, but for only one move did it fall onto our backs. From Jack's Rake we descended to Gwynne's Chimney, but, finding it a bed of a stream, we continued down and then picked up the rucksack at the foot of the climb, and descended Mill Gill, finally taking the track to the old D.G. (Bob wanted to go to the New, but I felt the Old was the place for a pot of tea).
Later Dennis and friend came in from their walk over the Crinkles. On the way back we called at the tent and collected John who came back with us. He had the honour of inspecting Bob's bike, and then a cup of tea in the hut.
Bob had steak and onions for supper; that added flavour to my inevitable sausage and tomato. I missed Isobel's fruit salad as a second course. Later we met John and Jim, and Dennis and friend in the New .D.G.
Before tea I had gone into the cottage to change the F. & R. plate I had had in my possession for the last year, with the top of my fry-pan, which was still there! As I came back past the group by the fire, someone said "How did you get on after the Albert 1ere?" It was the Kendal lad from the R.A. party, I realised eventually. When I told him that Bob wasn't booked in at the barn, which might become crowded with people from the F. & R. dinner, he said that Bob had better sleep in the cottage, where there was plenty of room. Apparently the F. & R. and the Fellfarers had changed huts for this weekend.
We put the clocks back; I got up at 7.30 by the new time, and drank tea and read until Bob appeared about an hour later. We weren't a very bright party. Bob thought he'd better leave in good time to get his bike back before dark, while I had my committee meeting at 10 o'clock. I saw that Bob's engine started and then crossed the road to the R.L.H. and stood at the entrance until Harry Spilsbury and Edmund Hodge appeared, the other two, Ian Ogilvy and Parker of the Karabiner had, I imagined, been there. I suppose that Hodge and Ogilvy had been elected by the S.M.C. because they lived in England. We stuck pretty much to work, except when Douglas Milner and co. came in an tried to describe his duet at the Karabiner dinner at the Old D.G. the night before.
At the meeting, Spilsbury had things very much his own way. Hodge and Ogilvy as well as the rest of us seemed against the S.M.C. request that we should provide a First Aid Annexe to the Allt a' Mhuillinn hut. Parker seemed a little bit of a rebel, kept suggesting that perhaps it was up to us to show initiative and start the building of a hut, and thought we ought to give every encouragement to the Barnsley Mountaineering Club, who wished to build a hut in Derbyshire, but the only other formal resolution passed was that we should encourage the building of a hut in the northwest of Scotland (e.g. Loch Torridon).
Parker was appointed secretary of the committee and I had to pull the names out of a hat, to see in which order we retired. Of course I pulled my own name out first!
I hardly said a word – I tried to stick up for the smaller clubs, which were members of the B.M.C., but were not in the existing hut scheme – I got no support for this.
At about 11.45 the meeting was over and I made myself more tea at Raw Head, changed, packed my rucksack and wandered along to John's tent. No-one was at home so I returned, picked up my pack and started down the road. Right from the start I found this an awful grind, so I stopped between Elterwater and Chapel Stile for lunch. At Elterwater village I took the foot path which led near the lake to Skelwith Bridge. At first I thought I'd never get near the lake and when I did, in the woods, I found the water's edge marshy, and not the least like the gravely soil in which I expected to find the precious Littorella for Mr. Coulthard. I continued along the path and didn't join the road until just before Skelwith Bridge.
I crossed the river Brathay and then soon got onto the lanes which were uncoloured on my map, but how tired I got of their metalled surfaces. When I left the road and took to a track I found that it went over the hill instead of round, and I soon stopped to put some sticking plaster on my foot. After about a mile of track I came to a 'red' road, which I left as soon as possible, and so to Hawkshead and on to Esthwaite water. It was about 4 o'clock by this time and I really felt that I had reached the promised land at last. I went eagerly up to the shore, and what was growing in the gravel? Nothing! I walked along for about half a mile, but there seemed nothing unusual about the place, so, very depressed, I returned to the village and had a cup of tea, and then set out in the direction of Coniston, where I wanted to spend the night. It was a good 4 miles, the sky was clouding over after a lovely day, and I began to visualise a wet Monday, and began to think that I'd need several hours to look for the elusive litorella, and began to consider that perhaps it would be better to stay at Hawkshead.
There were Ribble buses on Thursdays and Saturdays only, so I had been pleased to see a Brown's timetable in the village, and realised that they had a services of a weekday. The last bus to Ambleside to catch my connection was the 11.50, but the 2.20 went to Windermere via the ferry and I thought I'd better chance that one, catching the later train if necessary.
I walked up the road to Hawkshead Hill, then took the footpath back to the village. It was just getting dark and it was a lovely walk, but I should have enjoyed it more if I hadn't had my pack.
I went up to the "Sun Hotel", but the door was locked, so I retreated up the street to the next place offering accommodation. A group in the road told me that all the hotels were closed down for the winter, and that my only hope for a bed was at Geoff's – when I could make no-one hear, a man came back with me, only to find that they were going away in the morning and couldn't take me. There was only one place left, the Youth Hostel (yes when I was having a night out on B.P.D. Co!) – about a mile up the road on the left hand side – you can't miss it. I did miss it and enquired at a cottage and found that it was on the right hand side.
I signed in and asked for supper – I was too late, all they could sell me was an egg and tin of beans, which I cooked and ate in front of a roaring fire. The only other hosteller soon came in, but I went to bed early.
It was a good breakfast, eaten in the warden's kitchen and I forgave the hostel a lot after that. It was left to us whether we did any sweeping or not, so of course we swept. At about 9.30 I set out, in the teeming rain! The road wasn't nearly as long in the daylight! At the village I left my pack in a garage (there was no-one about to ask permission) and set out with my little rucksack underneath my cape. I went along the road until I could get to the eastern shore of the lake and then walked all the way along this side, by the water.
The water was just coming over the grass and I concluded that the normal level was just below the grass, actually this was my great mistake. I expect there is normally 10-20 feet of gravel. I was amazed at the variety of plants growing in the water – ordinary little plants, without particularly strong roots. I couldn't understand how they withstood the conditions. There was a very strong wind at first and there were waves about a foot high, so during the lull between waves, I'd put my hand down and pull up a plant and look at it later. The trouble was that nothing corresponded to Litorella; there was one plant which seemed new to me, and I tried to tell myself it corresponded, certainly it grew in a rosette, but it was much smaller than I expected, and the leaves were much blunter ended. It corresponded in that it grew both under the water and in the grass by the side. At the far end of the lake the weather improved, I felt the sun would come out at any moment, and there the grass was covered with this plant, and I picked and picked. Presently I came to one with an inflorescent stalk attached, so I put that in a special place, but then I found one with pink flowers!
At first I was sure that it must be another plant mixed with my "littorella" leaves, but when I realised that it belonged to those leaves, I lost heart and didn't pick any more! Little did I know that I had been collecting myosotis – a forget-me-not! I continued round the lake; when the going became difficult, I took to the road, but together with my efforts on the Sunday, I had explored most of the shore.
At the snack bar in Hawkshead I had a pork sandwich and tea, and then explored the village – my verdict was too self conscious – I found that their library was open on Tuesday nights only and the only shop with a flower book was shut, so I gave it up and walked up to the church to while away the time until 2.20.
When everyone had got out and paid the driver their fares, I got in and asked how long it would take me to get to Windermere station – I had asked this several times, but I thought it would let him know I was in a hurry. We didn't lose much time getting to the ferry (I felt I should have called at Ferry House for 'gen' on my plant). The ferry intrigued me; I remembered the one from Kyle of Loch Alsh, and was surprised to find that this one went on wires. The bus arrived just before the ferry and I was lucky at the other end too. Local people directed me along the footpath to Bowness and I just caught a bus, and had about a quarter of an hour to wait for the train.
I had to change at Preston where there was time for tea and cake, and at Manchester I had to change stations. I got across in time for a dinner at the station, only to find that the dining room had been shut down, and all I could find outside was a fish and chip place.
I don't know why the train was so late, but it didn't reach Nottingham until about 11.20.
The bus left Station Street fairly punctually, after 6.30. We stopped at Beeston for 'Chunky' to pick up his ice axe, and were soon at Derby L.M.S. where Ernest, John D. and Jim were waiting. At first I thought there was no Margaret and Joyce, but they soon appeared, having hitched from York via Nottingham! They had called for me before I got home but, not knowing whether I had already left, nor where the bus was waiting in Nottingham, they had to catch the bus to Derby. There were 16 in the bus, a 24 seater had been ordered and then a 39 seater rolled up. Apparently Barton's thought it would hold the roads better, if conditions were bad.
We were quite lost in the bus, there was lashings of room for our kit, people were scattered the whole length of the bus and it was quite an expedition to go up to the other end to talk to someone. I was asked if I thought I was in an aeroplane, and was playing at being air-hostess, after I had made several trips up and down the bus.
Joyce, on learning that we were going Shrewsbury way, thought it a pity she hadn't arranged to see her husband.
We stopped for a drink at the Three Horseshoes and then on to Llangollen where Arthur had written to the milk bar and where everyone greatly appreciated a hot drink.
There had been snow on the ground before Llangollen, but afterwards, where we expected it to be thicker, we found that it was pretty clear; however, we came into it again before Capel. We took the right hand fork, especially to take Chunky to Helig and then we had the game of turning the 30 ft bus in Helig garage – we backed into it O.K., but then I thought we were doomed to spend the rest of the night backing to and fro; however, we suddenly turned round and then continued back to Capel and so to the Pen-y-Gwryd.
I had been sorry to hear that the driver was staying at the Pen-y-Pass – I had hoped that he was going to Beddgelert, in which case he could have taken us some way down to Cwm Dyli (I hadn't Chunky's cheek, to ask him to go out of his way!). We left the men, Marjorie R and Geraldine, and the three of us started down the old road, and then took the grass track to the power station. I tried the door and then started to go round the back, until Margaret called me back – the man had heard us and told us that there was someone already at the hut – we guessed that it was Joan.
The key was in the lock – I left it there! We made ourselves a pot of tea, and so to bed at about 2.50.
Although I hadn't slept soundly all night, I slept from 6.30 until 7.50, when I got up. I put water in the kettle, but forgot to switch it on! and then made way to the farm for milk. We got away at about 10 o'clock, reaching the Pen-y-Gwryd about half an hour later, just as the others were setting out. We intended having dinner there that night, and had brought up a few more clothes, in case we should get wet. These we left in Paul's car, and then set off up the road after the others. I walked with Paul; we were soon reduced to silence, for all my energies were concentrated on keeping up. Paul seemed trying to catch up those ahead! The three girls behind got a lift up!
We left Joan to go along the Miners Track (her ankle was still giving her trouble) and the rest of us set off for Crib Goch. The rest of the party seemed to have decided to do the Horseshoe "the other way round", but I thought that, for a first time, it would be nicer for Margret and Joyce to do 'Crib' first, and I set up that way, only to find that all the others were following. Possibly they remembered last February when I had been left with three beginners on my hands, but, of course, this time Margaret would make a splendid 'other end' of the rope.
A chill wind was blowing through the col, and we stopped some time here for photography etc. before starting up Crib proper. Margaret, Joyce and I were at the end of the party. Joyce was a little slow, but her technique was very good. At the top we found the others waiting, but then soon started along the ridge, of our three Margaret went first, and I brought up the rear, and could admire Joyce's fine balance. About half way along, Joyce suggested roping up, so of course we did this, but once she was on the rope, she simply ran along, there was no question of my putting the rope round rocks; I could only note in passing where it would fit found if necessary. It rather amused me the way Joyce led up the pinnacles without hesitating.
It had been a glorious morning until we were about half way up Crib, but then we got into the mist, and there were the most wonderful ice crystals on the rocks, the sort I have always wanted to photograph, yet have never seen in the sunshine.
The others were waiting just beyond the pinnacles and we descended to the col together, and then went up to a sheltered spot for lunch. This was enlivened by Dudley Stevens and two protégés who stopped to talk to Paul. We learned that so far this season it had been impossible to break into the hotel, yet the hotel authorities had so little faith in their boarding up, that they had removed all the furnishings from inside.
Next came what I always consider the long part of the Horseshoe. We soon got left behind, and John G. stayed with us. I was sorry that he should get cold, but I was glad the others went on. We passed over Clogwyn-y-Person, and then, when I'm sure Joyce thought it would never come, we arrived at the triangulation post on Crib-y-Ddysgl – it had some fine crystals on it, but it was nowhere near as grotesque as in February.
Somehow Margaret's description of the film she had seen of the ascent of Kamet seemed appropriate at this point.
Soon we were down and joining the railway line for the last ascent onto Snowdon. There was a little dungeon-like place below the hotel, where we sheltered and ate John's chocolate, before going round the hotel to think of the descent. We had already seen Joan, on her way down to the Pen-y-Gwryd track, with a strange man. Then we met the rest of our party. They had waited for us, and then decided to go down the Pen-y-Gwryd track, after looking for us. When that was obviously unnecessary we all set out for the Watkin. The descent was very easy with soft snow and no ice.
Joyce refused my axe (the 'toothpick' was the only one I had in Nottingham), but Margaret accepted it more for the joy of feeling one in her hand again, than because she needed it. She and Jim were soon down to the col. I preceded Joyce down in rather a Ron Naylor attitude, but, as I say, there was nothing dangerous about the descent.
How many times have I had bad weather on Crib and Snowdon, and then got out of it going down towards Lliwedd? This day was no exception, the cloud was almost high enough for us to see the sea, the ridge down to Aran looked very good, as also did Moel Hebog and the hills Cwm Silyn way. Lliwedd looked terrific, and Crib eventually came out of the mist, showing its proper comb-like shape. Apparently only Margaret and Jim were down in time to see Glaslyn at its best.
At the bottom came the argument as to how the party should split up. I insisted that Margaret should finish the Horseshoe with Paul and Jim, and I said I'd go down the Gribin with Joyce and Marjorie. I waited until the two Johns and Bas arrived; they all seemed to want to 'bag' Lliwedd, so I made my way over to the cairn at the top of the Gribin and waited until a fourth figure caught us up. It was John D. very disappointed because he had been ordered down this way and he suggested that I should joint the Lliwedd party. There were tracks down the Gribin, and I knew that they were a reasonably competent party and very well equipped, so I left them, and ran after the others, catching them up on the second summit, much to their surprise (I felt they thought I'd deserted my post). By this time the last red had gone from the sky to the west, and the light was beginning to fail, so we hurried down to get off the rough ground before dark – we reached the Miners Track at about 5 o'clock, just as the light was fading. There was a very thin moon, and a fair amount of cloud in the sky, but the snow around made things lighter. I rather wondered whether the Gribin party was in front of us, but there was no point in waiting, we continued along the rather long track to the Pen-y-Pass, looked in the windows, saw there was no-one having tea there, and so down the road to the Pen-y-Gwryd for a pot of tea. Blodwyn tried to tell us that we were too late for tea, but she got her orders that we could have tea to drink, although afternoon teas were no longer being served.
Joyce and Marjorie were back in time for the full thing.
We had a wash, and I showed Margaret the elaborate shower bath, which Joan decided to use! and then it was time for dinner.
It was so different from the time when all the women had been shunted onto a separate table; this time all 17 of us were at one long table, and the Duck and trimmings were enjoyed by all, to be followed by a sweet with strawberries, cream, and ice cream.
We drank our coffee in the dining room, while waiting for the billiards room to warm up. Joan produced her Austrian photographs. She made quite a stir in her 2-piece bathing suit, standing bare-footed in the snow!
Joyce and Margaret decided to leave in good time, to get the fire going in the hut, and Joan and I said we'd follow at about 10 o'clock. Chunky came in and said that he was doing the Horseshoe the next day, and would we wait for him there, and not at Capel, as had been arranged.
We started getting ready at 10 o'clock and, at about 11 o'clock, Joan and I actually set out. It wasn't raining at first, so I didn't bother with the cape John D. had lent me; soon it was raining very heavily, but, as Joan said, it was coming straight down, so that really only our shoulders got wet. The half hour passed very quickly for me, with Joan as entertainment and in the hut there was a splendid fire, with a clothes-horse ready for our wet things, and so to bed.
I woke up at 7.30 and a whisper from Margaret stirred me into action, and I started on breakfast while Margaret put the blankets away. After the porridge, bacon, egg and tomato, followed by the washing up, I struggled into my boots and insisted on fetching more coal (that got me out of doing the grate, for I've really had so little practice at that sort of thing). I went in the power station and was told to see Mr. Davies at the first bungalow; I knocked on the door and was glad to find that he was up at 8.50 on a Sunday morning. He told me that I'd have to get it from the power station, so I retraced my steps, wondering where I'd be sent next but, with Mr. Davies' permission, a scuttleful was broken up for me. A little shed was beautifully stacked with it – it lasts years I was told. Obviously they don't burn it in the power station!
Sure enough when I got back the fire was laid, all but the coal, and the three of us were soon starting out, leaving Joan (the late riser) to finish her breakfast and lock up the hut.
It was another glorious morning, with a slightly more settled look about it than the previous one. The night before I had suggested that, if the weather were bad, we might rock-climb on the Three Cliffs, but if it were good, we might ridge walk, but somehow, in the sunshine, rock-climbing seemed the most attractive. We arrived at the Pen-y-Gwryd at 10 o'clock, as five of them were ready to set out; so we sent them off, saying that they'd be off the climb before we arrived. They were Bob and Ray, who had set out early on Saturday, but retreated from Trinity Gully, and Jim and John D., also Ernest. The day before, Ernest, Arthur, Ed and Alf had tried to rock-climb on the Parson's Nose. Of this party only Ernest retained his rock-climbing enthusiasm, the others preferred to join the walking party over Siabod.
We spent some time sorting out our rucksacks and playing with the kittens, and eventually started along the road. We went down nearly to the bridge before starting up the hillside. I had no idea it was such a slog up to Dinas Cromlech. Bob and Kay were almost up the climb Flying Buttress before we arrived, and the other party were just starting, so we sat down and ate. I had forgotten to bring my second rope, so I borrowed Jim's full weight nylon (actually his party could have done with it themselves). Margaret led and I came next, and I said that, as the rocks were reasonably dry, Joyce could follow in rubbers. When I came to look a little more closely I saw that there was much turf on the holds, so lent Joyce my old, darned over-socks.
I was amazed when I got to the top of the first pitch, I had always imagined it to be such a grim place. I knew it was a large stance, but I imagined it of sloping rock. Instead I found it heathery and Oh so friendly.
Margaret broke the next pitch, as Ernest was still on the belay at the top. There was a considerable amount of loose rock on this. From the top there was a sporting route down over the gendarmes and that brought us to the main wall with the tree which provided belay and handhold in turn.
There was a hold-up halfway up this next pitch, which the other party were doing in two, the book wasn't very clear about the route. The way went straight up and John found this rather fierce. Ernest got up first go, but obviously used some of his considerable strength on it.
Margaret got up much more neatly, only being hampered by cold fingers, and then followed the others who had stopped on a belayless ledge. Margaret brought me up to the good stance, but I waited until M. had gone on to a belay, before bringing up Joyce, who apparently had no trouble on the steep part.
After the others were out of the way, Margaret went up the semi-stomach traverse and then I brought Joyce up and followed Margaret to the top. John then called over to say that he was going down to fetch up their rucksacks, so that they could walk home over the fells. Should he also fetch up ours? I said no, and that we'd take home their things so that they needn't go down. John's reply was that Jim was half way down and, as I had said that we were going home by the road, naturally they didn't bring our things and theirs, I'm sure, was much the best way home!
Ernest was able to direct us off the crag, and then we went down to our rucksacks. Joyce was glad to see her boots, after her descent in rubbers – arriving at about the same time as Bob and Ray, who had climbed Holly Buttress (severe). On the climb there had been an occasional snow flake, but on the whole, the weather was good, so it was most amazing the way we saw a snow storm coming up the valley towards us and there was a nice coating on the rocks, as we made our way down, but it was soon all over. The two boys were trying to be sociable and wait for us, but I sent them on so that they'd be in time for their tea. After Pen-y-Pass the views down Nant Gwynant were incredible, with the sun on the greenest of grass. We had a pot of tea, Margaret and Joyce filled their thermoses and we put our things in the bus and proceed to wait for Chunky. He arrived at 4.45 (instead of 4 p.m.) having taken two beginners over Crib. He saw them down to the Miners Track and then left them to his friend and ran down.
Mac and Shirley were waiting at Capel, where Paul and John G. and Bas got out to pick up their cars which had taken the Siabod party down that morning.
Our journey was without incident until near Chirk, where I felt a bump, but I was surprised that the driver stopped with an indignant "He skidded into me".
Rather late I began to take an interest in the proceedings – it was much more interesting when I found that it was a Rolls Royce which had hit us. Apparently the car driver hadn't his licence with him. I only heard our driver say "I suppose you don't happen to know the name of the company with which the Rolls is insured?" – the Welshman replied to that "I ought to, I own the car, it's the Prudential".
Of course the Rolls driver said the bus went into him, but when I examined the damage done to the Rolls, the woman said, "It's nothing, nothing at all", which I took to be an admission of guilt.
Our beautiful bus had its paint scratched, bumper bent, and about 6 ft of chromium strip torn off from round the wheel – the driver had to break this off.
We didn't stop in Shrewsbury, but at a pub further on where there were no hot drinks.
We arrived at Derby at about 10.10, in time for the bus to Loughborough and I was home by 11 o'clock .
I caught the 7.10 to Crewe after a week of very mixed feelings; firstly I had remembered that I used to go to Wales for this weekend before Christmas and then, as though reading my thoughts, Don had suggested it, so I jumped at the opportunity. Next the snow came and I thought how much better it would be to ski in Derbyshire, but the next day the thaw came, to be replaced by gales, and I thought what's the use of going to Wales if it's going to be like this all the time. Then Thursday was a perfect spring day and I visualised getting in some good rock climbs, but Friday was rather grim and then, when Don got on the train at Derby, I saw by the size of the bandage on his finger that difficult rock work would be out of the question for him.
The train was pretty crowded, and late leaving Nottingham and it didn't pick up any time, but the connection at Crewe waited and we got to Chester in time for the usual cup of tea. At Bangor we settled down in the waiting room, but the official didn't seem to want us to sleep; fortunately Don was well briefed for when we were asked where we were for, Don replied "Caernarvon", for he says they sometimes turn you out.
At 4.30 a.m. the man returned to tell us that the Caernarvon train went at 4.35, so I asked the time of the next and was told 5.30 and I said we'd wait. Fortunately that official must have gone off duty for he didn't return and we didn't catch the 5.30. At 6.30 I got up and found that the next Caernarvon train left at 9 o'clock, so we made our way to the bus station. The 7.05 didn't seem to be running, so we caught the 7.20 and then had tea and toast in the People's Café when we reached Caernarvon. We had one trip out to the dairy and then the rain started. We waited until 9.15 and caught the bus, which took us right up the Pass. We got wet enough going from Pont-y-Cromlech to the road menders hut. This was empty and we soon had the tea on and then sat and waited for the weather to clear; the rain stopped after an hour or so, but Don didn't notice at first for the wind was so fierce. At 1 o'clock we decided that we could venture out for a little gentle ridge walking, but we fortified ourselves with more tea and a little to eat first. We cut fairly straight up from the hut, up the gully to the east of Dinas Mot, and then up until we joined the ridge leading up to Crib Goch from the north.
It is a ridge I have always wanted to do, but really I consider the usual way up more sporting. The rock was completely shattered. I suppose it is only the passing of many feet which makes the usual way appear firm. The top was in the cloud, and it took longer than I expected to reach the summit. The wind was very troublesome; we just had to stop and hang on with all four limbs, when a gust came.
Eventually we were up and proceeded along the ridge, crawling practically the whole way. I found this very frustrating; I felt I was doing it so badly, yet I didn't dare walk upright for fear a gust should come when I was in an exposed position. I think Don felt the same as I did, and, as he said, it would look so silly to be blown off Crib Goch.
There was an occasional patch of watery snow which I suspected of having ice beneath. At the end we quite frankly traversed below the pinnacles, and then all the amusing part was over. We looked at our watches and found that it was about 3.45, so we decided to retreat to get off the rough ground before the light went. We went down a few strips of snow, but they were far too soft for glissading. We went fairly straight down, following a stream when we reached the cliffs. From the hut we had watched the streams being blown back up the hillside, so we weren't surprised to get rather wet from the spray from this, our feet had kept reasonably dry until we both trod in a deceptive piece of bog and got wet up to the knees. Back at the hut we proceeded to cook the food Don had brought. His tinned tomato soup was very superior to my packet stuff which we had had mid-day. Next, there was the inevitable with Don, potatoes to peel and cook, and then his steak.
Soon after 7 o'clock we went outside to await the bus, for we were afraid we wouldn't see it from the hut. It seemed about half an hour we had to wait in the cold; several cars fooled us, we could see them coming ages before they arrived by the light they cast on the hillside above Dinas Mot – like the smoke from a train. I described the first glimmer, and then various patches of hillside would be illuminated in turn until the searchlight would turn on the top of the rock. Very soon after this, the lights would come into view and we'd know whether it was a car or bus.
We could nearly have walked it in the time we waited, but we eventually caught the bus to Pen-y-Gwryd where the bar was deserted at first – Don said he'd never known it like that before. Soon three Climbers' Club types arrived and, although the conversation wasn't general. They kept us amused, particularly when one of them described Menlove Edwards latest escapades – his indignation at being rescued when he was trying to row to Norway, and another time when he tried to row from Deganwy to the Isle of Man.
Next, another lone figure came in. He was spending Christmas at the Pen-y-Pass and was the first guest to arrive and had come down for company. He rather looked down on Don and me when I said that we had only done Crib Goch and had left out the pinnacles. Last Christmas apparently he had done the complete Horseshoe.
We left soon after 10 o'clock and walked up to the Pen-y-Pass. We were very grateful for a taxi which picked us up soon after we started down to the hut. He was very surprised when we said that we wanted to get out at the bridge!
I was sound asleep when, at about 11.30, I heard a step in the gravel, and a young lad came in. He mistook Don for Nat at first, which made Don curious to know who it was who knew Nat. They exchanged names (he was another Don) and then both said "I've heard about you" in such a tone that I was a little curious to know what they had heard. The new Don claimed to be in the "Rock and Ice", but Don seemed to doubt that, but I never knew what that club had against the lad.
My words that it was 8 o'clock had their effect and Don started to light the primus and make the tea, and finally to cook the breakfast. The other lad had no-one to climb with, but Don explained to him that we'd only be climbing diffs and didn't think he'd be interested. At about 9.30 we set off up to Dinas Cromlech and made for Parchment Passage. The first pitch was nothing, up among the trees, but the position on one move on the second pitch was, I thought, superb, the exposure was terrific, but the holds adequate. Don fiddled rather on the last pitch; he said that it used his bad hand too much. I could more than see his point of view when it was my turn. The wall was vertical therefore everything depended on the handholds, but for the move across, the only hold was for the right hand and that didn't appear safe. We hurried down to the west, paused to watch someone retreat from the first pitch of Sabre Cut, and then went on to the foot of Cenotaph Corner. This was streaming with water, which led colour to Don's description of Joe's pioneer effort up it. We soon turned our back on it and Don started on Spiral Stairs. Don soon disappeared from view and I knew I should never hear his shout, but I could tell by the rope movement what he was doing and knew when to start. All I can say about the route is that it is just a staircase and Don and I agreed that the grading of the two climbs should be reversed. Time was getting on by now, we ascended a chimney to the summit and then started down Flying Buttress, hoping to get onto Neb's Crawl, another 'vd'. I went down to the detached flake, and awaited Don who investigated to the left, but he was afraid of getting onto a severe, so he suggested that we went further down the Flying Buttress. When we crossed the top of the gully, we traversed left onto the heather instead of descending the buttress, and did the bottom two pitches of Neb's Crawl, before running back to the hut.
It had been quite a nice day; the wind had dropped. Only the very tops were in cloud and later on the sun almost came through, to the east of Crib, giving a rather lovely effect. We got back to the hut at about 2 o'clock and decided there wasn't time for a brew. We finished our packing and then set off down the valley. We arrived at the bus stop in good time, so we walked on to the next stop.
We changed buses at Llanberis and so to Bangor – the first bus journey was made interesting by a half-wit – he made no attempt to hold on when the bus started and another passenger grabbed him and stopped him falling off.
At Bangor we stopped at the Sportsman's Café for a meal – ham and chips – but I considered it rather expensive at 4/6 with cakes. At the station, when I saw that the refreshment room didn't open, I thought how lucky that we hadn't relied on it, but I reckoned without the resourcefulness of British Railways, for a man came round the carriages with cups and ham sandwiches (not that I needed any, but it was nice to know that they were there, for another time).
We also didn't call in the refreshment room at Crewe, but settled ourselves in the Derby train (8.50) which didn't start until 9.30 (and to think that I nearly missed it in the summer when it tried to leave at 9.10!).
We were late in Derby, but I was just in time for my connection which, apparently, waited for another train, and so to Nottingham soon after 12 midnight.
I had my usual solitary journey to the Lake District. Friday had been a very dull day, and I had no enthusiasm for the trip. I was out Wednesday and Thursday nights, so I had all my packing to do on Friday before catching the 9.06 – and I always like a day to "remember what I've forgotten". At Tamworth, I felt I was such a notorious character I couldn't face the locals in the tea hut and I spent the next 1½ hours in the cold waiting room. The next train was delightfully hot; I could have spent the rest of the night asleep in it, but I had to change at Crewe. After a cup of tea, I again witnessed the 'doing' of the ladies waiting room. There were no papers, and rumours of trains being late. At about 2.30, my train arrived, this time I couldn't wait until the empty Windermere carriages were put on, nevertheless I got a side to myself and was soon happily stretched out. I kept an eye on my watch and at 5 o'clock I began to sit up, actually it was 5.45 before we reached Ulverston and I settled down for another hour in a cold waiting room and then made my way to the Palladium for the 7 o'clock bus. I was dozing in this until the conductor handed round sweets donated by a deaf and dumb girl.
At Coniston I walked round to the Black Bull, but there was no sign of life, so I thought I'd better go up to the hut, and not annoy the Robinsons by waking them for the key. I know only one way out of Coniston, and that is straight up the hill. Beyond the station I eventually looked at the map, and realised I was on the wrong road – this was a typical beginning to this weekend. I got round to the Copper Mines track with more ease than I deserved. Once on the track I arrived at Irish Row before I expected. I examined the 2 middle cottages, but there were no signs of life, nor any obvious easy way in, so I left my pack and returned to the village for the key.
Back at the hut I explored the place, and then sat down reading instead of getting on with my breakfast. The result was that Margaret and Isobel arrived soon after 10 o'clock before the tea was made. We all waited for a cup, I cooked myself some sausages and then at about 11 o'clock, we set out for the Old Man. We went up by Levers Water; we thought the mist was going to clear, there were patches of blue sky and quite a lovely reflection of the snowy Swirl How in the lake, but it didn't clear any more.
We set off up Raven Tor, but cut round and reached the ridge further south. There were some quite nice patches of snow. Margaret and I expected to have to help Isobel, but not a bit of it, she was perfectly confident on it, although in vibrams and without an axe. Actually some of the grass was more treacherous than the snow, for it concealed clear ice. Once on the top of the ridge we made our way along to the summit cairn of Old Man and sat down for a bite to eat. There was a lot of mist about, but really we were above it, as also were the higher hills. Dow Crags, Helvellyn and High Street, and Scafell were the chief ones we could see. It was a lovely view, but oh so wintry, there was no sign of the sun, nor of blue sky and the snow was much thicker than on Old Man. We felt we could be anywhere, and the view could be on any scale. There was no movement whatsoever in the air, yet we soon cooled off when we stopped.
We decided to go back via Wetherlam and started off northwards along the ridge. Margaret was intrigued by some birds she couldn't name (she hadn't brought her glasses), but a largish party made stalking them out of the question. We were in the mist all this time and, before we expected, we came to a summit cairn, which we hoped was Swirl How; we waited a little while, hoping the mist would clear, but eventually had to start down on a compass bearing due eastwards. We seemed to go down much further than 600 ft to the col, but eventually we got there, and started up to Wetherlam. We soon stopped, for the patches of blue sky above us were growing bigger and, then, a miracle, the sun was shining on the hillside in front of us, although behind the mist was still thick. The mist was clearing quite nicely towards Old Man and I wasted some film in this direction, eventually trying to take the pale silver sun as it appeared in person through the mist. Next it was a case of getting to the top of Wetherlam, where we wasted a glorious hour. It is over seven years since I have had a smooth sea of billowing white clouds below me in this country, and how different it was from the last one, in Langdale that morning in early October, then it was the brilliance of the colours which I remember most vividly; this time it was the wintryness of the scene, with the snow covered hills coming out. What a lot of film I wasted; I kept trying to take the sunset, for there were clouds to the west, turned orange by the sun behind. Due east High Street Range and the clouds below were a delicate pink. We had great fun identifying a shape to the north. Bowfell we said at first, but changed our guess to Scafell Pike as Scafell itself came out, with Micheldore Gap between the two. I spent all my time snapping into the sun, bemoaning the fact that there wasn't enough of the mountains showing in the other directions. It wasn't until the sun had gone that I realised that, with figures in the foreground I could have got a good photo in the normal back to the sun position.
We waited until well after sunset, and then realised that we should have to leave this 'other world' and go down 'to earth' through that glorious sea we so admired; how cold and damp it was, too. I took a compass bearing, but struck off in too easterly a direction, and somehow, in the dismal mist I had no patience with myself. After we'd gone down some way I realised we were wrong and we started to go south and, much more by luck than good judgement, struck a track just before the light gave out. It was a funny descent. It reminded me very much of getting off Old Man; I think I have several times struck a track at just the same time of day after that descent. Our track obligingly continued due south, but it wasn't on my very aged Bartholomew's map and we were all rather puzzled (I bought a new O.S. as soon as I got home!). We seemed to follow it for miles along the (true) left hand side of a stream flowing north. Next it crossed over, and started following the other bank of what was becoming a miniature ravine; it was going decidedly uphill, which worried me, but it was still going south, so we kept to it, thinking that at any moment we'd get over the brow and see the lights of the hostel. Much later than I expected we actually reached the watershed and started down, but there were no lights and the valley system seemed to be getting much more complicated. I resigned myself to reaching the village and having to go up again to the hut. The way was now quite steeply downhill, with a few zigzags, and then, finally in the gloom, I could see a long straight edge – the roof of the cottages, what luck.
The first thing was to get the pressure lamp going, to do away with the perpetual gloom; I'd never lit one before, but I knew I'd have no trouble with it, for, after all, I understand primus stoves! I took off the top, swamped the whole thing with meths, trying to get it into the little cup (it didn't occur to me to use one of the special pourers!) and then I dropped a match in. Next I turned the valve and then pumped, but nothing happened, so I repeated the procedure with no more luck. In desperation I turned the valve as far as it would go in both directions. Eventually it came out and, as it was well pumped, so did the paraffin, and I was sitting on the floor next to a large pool of paraffin.
Margaret can always make the best of a bad job and, after we'd done our best to mop it up with paper, she said that it would prove very useful for lighting the fire. There was another pressure lamp in the fuel cupboard, but I had no more success with that, so we had to made do with a dim little Aladdin oil lamp.
While I had been playing, the other two had been busy to some purpose. There were the ashes of many a fire in the grate. They soon found out why, it was because there was no shovel. That didn't daunt Margaret; she used a fry pan! There was no chopper, so she had to light the fire with great logs of wood, and then, to her horror she found that the sack of coal contained only slack. She soon found that the last two difficulties were nothing, for it was such a lovely fireplace that anything would have burnt in it, and there was soon a glorious blaze. When I congratulated my two experienced firelighters, Isobel denied that she knew anything about lighting fires, and then realised what a sacrifice she had made for the fire. With her bare dainty fingers she had picked out lumps of coal from the bag of slack.
The supper was ready one course at a time, firstly mushroom soup, then bacon, peas and tomatoes, finally fruit salad and then tea. We had to use primus stoves as the calor gas was out of order (that was also the reason we had to use oil lamps).
Then we sat round the fire and read – eventually I came across instructions for lighting the pressure lamp. There was another little catch to turn, and I hadn't found it! I had assumed it had needed pricking, for which it would need the mantle taking off. I went to bed at about 10 o'clock, on the mattress and blanket which had been aired downstairs.
Margaret was up at 6 o'clock, with Isobel close behind. I was a little slower, and the tea was made when I got down.
After breakfast we washed up, but left most of the tidying until we came back and at about 7.45, just before daybreak, we were out, this time starting down to the bridge, and then skirting round until we reached the Walna Scar road. Isobel set the pace, much too fast for Margaret and me. We turned up to Goatswater and then to the cave where we had a halt at about 9.30 or so! It had been thick mist all the time, and it seemed to be getting wetter (I though Margaret's valiant effort deserved better weather). We left the cave intending to skirt round the foot of the rocks and up Easy Gully (that's what I fully intended when I left the cave), but when I reached the foot of 'C', it occurred to me that that represented the shortest way up to the summit, so I suggested it to the others; to my delight they agreed, so we all three tied on the 120 ft of nylon (I'd also carried it on the Saturday in my rucksack). I got up the first pitch and found it was definitely raining, so I suggested perhaps we'd better go round, in case this should put Isobel off for good and all, but Isobel wouldn't be put off, and we continued up, taking about 2 hours for the 370 ft. We made 50 ft pitches of it the whole way up, usually Isobel and I climbing together, with Margaret doing all the rope managing. We unroped at the top, and started scrambling up, but found it rather different from the clean, honest rock on the route, for there was icy grass and slimy rock, and the rope had to come out again, and we arrived on the summit ½ hour later than I'd reckoned. We didn't stop (except to unrope) and hurried down in the mist and wind, over the col, and up towards the Old Man, making for the cairn, for I said that there was a good way down from there. From the top I couldn't see the way down, all I could see was rock and snow, but further to the right there was a cairn and we made for it and then for the next, and so on, but going all the time too far to the right. I also knew we weren't on the route for there was no path attached to the cairns.
When I was about to give up the cairns and strike off to the left, I found the cairns did the same, so we followed them until I inadvertently lost them. Then we continued down in a northerly direction, eventually getting below the mist. We went down and down until we came to a flat part. There seemed nothing for it but to cross the valley and continue north, but we came across the road. "Where does this go?" said Margaret. "All the way up to the top of Old Man" I had to confess. We started up it, but in a couple of minutes we came to the junction and took the track across to Copper Mines, and, about ½ mile from home, Margaret asked for the key before sprinting on to put on the kettle. My conclusion about the cairns we had followed was that they represented the winter route to be followed when the track is iced over.
We had our tea in the hut, and then Margaret and I had a truly delicious soup. It was a mixture of the juice from the peas and tomatoes of the night before, together with the bacon fat. We cleaned the fry pans, collected our gear and left the hut before 2 o'clock and had plenty of time to leave the key at the Bull before catching the 2.19 bus to Ambleside.
I was most annoyed that a man occupied the back seat, but I'm afraid I changed completely, for I was soaked to the skin (the other two had kept their upper halves dry).
At Ambleside, after the others had donned their skirts, we had a pot of tea at the Central Café before catching the bus to Kendal, where we made our way to the station and sat in a very cold waiting room and had quite a feast on our bits and pieces of food. We looked at the miserable fire in the grate and remembered the one at Irish Row the night before.
We changed at Carnforth and a soldier told us that the Leeds train always waits for the Barrow connection (it would have given us an extra hour, had we bussed to Ulverston).
In the Leeds train we had another feed, sardines this time, and then I left the others at the terminus, and had a cup of tea while waiting for my connection. As usual I reached Nottingham at about 2 o'clock after a weekend with only about 1 hour when we weren't in the mist or the rain, but what an hour that was. How it made it all so worthwhile.
I was first in the bus, at about 6.25 p.m.; it was due to leave at 6.30, but Della Porta didn't arrive until 6.45. We picked up again at Beeston and then at Derby didn't get away until 7.30 –I thought that Margaret and Isobel could have come on it a this rate, but Dave said he'd had 52 applicants for the 40 seats, so it was no wonder he was choosey. 'My' contingent consisted of Bob, Arthur and John and Jim. Photographic talk passed the time very nicely until we stopped just before Shrewsbury at the "Mermaid", where we went down into the vaults, but didn't sample the oysters.
We went through the town instead of round the by pass, and then stopped again at Llangollen, where Dave had rung up the milk bar. I must have dozed for the next part, for we were at Bettws in no time, and I was collecting my things together for getting out at Pen-y-Gwryd. There was a strong wind and rain. I felt I'd much rather stay in the bus all night but I was a little cheered when Pat Laws asked if she could come to the hut with me. The six of us started down the road and, without getting as wet as I had feared, we reached the hut, where I couldn't seem to get the key to turn in the lock. Eventually someone got the door open and I fetched water and got the kettle on, while Pat immediately proved herself the practical type by light a primus for more water.
Most of the boys just sat, but Bob went scouting round. He found a campsite, but he also found a shed near the power station and obtained permission to use it. After tea and biscuits they rather reluctantly left us, and Pat and I went to bed.
I got up about 7.30, and got more water, tidied the hut a little (it's no wonder the untidy sex are forbidden) and eventually made tea and took the teapot and a mug or so down to wake the shedders. Back at the hut I cooked my sausages and tomatoes and, as I was still hungry, made some porridge. My porridge wasn't too successful, so when John offered me some of his I accepted it, and I found it delicious, complete with condensed milk.
Eventually everyone had breakfasted and, at about 10.30, we set out for the day. We realised that a little snow had fallen during the night, but we didn't bother to take our axes. Arthur put a rope in his rucksack, saying that it might come in useful if we found another party in trouble.
The plan of campaign seemed to be to do the Horseshoe backwards, and we set off up the track by the pipeline. When the peaks came into view, we realised tht they were pretty white, but thought that the snow was bound to be soft. When we reached the crest of the ridge down from Lliwedd there was a halt for photography for rays of sunlight were coming very nicely from behind a cloud.
Next we continued up and over Lliwedd, going very cautiously as all the rocks were verglassed, but usually the grass was O.K. and then we pressed on over the top and down to the col, hoping to get to the hotel before stopping for lunch. On this part, the wind had been very fierce. At times we clung on with all fours, until a gust had blown over. The little bit of level Watkins track was quite fun too; it was paved with clear water ice and when a gust came when we were on that …! – it was much easier to walk on the grass to the side. Before we started up the final slope, I said that if we came to a part which would prove difficult to descend, without axes, we should have to turn back, for the Pen-y-Gwryd track would be sure to be more difficult. Actually the steep part proved very easy. It was not exposed to the wind and had powder snow – I kept thinking of March 1947 when it had been clear of snow and we had rock climbed up the frozen scree. "I must study that guy's diet" had said Frank Sheehan of Ken, who didn't need to use his hands. Back to this visit, at the top, as we approached the Southwest Ridge, we just sat down waiting for the gust to blow over, but as the wind didn't slacken, we began to realise that it wasn't a gust, and that we should have to go on through it – we continued mostly on all fours – always dropping down when we were near the edge, and so we came to the hotel. Now the ascent of Snowdon in winter is always interesting for it has its "crux" at the top, shall we or shall we not make the final pitch – the issue was in doubt until we went round the back and found a window open. A commonsense voice behind me said that if I got in could I get out again, but I wasn't interested in such a detail. We must make the final pitch, and I crawled through and dropped down into a corridor. I soon began to realise what the wind had taken out of us, for I found I couldn't walk straight. As I began to see a little more clearly I found the door leading downstairs, but there was no fire lit, as I had hoped, and the place was so cheerless there was no real point in breaking in – however, the last pitch had 'gone'.
I was first out (to show that I could make it unaided) and while I was waiting for the others I sheltered in the outside hole and was fed on chocolate by the other inhabitants.
We went down to the Pen-y-Gwryd track – and incredibly hard work it was too, with the frozen snow beating through my anorak – we nearly went too far down the railway line, but eventually found the col, and someone said that Bob had gone back as he'd lost his camera. I looked over the edge, there were no steps cut and I said we'd better not go down without axes, and we all retreated to the summit again, partly to find Bob. Actually it was easier going up than down as the wind was behind us. Bob found no trace of his camera and had come to my way of thinking, that we'd better retreat the way we'd come, but I insisted that we returned to the Pen-y-Gwryd track, and for two reasons. Firstly so that we could all look for the camera and secondly because a be-axed party had set out to go down it, and we thought that if they cut steps, we should be able to follow.
Near the Pen-y-Gwryd track, once when I was blown over, I just lay as I was for a little while (as though sunbathing on a beach) and watched the others – I had to laugh they looked so crazy. The advanced very slowly towards the edge, bent double, and then the front one would stop, the second would take a step backwards, and so on, for all the world like some children playing a game of stalking. I have another strange picture in my mind, concerning this part, and that was of the other party roping up. I've never seen such a cat's cradle. I thought they'd never get it sorted out. Even then they hadn't the remotest idea what to do, it was Bob who eventually took their rope and belayed the first ones over the edge, but I was disappointed to find that they made no effort to use their axes to cut steps. I had hoped that only the top 10 ft or so would prove to be frozen, and when I saw that it didn't soften below that I went over to Bob and said that we'd better retreat, and he quite agreed – which was why we found ourselves on the summit for the third time that day!
It was such a joy down the Watkin, you just ran down in the soft snow, it was only when we got to the level part that we had any trouble with ice. It was my firm intention to descend the Gribin Ridge, but the wind was particularly strong over that edge and Bob was all against it, so I gave in for I thought surely Bob's judgement would never err on the side of too much caution! We continued down the Watkin track, trying to keep to the snow covered grass at the side, for the actual track was paved with clear ice.
Arthur seemed to appoint himself as last man, and Pat and I were next. Half way down the steeper part I looked back and thought I saw Arthur, but at the bottom of that part we waited and Arthur didn't appear. Bob and I went back, there was no sign of him up to the place where I thought I'd seen him, so I began to wonder whether I'd mistaken two stones for Arthur moving along, and I insisted that we went right back to the col. I knew Arthur wasn't the sort to get into trouble, but the ice was so treacherous and I know that now, if he didn't turn up at the hut, we'd not have to turn out again until morning – it was such a wild evening, with an occasional blizzard blowing over. It was dark by the time we got down to the others (we'd wasted about ¾ hour) and continued on, until those in front announced that there were some solitary footprints in the snow, which set our minds at rest. It was a long way down. On the lower part I began to remember those glorious blue pools on a summer day. I also remember this part as where our two professional cooks started comparing notes. It was infuriating not to be able to cut off the corner, but it was dark so we followed the track and eventually came to the road and started on the last lap of the journey.
Bob knew a cottage just before the lake and we called in for tea, despite the fact that it was about 7 o'clock and we finally reached the hut at about 8 o'clock, where Arthur had the fire going and an apology for missing us.
Bob put on a huge pan with a stew for everyone, but Arthur (for it had onion in it and Arthur had to live on Pemmican) had my meat ration, Pat's chops, potato, Oxo etc. While we were waiting, Pat made tomato soup and John made chicken noodle and we had these one at a time to pass the time. The stew was first rate, and then came my masterpiece, the fresh fruit salad, plus John's egg custard – and, of course, much tea was drunk.
We sat round the fire, and looked at the books, but the men weren't really very grateful for the hospitality, they only said the hut was draughty! However, actions speak louder than words and they sat on until about midnight, when I was eventually able to turn them out and Pat and I could go to bed.
I got up before 8 o'clock, tidied the hut a little, fetched water and then went to the farm for milk, calling in the shed on the way back to tell the others the time. Hours later breakfast was over, there was some talk of Crib Goch, but I said there wasn't time for that, and to return to the hut, and eventually everyone agreed on Lockwoods Chimney and, all but Pat, set out in that direction.
It was a glorious sunny day, just meant for photography, but I had not time for that. I had to find the Chimney. Ruth had been so efficient at finding it the previous New Year, all I remembered was that it was at the power station and not the lake end of the crags, and that we continued along the bottom until we came to a huge boulder and a wall running up the hillside.
We came to a suitable boulder and wall, and started up, although it seemed to me there weren't enough trees about. It's because the trees aren't out I said (as though trees are any more out in February than they are in January) and we started searching the crags, to and fro, but without success.
About two hours later, we moved along to the next lot of cliffs further south and found the beginning of the climb – we went along the little path half way up the arête, but Bob insisted that we descended to the foot of the pitch and did the thing properly. Bob also insisted that it would be a suitable first lead for John, but Jim took over on the bottom part. Arthur was to have led Bob and me, but he seemed a little put off and I ended in the front, closely following the other two, up and through the window. After this they continued up, but I remembered the little traverse and was able to get in front and belayed below the crack. I considered the rock very 'skaty' for tricounis, and hadn't been looking forward to the lead of this pitch; however, I couldn't get out of it and started up, having to get my sling round the tree to provide a handhold as well as a running belay, before swinging up on the tree. Those who followed also seemed to think that the sling was necessary as a handhold. Thank heavens Ruth hadn't seen such goings-on when she took me up the climb! While Bob brought Arthur up, I continued up into the chimney, to save time – I went outside the chockstone and was glad I could take my time on this part. Eventually Bob followed, but inside the chockstone, taking off the rope, and Arthur came the same way, but not at all quietly!
We walked along the crevasse, those who hadn't been that way before, marvelling at the architecture (at least I don't think Arthur thought there was anything good about the chimney itself!) and so out for that delightful little 'easy' pitch, high up on the hillside. I went straight back to the hut, leaving the others to wait for John and Jim – fortunately those two decided to abseil down from the top of the crack, for there wasn't much time.
At the hut, tea was made, and then Bob divided up all our food, pork pie, sausage, tinned fish and various sorts of cheese, which we ate with tinned tomatoes and bread and butter. Pat and I then set out, leaving the others to finish their packing and slam to the door - I was taking the key back. When I was nearly up the steep part and onto the road, I remembered I had left my jacket behind and ran back for it, Pat and John picking up my rucksack and carrying it to Pen-y-Gwryd. I soon collected my jacket, containing my purse and keys, and left at about 4.45 and hoped that the bus wouldn't arrive punctually at 5 o'clock.
When I had set out with Pat, I said that I refused to hurry up that road for anybody, now I found myself hurrying with only myself to blame. Near the top, I passed a man with a face like a sunset, but a dachshund of a dog, which seemed unlike a local farmer. At the hotel Bob told me about his encounter with the man. He had stopped to chat and asked them where they had been. Bob pointed vaguely across the valley and said they'd been climbing over there; the man pinpointed him that it was Lockwood's Chimney they'd done and then wanted their opinion on it. "Pretty poor" said Bob, so the man explained that he was Mr. Lockwood and had pioneered it in 1908! Bob was taken aback but wasn't going to be cowed so added "Then I'm afraid I can't compliment you on your taste in climbs".
There was no sign of the bus, so I even had time to do my hair, and admired the evening light down the Nant Gwynant, and then went in the hotel and talked to Vivienne Howell until about 5.45 when the bus appeared. It was a different bus, but I got the same seat near the door, which gave me plenty of leg room and so we returned, stopping at Shrewsbury, where Bob led me to the old milk bar for soup before the tea, and then straight back to Nottingham.
The news was beginning to leak through of the damage caused elsewhere by 'our' Saturday's gale – the sinking of the "Princess Victoria" in the Irish Channel, and the floods on the east coast.
The bus was organised by the university and, for reasons best known to its organiser, it chose to leave Nottingham at 5.30, pick up at Derby and then come back to Beeston before starting out on the Ollerton Road. Geoff had promised to pick Bob and me up at the Y.W. at about 6.40 – he didn't seem in any hurry to come for us and when we got to Beeston we still had to wait for the bus. Pete Perkins was about the only familiar face among the university people, but there were others from the previous bus, Pat, Chunky, Della Porta etc.
I again got my usual seat, in the Clarks' bus, with Gordon as driver again.
The reason for the route became obvious as we picked up the girl from Leeds, and so on through Yorkshire, where time passed very quickly – in other words I was asleep. We had camping kit, but it turned out that there was room in Raw Head for everyone wanting it. We arrived about 2 o'clock, went to the head of the valley for the sake of those going to Wall End Barn, and then returned to the hut, where I shared the downstairs room with Margaret, also of Boots, being very comfortable with my mattress on the floor.
I waited until I heard some signs of life and then I got up (some of the men were having to sleep in the common room). I put on a kettle or so, but then Bob appeared and took over the cooking of breakfast. I forget when we set out, it may have been 9.30, but the destination was Scafell and its Pike. Geoff insisted on going this way, so I said that we must take the route recommended for strong walkers (I had forgotten that the book said it could only be recommended for strong walkers).
It was a little misty at first and we thought we were in for bad weather, so imagine our delight when the whole day proved to be one of those clear, frosty days, with clouds coming and going in the sky. Bob and I were stopping every few minutes to use our cameras, I don't know what Geoff must have thought. It was a long drag up the Band (we kept too low), but then we were rewarded with the view over from Three Tarns. The traverse went very well round Yeastyrigg Crags and then we dropped down to Eskdale and had lunch at the foot of Cam Spout. There hadn't been a great deal of snow, but there were patches of clear ice everywhere. Having eaten, we started the slog up to Micheldore Ridge. I didn't envy Geoff on the top part of this, with vibrams and no axe. Seeing the conditions, Bob was quite content only to try Broad Stand – other footsteps showed in the snow through the crevasse, but at the sight of the first corner, their makers had retreated. Bob did at least get over this corner, despite its coating of clear ice, and he brought Geoff and me up to the foot of the little pitch. There was no really satisfactory belay, Geoff stood in the corner and I sat further out and paid out the rope over a piece of rock.
Bob didn't like the way to the left, and had one or two tries in the corner, but the top had a thick coating of ice, so we eventually decided to call it a day, especially as it was 2.30, and I said we'd have to start back at 3 o'clock.
And so Scafell is added to the long list of climbs Geoff didn't quite make, and we started the plod up to the Pike. What a glorious afternoon, but so cold; I began to wonder whether my fingers would ever come round after I'd taken off my gloves to work my camera (or rather Joy's camera, for Bob had borrowed mine, as he'd heard no more of the one he'd lost on Snowdon the week before). There were glorious little frost crystals, but only small ones, the sun never seems to shine on the long ones, but they made lovely patterns. I also felt that some of the patches of snow ought to have photographic possibilities, but I didn't know how to make the most of them.
And so we ran down from the Pike, noses simply streaming with cold and then over Broad Crag and one or two other little bumps until we came to the cairn before Great End.
I have always been told I am selfish in my attitude to the hills and certainly my thoughts this day proved it. We met numerous other parties on Scafell, and I couldn't help but remember how much more of an adventure it had been when my party would be the only one on the hills on such a day.
How I regretted not taking Joy's advice about getting colour film; I remember one particularly lovely view, over towards Gable, lit by the rich colours of the evening sun.
Lower down the patches of ice became a little more treacherous, we went down past Angle Tarn – I tried the ice, it would have been firm enough for skating – and so on to Rossett Ghyll, where we took the long zigzag track. At the bottom we caught up Chunky with Anne and Dian, but Bob and I hurried on to order tea at O.D.G. – we were 5 minutes past 5.30 and couldn't get it, but I was lucky for Pat poured me out a cup from her pot.
Bob and I decided we should like to go to the dinner, but by that time Ted had gone; however, back at the hut we learned that we were booked for it. I hadn't expected this. I turned up in knickerbockers and when I took off my boots I put on kletterschue. Geoff, as permanent Vice President of the University M.C. was on the top table, and I sat next to him and Bob the other side. It was a good position. I was served first!
I couldn't place the soup, but I've never seen such a plate of Goose, served with the usual trimmings. There was only one wine, the dear lady's milk, which Geoff thought good and Chunky uninspired.
The trifle was topped with cream and I though of Joan when the cheese came round, for her beloved blue veined was there, but I preferred plain. The coffee pot held a second cup.
There were no toasts (and I had saved some wine), but Ted read a short speech and that was all.
The room had been done very well, the tables were lit by candles standing in a wonderful variety of liqueur and wine bottles.
Afterwards we retired to the bars, most to the big one where Della Porta was in his element, so I'm told (he had also made an inspired impromptu speech at the dinner. Ted had referred to the fact that the club had, apparently, appealed to ex-service undergraduates more than it did to ex-schoolboy ones, and he suggested that it was the element of danger which appealed to them. Jo denied this, saying that it was the dinners and drinking dos which reminded them of their old life).
I sat in the little lounge where we were entertained by Chunky's description of the people he'd met on Scafell. There was the girl in the fur lined boots, and then the man in the overcoat who took it off and kept throwing it up in front of himself, and shouting for help.
Back at the hut no-one seemed to want to go to bed; I thought that that was what youth does for you, but actually it was time taken from the next day, to judge by the time people got up.
I got up about 8 o'clock and Bob soon started to cook breakfast, but then there was a halt in proceedings. I filled in a little time by sweeping my bedroom, but eventually the three of us got outside by discussing coffee at the O.D.G. Actually at the dividing of the way our footsteps hardly halted, and we continued on past Stool End Farm, instead of taking the track to the fleshpots on the right. This was quite a good effort, considering that the snow was falling softly, but insidiously, as it was to continue to do all day.
Having kept too low on the Band the day before, we kept too high this time, and went over all the tops, but eventually came to the steeper part, the last lap before the top. Footprints of people out earlier than us indicated the way to the little traverse where the steps were made in the hard snow, and finally we came to the foot of the Cambridge Climb and started up a cone of snow just beyond, not realising that we hadn't gone quite far enough for the gully.
The snow was rather annoying, it wasn't really hard enough to require cutting, yet it required several kicks. We roped up, Bob doing the work and with axeless Geoff in the rear. I rather amused myself; I started up holding coils to Geoff, and then took over the coils to Bob, yet at the top I was holding no coils, the others had taken them all over.
Higher, we took to the snow to the side, and then traversed along and looked over the embryo-cornice down the gully, and saw that it might be good with harder snow.
Next we followed the cairns up, but didn't bother with the summit cairn, went straight down to Three Tarns, and then down the Band, only halted when the new snow covered some clear ice, and one of us would come a cropper.
We were back at the hut, perhaps by 3.30 and the cooks soon had a meal ready, a stew made with a tin of vegetables, meat and everything else, preceded by soup, and followed by a steamed fruit pudding. We had washed up and were ready by 4.30, the appointed hour for the bus. At about this time, everyone else arrived back and started to cook their meals, so it was fortunate for them that the bus from Wall End arrived about an hour late, as it gave us a little time for cleaning the hut. We also had some bad news, that Johnny Sutherland had gone on a stretcher carrying party and would be late back; they decided to wait for him and Gordon said that if we didn't get through, it would be our responsibility.
These words took on a little more meaning when the men had to get out and pushed on the first little hill; they had more meaning still when we read the papers the next morning, and still more the weekend after!
We all piled in and Gordon continued down the valley, meaning to find a place to turn, but after the pushing incident he refused to go back, and that the boy would have to walk from O.D.G. Ted and one or two others went back and we drove on until we reached a convenient stopping place. Geoff got out and rang up O.D.G. and the rest of us criticised or praised Johnny for his action.
About 7.30 we got away, and all went well until the hill outside Windermere, where Gordon asked us to get out and push before the bus actually stopped. Being nearest the door I had to take the hint, and got to the rear and pushed cheerfully until I suddenly realised that the bus was going better than I was and then I resented it and ran after it, but I hadn't a chance, it seemed to be half way down the hill the other side before it stopped and I had been reduced to a slow walk long before that.
The roads were very bad, and Gordon drove cautiously, but we had another quite long halt. Gordon hadn't been interested when we told him that steam was escaping into the coach, but on another hill he realised that his engine was getting too hot, and discovered that there was a leak in the heating system, and as that and the cooling system were connected, he had lost all his cooling water. Fortunately he was able to shut off the heating system for the rest of the way and put 3 gallons of water into the engine after it had cooled off. He had got the water from a little cottage, he then drove onto the Whoop Hall Inn and said that we might as well have a drink while he was getting the other 7 gallons for the engine. I think we passed through Ilkley at about 12 o'clock and then I dozed a lot, waking up when we tried to find the A1 after dropping the girl who apparently lived miles from anywhere in the Leeds direction. On the Great North Road, we stopped for tea at a transport café and then straight on to Nottingham, where I got out at the Victoria Station at 4.20 and had bathed and was in bed by 5 o'clock.
I left work 10 minutes early to give myself nice time for changing and for tea, before going to the station for the bus. At the Y.W. I found Joy waiting, and that 10 minutes was spent gossiping! I didn't put on my usual uniform, no - it was my 2nd best ski-pants and my off-white ski jacket this time and, besides a bivouacking pack, I had my skis; Joy carried my sticks. The bus seemed in no hurry to get away; Chunky had saved me a place, but we were only 22 and Barton's had sent a 39 seater again, so we weren't very short of places! All went well and we reached the Mermaid at about 9.30 for a stop. I didn't have a drink, thinking I'd save up for my tea at Llangollen. At the next stop I was most depressed and for two reasons, it was poring with rain – yes, warm rain, not a hope of snow, and then the milk bar was shut; someone said the people were ill. We got back into the coach and I was oblivious to my surroundings most of the way to Bettws, just waking up occasionally when the bus would stop and have a second, sometimes a third go to get over some snow. Then oblivion again and the next time we were stopped by snow I was told we were past Capel and on the Nant Ffrancon road. Our meet was at Pen-y-Gwryd, but Chunky was hoping to take Bob and me to the hut in Cwm Glas – we were coming up the other road to deposit four people at the hostel, Scotty, Fisher, Jack and his girl. The bus company had said that the road was only open as far as Capel – how right they were! When we got stuck, some very willing volunteers got out and pushed and shovelled (we were equipped with 1 shovel) and we went on a little way, but soon stuck again. I'm afraid I turned all feminine; it was pouring with rain outside, and I had no intention of getting soaked at 2 a.m. Chunky and I discussed at length the folly of getting wet through before spending a night in the bus in the same clothes – but at last he could stand no longer the looks cast at him when one of the brave band of workers came in for a rest from his toils outside, and he also went out. The silly thing was that there was room for about 6 to push, and 2 or 3 to shovel, or cut the ice, the rest must have been just standing around doing nothing but get wet. Half way through, Arthur brewed some tea which was much appreciated by all (yes even the parasites in the bus were allowed some!).
We rather sighed for Gordon; Wilf, our driver had the habit of stalling the engine at the crucial point, but we didn't know that this was his first day back after a fortnight in bed with 'flu. This road must have been his idea of hell, and soon he was unconscious over the wheel, his face ashen pale, I was told, and covered with beads of perspiration (this actually was the signal for the tea). They tried to get him to lie down on the back seat, but very soon he had the engine on again and was trying to get the bus through.
There were one or two cars behind, eventually they gave up and decided to back back to Capel and we gave a message to get a doctor for Wilf. We felt rather guilty about blocking the A5 for the night, but eventually common sense prevailed and we settled down to sleep as best we could.
At about 4 a.m. the doctor and a policeman called – "Oh, he's alright now", we said about the driver, but the doctor went up and examined him, while that most cheery of all people, the policeman, stayed at the door and chatted. Yes he'd seen us go through Bettws at about midnight – had seen our destination "Nottingham" on the front! – and so on until the doctor was ready to leave, when he said "Goodbye, so pleased to have been of assistance" – at that time of the morning!
I had realised that it was light, but was loath to make a move, but we were all finally awakened by a voice outside – someone tried the door, but couldn't move it, so then shouted through the window – "I've left a box with two small pieces of cake, it isn't much, but at least it'll help. It hadn't occurred to me that we'd excite someone's charitable feelings; I was quite pleased to have had a bus to sleep in, and loath turning out at 2 a.m. Actually we were glad of the cake too, all my food for instance was in the back, and it didn't seem worth the effort to get it out, much as I appreciated the tea which other people brewed (the hotelling party had no food).
Chunky was quite amusing when he came too, and realised that he had spent the night in extreme discomfort (his clothes were so wet) just outside Helig (all the night before, people had said "Just another 100 yards and we shall be up to the top of the pass and then we'll run down the other side" and this gave us the idea we were further on than we were).
The tops were in mist, the snow was soggy, but it wasn't raining, so even I turned out and felt much better for a little exercise in the fresh air. Our numbers were reinforced by 3 professional "shovellers", but much too soon, 2 of them retired, leaving us with only one. I soon borrowed his shovel; I thought he wasn't in a hurry to see us along the pass, but I expect he knew what was wanted far better than I did. I didn't do very much work, the shovel was soon taken away from me.
The technique was to loosen the hard packed snow with ice axes and then shovel it away, but we made very slow progress, and when we were really over the top of the pass, we found it no easier down the other side! I knew our best ski run was likely to be on Pen-yr-Helgi-ddu, but we couldn't leave the bus in its predicament, so, having, reached the foot of it, we then had to go on away from it.
Just past Glan Dena, people began to think of breakfast (it was about 11 o'clock); Bob and I went to the hut with the other campers, while Chunky and Arthur went to the farm, "Can we have breakfast for 19?" said Chunky and Mrs. Williams said yes, despite the fact that they had been snowed up for three days, the road being opened on Friday. Actually they didn't realise that those with food didn't want it; I changed horses in mid-stream and the final number was 14.
In Glan Dena someone greeted me with a remark about the Spencer Couloir and then gave us a message from Grace and Ray. Jean Carter was also there.
At the farm we seemed to have pot after pot of tea, there was also porridge, scrambled egg on toast and loaves and butter and marmalade.
Back on the road we watched the snow ploughs go by, when I told an A.A. man that the first one hadn't done much good, he said that that was only to rough the surface, and the second one would clear it away. It seemed to me that they were both set far to high. The A.A. man was able to tell me that it was impossible to turn at the hostel, that it was necessary to go right down the pass (over breakfast, the cry "once we over the pass" was revived as an argument for going back along that road, but it didn't seem to carry much weight!).
John was trying out his skis when we got back to the bus. Someone, fortunately, had put my things in the bus from Glan Dena; all I lost were a pair of mitts.
The bus went quite well on this last part; the only trouble was if a car came in the other direction, we'd have to persuade them to go into the rough, and then of course we'd push them out afterwards – after all what was a car to us, we were used to an 8 ton bus! (some of the cars didn't quite trust us to wait and see them out).
We could see the difference chains made, our bus had disc wheels so that not even rope could be put round.
To me, the funniest thing of all was when a couple of R.A. vans came along and had to be manhandled, for on this part the road was about a foot deep in water. And so, at about 2 p.m. we reached the bend in the road and saw that the part down to Bethesda was practically clear, i.e. we could stop and say that the 'Epic of the Nant Ffrancon' was over.
The would-be hotelling party had rung up the Pen-y-Gwryd once or twice. The party already there said they'd go onto the Glyders and hope to meet the coach party on top, but somehow the coach party seemed to think that it was more than they could manage to get over to the Pen-y-Gwryd and eventually decided to stay in the Nant Ffrancon. Mrs. Williams of Ogwen Cottage was approached and said at first that she had six beds, but when she learned that there were three girls, she said that she couldn't take them; she had a room for four and a room for two and they either filled all or none of the four beds. Fortunately they didn't ask me to make a fourth, but told Mrs. Williams she could keep her beds and they all came over to the hostel where Chunky was telling the warden that, in an emergency like this, we should be allowed in at mid-day. Chunky and I were life members and a little keen to use our cards, so we persuaded Bob to join.
Bob, John and I had skis and left the others to their fate and went outside with them. We looked longingly at the slopes high up on Y Garn, but decided that they were too far away, and finally started up the ordinary track, onto some slopes at the foot of the Gribin. I expected the snow to be terribly slow, being so water-logged, but it wasn't and I quite enjoyed my first run down, but either the snow got more tricky, or else I deteriorated, but soon I couldn't do a thing. There were rocks sticking through and hence it was necessary to turn, but a type of breakable crust was developing making that impossible for me. Soon Arthur's party passed us, going up the Gribin Ridge, up into the sunshine, for the mist had cleared and it was an incredibly lovely afternoon. We soon had a stop for photography, there were clouds low down in front of Y Garn, appearing lit up from within.
I should have liked to have left my skis and followed the others, but I didn't want to do so in my skiing boots and my others were back at the hostel, soaking wet from the water on the road – I didn't suggest this to the others, but pointed out another slope just above Idwal and we made for it. I hoped I should be able to teach Bob a little technique, saying, "Don't do as I do, do as I say", but the surface was particularly tricky here, as soon as you weighted a ski you sank in, so I soon gave in.
John went down on skis practically to the hostel; I gave up as my rock-climbing mitts were inadequate and my hands were becoming painfully cold. It was so much quicker to carry my skis!
In the hostel we made tea, and then decided to cook our supper before the crush became too bad – we mixed chicken noodle and mushroom soup. Chunky seemed to approve of this, for, naturally he came back just in time for it, despite the fact that he was having hostel food and not self-cooking. Next we had potatoes, beans, tomatoes and lamb chops, to be followed by fresh fruit salad and John's egg custard. I cut up apple and orange, then John added fresh pineapple and Jim a tin of raspberries and was it good!
I felt rather mean not having tea on when the others got back, but I eventually got a saucepan of water hot on my primus.
Mr. Cartwright's party were put down for all the washing up, and I was rather anxious to get mine done the night before. I didn't really appreciate the difficulties! There was no hot water, I had to boil it on my own primus stove. There was no dishcloth; I had to use my hands. There was no room for "dryers" to get near the sink, yet when I changed over to do some drying, I realised that I had been having the best of it. There were only two tea cloths and it was necessary to repeatedly wring these out before smearing a few more plates with them.
In the common room, Scotty and co. were teaching everyone "Il karabiners and 1,000 ft of rope!", but I went to bed at about 10 o'clock.
Bob had made an agreement with his cousin to start out about 8 o'clock, as Arthur said the bus must start back at about 2 p.m. I hadn't any enthusiasm for joining this party, I thought I'd be too outclassed, so I didn't get up much before 8 o'clock. Fortunately Bob soon appeared to cook the breakfast and we were out at about 9.30. Bob had sent his cousin and friend off long before, and John, Bob and I put our packs and skis in the bus and set off towards the gully on Y Garn.
There was quite thick ice on the little lake, as Bob broke it with his axe to get a drink. I thought how wonderful it would have been if we could have foresworn the flesh pots and camped up there and broken the ice for our early morning tea (no, not to wash in!). Bob was disgusted that the steps were made all the way up the gully; he seemed to think we shouldn't use them. At times I zigzagged about, making my own way, but it was possible to kick steps with tricounis and after all there is no art in that. I might as well follow up the easiest way, so that it should not be too artificial. At one point I did a little cutting, but preferred not to use the steps!
There was no cornice at the top, merely steeper and icier snow. I found my own way up this, but on the icier part I must admit that I should have felt a little less exposed had I been roped. We were in mist on top, and didn't linger long, although it was quite mild. We went down in the direction of Glyder Fawr – a peak John was keen to pull in, one of the few 3,000 footers he hadn't done.
John tried the one stroke step cutting up onto the peak, but I preferred the one kick step kicking. Just about at the summit we stopped and pooled our resources in the way of food and then took a compass bearing to the top of the Nameless Cwm, reaching it in just about the anticipated 500 paces (this wasn't essential, but it amused us). A look over the edge rather demoralised us, and we put on the rope (I expect we'd have found it a lot easier unroped). I didn't like it because I couldn't get proper belays, and I was also put off because I could see that previous parties had had rather a bad time, with new snow not adhering to the old icy stuff beneath. Actually conditions weren't bad for us; I was disappointed that, as soon as we got below the rocks, it was too soft for a standing glissade.
I didn't think we had much time to spare to be back by 2 o'clock, but the Nameless Cwm was a real meeting ground for old friends. First, Dennis Davis, and then someone else said he'd been at the Biolay in 1950 – I think it was Fred Smith. He said he was going to Zermatt with Ray this summer. I had nearly passed the next one before he stopped me; it was Tony Karsting, who I had last seen in the Hidden Glen in 1949.
On the way down, Scotty and Fisher passed us and we all arrived back at just 2 o'clock.
Everyone was back, but the bus didn't seem in a hurry to go. Jim had his primus going, so I made soup on it, and John got his going and made tea, eventually at about 2.45 someone thought to tell the driver to start, and so we went down through Bethesda and along the coast.
I didn't really sit back and enjoy my tour of North Wales, we were too busy eating. Chunky had a dozen little rolls and I had a tin of sardines; Bob, Chunky and I shared it, rather forgetting that the would-be Hotellers had no food, I'm afraid.
Then we sat back until the management thought to stop for those requiring a meal, that was at the other side of Chester; we stayed there over an hour (we could have had another 2 hours on the mountains). I contented myself with tea and a fruit jelly with real cream. Of the others, some people had one egg on toast and others had two eggs on toast – others even had bread and butter and jam, and others cakes!
Back in the coach John gave me my next meal, ham and hard boiled egg, with bread and butter, followed by tinned gooseberries and egg custard.
Despite going round via Heanor, we were in by 10 o'clock.
Geoff and Chunky called for me at about 6.15. I had my gear in one frameless rucksack and one hold-all, and they fitted in the boot quite well. When Geoff had changed bulbs in the rear light we set off up the Mansfield road and so onto the Ollerton road, and A1 eventually, going nearly to Wetherby before turning off for Ilkley. This was where our troubles began. No garages were open. At Shipley we made a desperate effort, going back to one which we were told was open until 11 o'clock, but no luck. So Geoff consulted a couple of police who told us a place in Gargrave where the man lived on the spot, but he was out this night. Our hopes were raised by another, which had a sign up "open", but that didn't mean a thing, and at another Geoff got the people to come to the door of the nearest house, but I gather they weren't very polite. All the time, in every village and hamlet, we'd pass the sign "Fish and Chips" until at last Chunky said that what was need to get through Yorkshire at night was a car which ran on Fish and Chips (we'd had ours in Otley). Finally in Skipton at 11.40 Geoff found a man who opened the pump and let us have sufficient of the precious fluid, for we hadn't enough to finish our journey.
It was 1.20 by the time we got to Raw Head, and Margaret was soon out. I had felt so guilty being so late, afraid they wouldn't be able to get in, but they found the cottage open and sleeping a party of three. They hadn't arrived until 1 o'clock; their train had been so late that they'd missed their connection at Kendal, so British Railways had paid for a taxi to take them to Windermere. From the station Margaret had insisted on starting along the road, and her initiative was rewarded for a coach taking a party of young boxers soon picked them up and took them to Ambleside, where they were shown into a car for Old D.G. and were left on the doorstep at Raw Head.
I was amazed to be awakened by a tall, fair man bringing me in tea. I thought surely Chunky isn't up before I'm awake – he wasn't either, it was Cyril Machin from the Cottage (we were in the barn) and, seeing there were three of us, he immediately went back for two more cups.
I had no further excuse for not getting up (it was about 8 o'clock). I made the porridge and Margaret cooked the breakfast, and then we set out for O.D.G. The walking party were about to depart, but I was able to ask Mrs. Jeffrey about snow on Ben Lawers, "None at all" was her cheering remark.
The climbers had decided to go to Pavey and I couldn't get them to change their minds – I had put on my best white anorak, for it never occurred to me that this club would choose such a dirty place. There was Gwen, who had walked along from Raw Head Cottage with us, Joan who hadn't climbed for a couple of years, Peggy and Doreen who had arrived that morning, and Maud Oliver, and we went up Mill Gill, all trying to keep up with my two new recruits.
At the far side of the lake we stopped to sort out the party. Gwen thought that Rake End Chimney would suit her, and, as Joan was willing to follow up anything, those two went in that direction. I felt that something should really be done about making Peggy a full member. She didn't seem keen to lead a diff. as she hadn't climbed since August, so I persuaded her to lead Isobel up Crescent Climb, a 'mod.' – when I broke the news to Isobel she wasn't at all keen and I then had to talk Peggy out of it! At the foot of Great Gully, Maud volunteered to be the associate, for Margaret to lead, so I set off with Doreen 120 ft behind me, and Peggy 120 ft behind her, and we climbed roped up the 150 ft of scrambling at the bottom and then each in turn halted in rather a wet stance before the first pitch proper.
The start of this involved a traverse under a waterfall (no more slimy through routes for me) and then I was at the backing up place and then a little higher I was using a knee, but then I was belayed and bringing up Doreen – she wasn't keen on the backing part, after all she isn't very tall and the foothold is very high, so I brought Peggy up to her, and belayed her from my belay and then she was able to hold Doreen's foot on, and then she made light work of it.
I told Peggy to wait there until Margaret was up, but she apparently made as light work of it as Peggy had done. Doreen and I went on to relieve the congestion and I tied onto a loose block above Brant and Slape. At the top of the climb we began to realise that there was a hold up with the second rope, but Maud got up eventually and then they tackled Brant and Slape, Margaret belaying part way up. While they were in the shade in the gully, we were lazing in the sun and I had my jacket off and was drying it. We all foregathered at about 2 o'clock and decided to go down to the rucksacks as we were hungry; Isobel soon joined us and told us she had met Nea and Major Marriott with Gwen and Joan on top and the former two soon came down and joined us and we watched the others descend Gwynnes and Crescent.
I still wanted Peggy to lead Crescent, but had to wait until it was clear, and had to wait some time. By that time Nea and Charles had started down, and then when I suggested it, the others said they thought they'd had enough. That gave Margaret and me our chance; we learned that Gwen and Joan, not liking the look of Rake End Chimney (I couldn't repress an "I told you so") had done Cooks Tour, so we set off to find it.
"Will you have time?" said Gwen, which put me on my mettle and I told Margaret I'd do the leading for speed (the excuses I find to do Margaret out of her share!).
The pitches were mostly about 20 ft long, so I decided they must be run together – I wasn't so sure of it half way up the second pitch, it was a step completely covered with moss, but it really had good incut holds. After this there was quite a walk up steep bracken and then a long walking traverse to the left (I began to see why it was called a tour).
The climbing recommenced on the next pitch, and there was quite a nice move round the flake, to an ash tree belay. The next two pitches were very pleasant, a steepish wall, clean, with a fine sense of exposure and incut holds, so I gave the last pitch to Margaret, and this was the most interesting of the climb. The whole 300 ft had taken about 45 minutes and it took us about the same time to get down to the O.D.G., where we arrived at 5 o'clock, which was ½ hour before expected. We looked in the bar and saw the usual faces, but went round to the hotel and drank tea in the entrance hall; we didn't go in the lounge in our boots, but Pat Bennell, Charles Marriott and Eileen Pyatt looked after us.
I was able to apologise to Pat for the time just a year ago, when she hadn't found the key to the hut in Cwm Dyli which I had hidden. She had driven a couple more Karabiner girls to the dinner this time.
We walked back to the hut and washed and changed, and then walked back to the hotel – Geoff had offered to drive us there, but we found it a lovely evening for walking.
The two boys had thought they wouldn't rival the Pinnacle Club by climbing. Instead they walked from Bliscoe to Bowfell and down to the D.G. for tea.
Isobel and I went into the bar where Kelly served us with sherry and Isobel with cigarettes, provided she knew the price, for he didn't! I spoke to Annette, and Mrs. Bryan, Miss Pirie and Mrs. Hargreaves. Very soon the gong was sounded, and we trooped into the dining room, decorated the same as for the university. Margaret, Isobel and I were at the end of one table, Chunky should have been opposite, but before he arrived the three Karabiner girls pushed him up, so that they could be together. The menu had a familiar ring, but was none the worse for that. Geoff of course was on the top table, hemmed in, apparently, by Nancy Carpenter and Mrs. Jeffrey.
Before the speeches commenced there was a call for a song from Mr. Hirst; he started with a song which he had written for an early number of our journal. "In 19 hundred and twenty-one, the Pinnacle Club was first begun" etc. He had added a few verses to represent the later years. Next Maud was called upon to give the toast "Our guests and Kindred clubs" – she tried to give a greeting to each of the guests in the most appropriate language.
After a duet by Harry Spilsburg and John Hirst, Colonel Westmoreland replied. I was very pleased to think that he was having to do something at last to justify his existence at our dinner, but I was rather disgusted at parts of it, and it wasn't that I really minded his theme "Women are unpredictable".
There were more duets, I forget in which order they came, but they included one about Pat, the Gendarmes and, incredibly funny to me, Della Portas' "14 Karabiners and 1,000 ft of rope". The "duettists" donned their oldest anoraks over their suits, and then decked themselves out with suitable quantities of karabiners and rope.
Geoff's was the next speech, proposing the President and Club. He could quote several instances when he had climbed with a member of the club – he didn't say that it was always the same member and, most fortunately, he didn't name the member. There was the time when the rope wasn't long enough on Glyder Fawr, so we'd roped up after the long pitch, and there was another time I'd forgotten, apparently he'd had a tight rope on the left hand exit of Owl Gully on Cratcliff. He also quoted a first ascent on "Cloggy" and, of course, Nea at the Harrison rocks – leading Slim Finger Crack when all the C.U.M.C. had failed.
Finally Nea replied; her speech was a good answer to Colonel Westmoreland. We might be tough when we climb, but we're human otherwise. Apparently Peggy and I had let her down by not camping, she could only say that we usually did! She also said that the club's youngest full member had traversed the Meije that summer (Denise I expect) and then it was all over and we went into the lounge for more climbing songs. When we had exhausted these, they turned to sea shanties, but Margaret, Isobel and I slipped out – I accused Geoff and Chunky of sulking in the bar, but they said they weren't. They thought we'd prefer to cackle on our own! Outside we found there was a steady drizzle, so Margaret borrowed Geoff's raincoat, and I put on her skirt, and we set out again. Very soon a shooting break stopped and picked us up – a fellow guest at the dinner, we gathered from her conversation, and she dropped us at the door. We made tea, but Isobel didn't want any, so I offered it to the next man to come in, Mr. Plint the F. & R. guest at the dinner and a very pleasant man he turned out to be too. He's the archaeologist investigating the axe factory in Langdale, but he didn't tell me about that. We talked 'menus' and he told me about one which he treasures of the Wayfarers with a picture of Everest with Mallory and Irvine's signature above, while everyone else signed below.
I suppose I'd drunk too much tea and coffee the night before. I hadn't felt a bit like sleep when I'd gone to bed about 12.30 and then in the morning the birds woke me up far too early (I didn't tell Margaret what I thought of them). I eventually got up about 8 o'clock and went downstairs to put the kettle on, but, not finding any matches, I had to come up for Isobel's lighter; I couldn't get this to light so I had to come up again and get Margaret to light a candle for me!
Margaret cooked the bacon, egg, sausage and tomato again, and I took tea up to the two boys – I didn't feel that they appreciated it, but I felt that we could legitimately go out without them, after making an effort to wake them.
Geoff appeared just before we left, and was about to have breakfast with Mr. Plint. Margaret and I put rubbers in our rucksacks this time, and we set out Gimmerwards. It was a day really just like Saturday – mist, or almost drizzle first thing, to be followed by sunshine. We decided that there wouldn't be much time for meeting the others, so we went up the Dungeon Ghyll track. Margaret was in front and going much too fast for me, so when I saw a track leading off to the left, I suggested that it might be our best way, but I was wrong. It is best to follow the main track until one is on a level with Gimmer, so I learned! There was a very strong wind and Gimmer hadn't yet dried, so I suggested "Main Wall" and we went up to the foot of it. I must admit I wasn't altogether happy on the first pitch, although it was a warm wind, nevertheless it cooled off my hands and before the last two moves, I had to wait and warm them; I got over the first of these two moves by changing feet, and the second by reaching up to the good handhold (very bad technique).
Margaret joined me, but I didn't offer the next lead to her. I had enjoyed that so little that I felt I couldn't palm the next off onto her, but actually the rest was O.K. – the only time I hesitated was on a traverse with no handholds; I thought "now is it wise to make this move in this wind", but apparently it was! Margaret led the last pitch and then we unroped and took to discussing nails and I thought to let her try mine. She'd never worn tricounis before and she was absolutely thrilled by the way she could move up on one nail stuck on a little rugosity (she was playing on unscratched rock) and then we descended the gully in the same boots (actually Margaret had borrowed Joy's. She'd thought she couldn't come to a Pinnacle Meet in ski boots with two or three clinkers 'left' in each!).
We had discussed a second climb, but I wasn't keen when the time came, so we changed back into our own boots and started down, just after the next party had arrived at the crag! We went down to the O.D.G. just in case we could see something of the club, but we were unlucky. I was glad to think they were all out for the day, the bar seemed pretty crowded, and then went along the track and back to the hut. We had misjudged things and were back by 1.45 instead of 2 o'clock as we'd expected. We couldn't find any matches downstairs, but Margaret eventually found some from the Men's dormitory and lit the gas under the various pans, besides under a kettle for tea. Meanwhile I set to, to get rid of some of my fruit – apples, oranges, bananas, a little tin of cherries and some of Margaret's sultanas. Soon Geoff and Chunky arrived back and we learned that, by the time Geoff had 'done something' to the car, and Chunky had 'done the housework' of the hut, they'd only had time to go along for a drink at the O.D.G. – now I'm all for equality, but I'm as against special privilege for women as I am for men – I was overwhelmed!
They soon had the meal ready. They'd mixed mushroom and chicken noodle soup, and then it was peas, potatoes and a tin of meat, to be followed by the fruit salad, instead of Geoff's steamed fresh fruit pudding.
Finally, Geoff ran the girls down to Chapel Style, while Chunky and I finished our packing and we left at about 4 o'clock, as the mist began to come lower in the valley. Margaret and Isobel didn't thumb us as we passed them! Chunky had been particularly eager that we should start the journey in daylight so that he could see the country he was going through. We could see nothing until after Settle. There was thick mist and, by the time we were out of it, it was dark.
We were able to get petrol O.K. this time of the day. I kept my eyes open in Ilkley at 7 o'clock, just in case I should see Joy, but no, and so we went on to the A1 and stopped for tea at a caravan. There was a strong wind and I felt that somewhere with an indoors would have been a far better idea. We had some ham sandwiches as well, but I've never had ham cut so thin before; however, the highway robber (as Chunky called him) kept us amused.
The next stop was Nottingham at 10 o'clock (p.m.!) so much better organised than the last time I returned from Langdale.
As I made my way to the Midland Station to catch the 7.10 p.m. I had such an excited feeling inside, as though I were going away for six months, or as though I had never been to Scotland before – it was so ridiculous, but the sight of Bob and Derek already waiting, soon took it away. John joined us at Trent. Fortunately he had Vivienne to carry a few of his extra packages, for he was grossly overladen. At Crewe, Vivienne made her way over to platform 1, for her Chester train, and we found our Inverness train already waiting on Platform 2. We went well forward, but there were still two or three people in each compartment, eventually John and I settled in one compartment and the others found separate ones. I had three quarters of a side and was quite happy.
I was sitting up in good time and wondering how soon we could go along for breakfast. At about 7 o'clock I warned Derek, and we soon all made our way along to the breakfast car in the front. We opened the door and found a man asleep on the seat. He woke up with a start, and told us to stay where we were, in the first class part (I wonder what sights there were further along!) and we spent the next half hour admiring the view, and speculating about the weather (much too nice a day to last). We went through the familiar stations of Kingussie and Aviemore, and from the amount of snow on the Cairngorms, we were so glad we'd taken Mrs. Jeffrey's advice and left our skis at home; we felt that our axes might be a little redundant too.
Eventually breakfast was ready, while I was trying to sweeten my porridge with lump sugar, they came along with loose sugar for that purpose – things are looking up! To avoid the kipper, I had bacon, sausage, tomato etc. and then was sorry I hadn't appetite enough to eat more toast and marmalade. When the next sitting was nearly through, we made our way back to our carriage and put our things together before arriving at Inverness at 9 o'clock. We left our main luggage on the platform and took a small rucksack for a shopping sortie in the town. We called at all the train, bus, or general information offices we passed, trying to get bus times to Fort William and Glasgow. I bought a very fancy cake in Burnetts and then we went into the next grocers where we were greeted with the remark, "You're the first cuckoos this year" – we didn't know how to take it, after all "Cuckoo in the nest isn't complimentary, neither is it to be "cuckoo". I said that it wasn't a very nice way to greet a visitor, but the grocer talked his way out by saying that he meant we were the first breath of spring.
I bought some Knorr soup, Derek some blue vein cheese and Bob some oatcakes. The grocer wondered whether I also wanted oatcakes. I forbore to tell him that I hadn't gone native to that extent! In the arcade I used a week's meat coupon for 3/4d worth of meat, and also bought one grapefruit and four bananas.
After a short walk along the river we made our way back to the station, and loaded our luggage and selves onto the Kyle train, soon going along to the refreshment car for coffee. The menu had said that biscuits were 4d per portion. Two each of delicious chocolate biscuits were put out and we thought them good value for money. Too late we discovered that they were 4d each!
At about 12.30 we reached Achnasheen. Fortunately some official noticed my cake left behind in the carriage, and it was handed out to me! Derek knew his way about the station and was able to point out the Glen Torridon bus. The others were most amused to meet the driver; to all their queries, such as "Shall we be allowed to camp in the Glen?", "Will there be any land suitable for pitching a tent" or "Can we get any bread locally", I had said every time, "We'll ask the bus driver". He turned out to be far more helpful than even I had anticipated. I left the others showing him their map and asking about campsites, and they informed me later that the near end of Loch Clair had been chosen (I had no hand in any of the decisions of this holiday).
Achnasheen was most disappointing; I called at the post office twice, once to see if they had any picture postcards (they hadn't) and the second time to see if it were possible to get eggs locally (I'd forgotten to get some in Inverness as I'd intended). Both times I hardly got a civil reply. After Bob had helped the driver load a milk churn on the bus, and we had photographed the party by the bus, we were ready to set off. The driver seemed disappointed that no-one was sitting next to him, so I moved forward, for with one local lady, going home after her holiday in Skye the four seats in the back were a little crowded.
I was glad of a chance to talk to the driver – I only wished I could understand him a little better – he told me about the legend of the Plough lock (as he translated the name for my benefit), how the farmer had harnessed the horse which had come out of the lake, to the plough, along with his own horse, and of the dreadful calamity which befell. On the pass he was a little proud of the view of Loch Maree and even offered to stop the bus if we wished to photograph it (it would have needed a telephoto lens to do it justice). We alighted at Kinlochewe and had a lovely reception at the post office; the lady apologised for the fact that she only had last year's post cards. She sold them 1d cheaper. We didn't bother with the more expensive photograph. We set up a large stock of the coloured "Liathach from Loch Clair" – our campsite to be! When everyone was ready we set off down Glen Torridon, the driver stopped by the posting box, where the Coulin road led off, and where he promised to leave me some eggs on Monday. We shouldered our heavy packs, and Bob and Derek helped John with a few of his odds and ends, and we started along the road. Derek and I were ahead and we stopped soon after we reached the trees along by the lake, and when Bob arrived he went scouting up the hillside to the left; soon he called that he had found a site and we had to stagger a few hundred feet up until we reached a lovely plateau, among the birch trees. Quite a number had been blown down by the gale on January 31st (we had seen other damage all the way along). It was obvious that the trouble had been caused by a north wind.
We soon had the tents up, I think John envied me the simplicity of my 5-guy tent, but of course his Arctic Guinea offered considerably more comfort! I seemed to make innumerable journeys to the stream to fetch up boulders, but I hadn't got nearly enough for bad conditions. Bob scouted around and built a fireplace in the gully and when the water on the primus boiled we had tea and some of Burnett's cake. We lazed in the sun and took photographs (I had to be quick and take the camp before John put up his flags. I don't care if he did remember a Scottish besides an English one).
Of course the great view was across Loch Clair to Liathach – just as John had visualised it, except that there wasn't quite enough snow on the mountain. I'm afraid I couldn't get enthusiastic about Ben Eighe – it looked such a shale heap. Eventually we felt that we ought to do something to justify our existence, and we strolled up to the nearest viewpoint – Bob and I took a slightly more sporting route, involving a moderate rock climb of about 100 ft. The holds were delightfully incut, but it needed gardening.
It didn't take as long to reach the top as we'd anticipated, so we strolled in a southerly direction, along the plateau and then turned back to camp, arriving before 5 o'clock.
John had begged to be allowed to cook the meal, and he sat in this tent by his new petrol primus, while Bob lit a fire and put a groundsheet by it so that we could feed in the best of camping traditions. He also had a pan of water heating, with which we made chicken noodle soup, the first course to the meal. Derek seemed to be John's assistant and he brought down the peas to keep warm, nothing so common as tinned peas. These were quick frozen ones. The three of us sat by the fire for our meal. John preferred a tree the other side of the gully, it was a pity for we felt that he wasn't quite with us, body or soul. Next John divided up the main course. Besides the peas, there were mushrooms and tinned sausages, and then John told us not to start as he had his secret surprise (the peas and mushrooms were minor surprises!) and he put sauterne in our mugs to drink with it.
I could only think of a competition in the daily paper for a Coronation Day menu. Besides the food the table decorations had to be given. I could only think of our decorations; as well as the fire we had Liathach, which, for a minute or so, turned all shades of red, as we viewed it through the birch trees.
Then came the sweet, John's usual fresh fruit salad, with fresh pineapple (beautifully ripe), apple, orange, banana, and egg custard to taste.
Later we sat in John's tent, drank cocoa, ate oatcakes and cheese (if possible), cut sandwiches for the morning, and then turned in early, as we planned an early start the next day.
It had been a cloudless night as we'd gone to bed, but the morning was slightly overcast, and mist was playing around the top of Liathach, but we were astir at 6 o'clock and starting the breakfast. We had intended to cook separately, apart from the odd brew of tea, but it was soon obvious that John was having great trouble with his stove. Fortunately he was able to get it away from his tent before the flames were 2 ft high.
He wouldn't put water on it and had to wait until it had died down, and cooled down, he filled it again and the same thing happened. The petrol leaked out through the filling valve. Bob was quite jubilant for he had always warned John that petrol stoves weren't to be trusted. We made porridge and tea for all on Bob's primus, cooked our own eggs and bacon, before handing over the stove to the other tent.
Just before 8 o'clock I set off very slowly on my own, for I knew we had a long way to go, and how I hate racing along roads. All too soon Bob and Derek caught me up; they said that, when John announced that he must tidy his tent, they left him as a hint! Eventually John caught us up and then we made up for lost time, but fortunately the road was no longer tarred. I began to doubt whether we should ever get beyond the trees, but eventually we were there, passing some ruins, crossing the bridge, and then starting up the path up which goes between Liathach and Ben Eighe. Yet, despite the fact that we were camping nearly 5 miles from Liathach, no other route would do this party but the Pinnacle Ridge, which was right the other side of the mountain. It was a very well kept path, and, I suppose sandstone quickly wears down, for it wasn't particularly stony.
We were quite impressed with the East Ridge as we passed beneath it and then followed the path on the little lochans. We couldn't believe that such a well kept path just petered out, as the map indicated, but that was just what happened. We continued over rough ground, past the lochans, crossing over to be on the mountain side of the last one, and then traversed round the hillside, crossed one stream and then started up the hillside before reaching the second one. After some time, we could see lochans far down on our left, through the mist; I know I said that they were the ones we had left, but as the mist cleared further we found that they were the ones in the Corrie on Liathach. In other words, we were in exactly the right place, although we had been in mist ever since leaving the track. It was getting on for 12 o'clock when someone suggested lunch before we got to the steep part – we soon got very cold and were glad to start moving again. Occasionally there'd be a slight clearing in the mist and we'd see this huge cliff above us and wonder how we'd ever get up it – Liathach is the same all round, it is terraced so that, looking up, it appears nothing but vertical walls, and, presumably looking down it seems to be made of level terraces. Soon we reached the first place where hands were necessary as well as feet, but it was nothing, so we were a little shocked when John demanded a rope for it (Derek had made nothing of it, although it was slimy and he was in vibrams – the rest of us wore nails). A little more grass and the climb proper began; Bob took John, and Derek took me. I had half an idea that we ought to have scouted round to try to find traces of other people's route, but as it happened Bob's route worked out O.K. There'd be a short rock pitch and then a walk up a grass terrace, ascending slightly to the left; this seemed repeated several times, and we had no idea how far up we'd come for we could see no further down than the last grass ledge. The snag with this Torridonian red sand sandstone was that it lacked belays (the refrain "without belays, without belays" kept running through my mind, especially as John was using the "super system"). Otherwise the sandstone reminded me very much of grit stone. It had weathered into the same sort of formations. Finally we came to a slightly more serious problem – a double pitch, with only a doubtful direct belay half way. I think Bob was quite impressed with a traverse over loose earth – the steps were well dug by the time it was my turn!
Very soon after this, we were on a ridge instead of a face and the way became a little amusing (I expect it is possible to avoid our face either to one side or the other). There was even a faint scratching on the rocks. Derek and I went over the first optional part and then we all followed up near the crest, until we came to the Pinnacles proper – we glad enough to avoid most of these. Then Bob was going up a gully and didn't like it, so Derek went up the twin gully on the right, complaining all the time, but progressing steadily until he got onto easier ground. When it came to my turn I was amazed how awkward it was, and Bob also found it so, when he traversed into it. Fortunately we were able to direct John onto easier ground on the right. Eventually the sandstone gave way to quartzite and Derek told us we were approaching the main ridge of the mountain. At last we stood on the summit and unroped. The route had been much more fun than I had expected to find on the sandstone, but I don't think it was only to take John down a peg or so that I declared that there had been no real technical difficulties, that it was only the ungardened and loose state of the rock which made it appear difficult.
Despite the mist, we had a pleasant mile or so, sauntering along the ridge. We found it by no means the simple ridge it had appeared from camp, Bob and I started down a subsidiary ridge to the north – when we rejoined the others we found them eating, and we all turned out our rucksacks to contribute. Next the others started down a ridge to the south – we had omitted the pinnacles (time was getting on) and then came the boulder hopping route up the main peak. I was left behind on this. I found the quartzite quite treacherous for nails, what I admired about it was the colour of the lichen on it, there was a blue and a purple variety, rather like ink being upset on the rocks.
The map was consulted about a route down; it was agreed that there wasn't time for the last peak, and a gully was chosen which appeared to avoid most of the crags.
At first there was boulder hopping off the summit, but then we got onto a tongue of snow, down which we made quicker progress (it was interesting to pick out this snow later from the campsite etc.). Then we contoured round, and then started down to the side of the gully until we could get onto the snow in the gully (John would have got down quicker if Derek hadn't gone down first with the rucksack and ice axes – so he said!). Then the snow gave out, and the gully became steep and slimy – we took to the side until we came to a cliff – eventually we were on a broad terrace which we followed first to the east, where it took us to an amphitheatre, but no way down, so we retraced our steps and investigated in the opposite direction, which led to an intricate, but easy way down – an odd moderate short pitch down to a terrace.
It had begun to get brighter ever since we'd started down, but we'd expected it coming down out of the mist – but when were a thousand or so feet down, the top cleared completely, but we were too far down to get the view out to sea etc. Derek had kept telling us what we were missing, with the sand on the sea lochs (there were sandy beaches even on the lochans to the north of our mountain), but we also knew that we could not have delayed longer on top, for it would have proved rather a nightmare coming down after dark. Eventually we were below the terraces and only had the 1,000 ft or so of rough ground between us and the road. We were soon delayed by the skeleton of a deer, complete with antlers. Some of the party thought that the latter would make a fine trophy for the camp, but changed their mind when they found that the birds which had picked the bones clean hadn't been able to get to the brains. We reached the road just before the light began to fade and we had an easy walk home – at least we got along the 4 or 5 miles of road as quickly as I should have expected at the end of a long day. Fortunately, only the last mile or so was tarred, the rest was slightly softer to the feet. And so we got back at 8 o'clock – a 12 hour day – the last drag up was quite a trial – things seemed to clutch at our knees on the way up, and finally a solitary eye stared at us. A deer? or sheep? do? or human? – no, only Bob's pan handle left on the tree by the camp fire – reflected in the torch light!
On the way I had suggested that John should try his primus again, so that we could get a cup of tea before the fire was lit, but he considered himself too tired, so he was allowed to rest on his cooking laurels of the night before and retire to his tent and prepare the fruit salad.
I tried the petrol stove, but it started to leak even while I was priming it, so I gave up, especially as Bob had the fire going by this time. As soon as the tea was ready, we had it with the rest of my Inverness cake – 5 o'clock tea slightly delayed. Next was soup – the Knorr packet, also from Inverness and finally the stew – Bob had put a packet and a half of Swell to soak in the morning and that evening I cut up two thirds of my meat ration and the stew was ready by the time we were – it just needed the final touches – a little Oxo and pom. How good it tasted, how simple to prepare – proper camp diet. The fruit salad lacked the pineapple but it made a fine finish to the meal, and then the camp divided, Bob and I had cocoa and Derek and John tea.
As Ben Eighe was nearer, we had given ourselves until 7 o'clock before starting breakfast. Actually we were all wide awake before this and started our preparations in good time. John was given the task of preparing sandwiches, while Bob got his primus stove going. This morning, porridge was followed by sausage and bacon, and finally the tea was made. We hadn't left things quite as orderly as the first night, so it was about 8.30 before the vanguard could get away. It had been obvious from the start that the sky was all of one colour, but was it blue or grey? We needn't have worried; this was to be a perfect day, blue sky all the time, with occasional cloud and mist to add interest.
From the post box we set out straight up the hillside until we reached the southeast spur, which gave easier going for a little way, but all too soon led to the final screes. I chose a very bad line up these, on the screes themselves. It was trying to go up a down escalator. All I could do was to traverse until I got onto some easier going.
Apparently the others had had a view on top. I was too late; there was mist and a cold wind. I was glad when we set off in a ENE direction, over the pinnacles to reach the most easterly summit. The mist even cleared. The pinnacles were easy, but much better than anything I had expected on this mountain, which didn't attract me from the side it showed to our camp. There was a magnificent view from between two of the pinnacles, framed by sheer rock walls. It was a very pleasant ridge along to the easterly summit, with even a patch of snow on it, but I suppose it wasted quite a lot of time. We only had to come back the same way, and when we reached our first summit, a halt was made for lunch. I couldn't enjoy this stop. The slope up to the next part looked loose again, so I soon left the others to start up this. Actually it was a perfectly simple walk. When we all collected, another halt was made for photography etc. Actually it was an ideal day for this, sauntering along these airy ridges, stopping when we felt like it, with the idea that we'd had a hard day on the Sunday and deserved this off-day on the day after. Nothing but mountains in all directions – the Cuillins to the west and then, over Loch Maree, were peaks such as An Teallach we supposed, such lovely shapes and so on round to the south where we felt that Nevis should be on view, but I couldn't pick it out. The sea to the north was so colourful too.
And so along to the next peak – from which our ridge home led off, and a lovely view of the next part of the mountain, that smooth grassy band. At the top of this band was a patch of snow – we sat just above it for another snack and for a last view out to sea, over the lochan, with the magnificent cliffs as a foreground. It was obvious by now, even to John, that we should not be able to get in both the last two peaks, and we decided to let the higher one go, in favour of the very interesting looking Sail Mhor. We started to make our way in that direction, when we came across the wreckage of an aeroplane. John immediately hurried by, but the two boys stopped to rummage in the wreckage – I followed John, thinking that we'd better not waste time if we were to get in even one more peak. Actually we passed the more gruesome remains, part of an air force uniform, underclothes and a complete flying boot. I was following an easy line down when I came to a rock wall and realised I was too far to the left – I then found that the best route kept more or less to the crest, but it was a definite scramble and time was getting on, so we decided to retreat. We rejoined the others at the wreckage and were told that it was definitely a Lancaster type, i.e. the type for which Bob makes instruments – so we blamed the crash onto the instruments. If only the plane had been 50 ft higher it would have got over the summit. We picked up our packs by the snow, returned to the next summit and then cut across to our ridge down. We were amazed to see two other people in front of us, but they were well down the ridge. We started down the ridge and then Bob found a short cut down a steep gully and we soon got off the mountain proper and onto the boggy, gentler ground leading to the road. Fortunately the more observant types had noticed a path down this part, a delightful route, but more a path up than down, it took such an easy line to and fro, contouring round the hillocks. We reached the road near enough to the other people to realise that we didn't know them, but they didn't stop and we couldn't catch them up along the road – they didn't appear hurrying at all, yet we couldn't draw any closer, hurry as we might. Our track had brought us down near the outline of the house and there was only a mile or so of road, and John kindly went along for the eggs while the rest of us took the short cut down to the Cuillin road and we waited on the bridge and arrived back at camp just at dusk.
While Bob was lighting the fire, John and Derek were opening tins, one of steak, one of tomatoes, one of spaghetti, at least and so we got another stew. While this was cooking we drank the tea from the first water put on the fire and ate Bob's fruit cake. To finish we had a hot steamed pudding and John's big tin of cherries, completed with evaporated milk, and finished with our usual nightcaps, the two tents again splitting over their preference for tea or cocoa. Reluctantly the fire was put out for the last time, and so to bed.
We woke up at 6 o'clock as we had planned and started breakfast. Bacon and egg, followed the porridge; how different were the local eggs from the town ones.
The weather had definitely deteriorated, a wind was getting up and there was rain in the air, although it had been a very mild night. This confirmed the others' plans to move on to Nevis – there was no obvious mountain to climb that day, so, if they were having an off-day it seemed more reasonable to spend it moving on to the next campsite, which was to be in the Ben Nevis area.
My way of packing, of course, was to take the tent down first and pack afterwards. I was glad to get it down, fearing rain, but it didn't really come and much too early I was packed and ready, I even had time to do a little towards disguising the fire. I pulled a carpet of moss of a stone, and laid it on the ashes, but I have an idea that the phosphate concentration would prove to great for it to live!
The other tent seemed slow at first, for John had to pack before Derek could start, but then Derek didn't take long, and we were all ready by about 9 o'clock and made our way down to the post box – we were there long before the bus had even left Inveralligin, so we had time to write our post cards, besides get gold while waiting for the bus (we sat in the box, but the wind blew through the floor boards).
At about 10 o'clock the bus came along, all the seats were taken, but there was room for us as well. At Kinlochewe, John collected the parcel he had posted there, and we continued to Achnasheen, passing daffodils in flower en route. While I was in the middle of paying the conductor my fare and for the eggs, Bob said "Isn't that that photographic Johnny". I said, "Of course not, it's not a bit like him, that's not the shape of the back of his head at all". Bob looked unconvinced and when the man turned round, having got his rucksack and half a dozen small parcels of cameras and equipment out of the Loch Maree bus, sure enough it was Tony Kersting! I was so amazed, for I normally bump into him every three or four years, not every three or four weeks.
We got our gear onto the station and left John to take his food out of his parcel and replace it with unnecessary gear which he could send home and Bob suggested that we adjourned to the bar.
Fortunately they first asked me what I wanted and when I said coffee we all adjourned to the hotel lounge and found that the other bus passengers were already there. Somehow it didn't seem right that everyone was talking English. There was something so continental in drinking coffee in the hotel by the little wayside station. Tony made the time pass very quickly; I told him about my forthcoming visit to Yugoslavia and he told me about his free Easter trip to Madeira. He had been winter-sporting at Hochsölden and was now getting material for a book on Scotland. On Friday night he had travelled to Aberdeen, come round the coast to Inverness, and had had half a day by Loch Maree and was now on his way to Strome Ferry. He was hoping to come back each month until June, when he had to have his material ready.
Our train came in first, we settled ourselves in a carriage and soon had our food out for a picnic type meal. The restaurant car attendants had been coming along the corridor shouting "Take your seats now for lunch", but when he opened our door his remark was "Oh, you've got it here!" I actually had a wash and change, and eventually we were at Inverness where I left my rucksack on the station, and the others took theirs to the bus station and decided to catch the 3.30 to Fort Augustus, to break their Fort William journey there. We drank tea at the café there, and Bob finally persuaded John to allow me to take home his blanket and two of his capes (he still had a third cape). They bought bread and John filled his old petrol can with paraffin and finally we said goodbye. I got my ticket and settled myself in the 3.40 train, with a book. I noticed someone staring through the carriage and grinning at me and realised that he had come in and sat opposite me, but I took not notice, got on with my book, for it had never occurred to me that I could know a person in an ordinary suit, travelling from Inverness on a Tuesday afternoon in March (for the same reason as I had told Bob that the man looked nothing like Tony Kersting – these things simply don't happen to me).
Eventually, the boy in the carriage spoke, he said, "I know I've seen you before somewhere, but I can't think where, I don't think it was on these hills". As soon as he spoke I realised who he was. Joy and I had travelled through Switzerland with him, on our way back from Austria last summer.
It was very pleasant to have company as far as Edinburgh and I was able to ask him about the usual snow conditions – e.g. he said that his year was unique, normally if they don't have snow to the east, they have it to the north, i.e. they can always ski on either Ben Wyvis or the Cairngorms, but this year they'd had none since the New Year. He was also able to tell me about the plane; it had crashed last winter, and hadn't been found for three days, and then the mountain rescue had reported that it was on a small ledge and quite inaccessible – apparently there was quite a shindig when it was discovered that it was on top of the mountain (the boy had said he couldn't imagine a ledge large enough to hold such a big plane). Other topics were heather burning, deer poaching, a climbing hut in Glen Torridon, and the journey was broken very nicely by high tea. I chose the mixed grill, but then was envious of my companion's fresh haddock (he said the fish is always good on this trip). I was amazed that they came round a second time with the cakes, for they were good! (One thing, dressed as I was, I felt no-one showed surprise at my appetite!). I'm afraid I dozed for the last part of the journey to Edinburgh, but it was nice to be taken to my next platform, for I feel I shall never know my way about in a station as big as Waverley. We said goodbye, I dumped my luggage all along a seat and then had a cup of tea from a wagon. There was only 20 minutes for the connection, so the train was soon off and I was stretched along the whole side, dozing very pleasantly until after Sheffield, when I thought it time to put my things together. Actually it was about 6.15 before we drew into Nottingham.