© J A D Healey 2014
We had hoped that Portia would be running on Wednesday. She had been to Calverton, but by Thursday night she was resting on her laurels and wouldn't go. I said I'd go up by train if Alan couldn't run the Sunbeam Talbot. Alan promised to ring me at 6 o'clock on Friday to tell me what I was doing; instead he called for me in the car, and everything was straightforward. He had already collected Pat and we went to Derek's and collected his pack and awaited John's arrival, and Derek went off on the back of his bike.
Bob should also have called to see us off, but he didn't bother to turn up. We missed him for his tent; we found that we had one tent (Derek's) between the five of us.
We had a pleasant run through Ashby and Tamworth, onto the A5 and then on to the Mermaid, where we found that the other car had already arrived. Norman, Ernest, Pete, Barry and Geoff Hill. We were soon away again, at first following the bike, for Alan had been given a speed limit of 50 by the garage – but soon Alan was away. We had the second halt for fish and chips at Llangollen, and then went straight through to the campsite at Blae Nant, Llanberis way. We found that the other car had a tent each, so Derek nobly offered his to Pat and me, and we were in our bags by about 1 o'clock.
It was quite a pleasant, fine morning; I began to stir at about 8 o'clock, but Pat and I didn't hurry over breakfast for we knew we should have to wait for other people. By 10.30 the five of us were ready and Alan drove us down the Pass and we walked up the Llanberis track, waving to people in the train. We had a long halt at Mrs. Williams', waiting for the others, but, after a second cup of tea, decided to go up to the crag without them.
All the week I had thought myself into Sunset Crack – I desperately wanted to try to lead it, but all the others were of one mind – Great Slab. Pat offered to climb with me, but how could I take her away from Great Slab after her wish for it the night before, after seeing a falling star. The time was getting on; I knew there wasn't really time for me to do it and get back to the Pen-y-Gwryd for my A.C.G. dinner. Everyone seemed to be wasting time, but eventually I managed to get Derek to belay at the foot of Great Slab, and directed John up the Slab to get on the belay, before traversing. He got this on alright, but wouldn't look at the traverse, came straight down again, and it was Derek's turn; he changed ropes through the sling, and then finished the pitch, using the sling to a considerable extent on the first slab. Next John and Alan tried it, without success, and I began to think that I should have to second Derek, but then Pat had a try. After a shoulder to get off the ground, she was soon up and changing ropes and then across the slab and joining Derek, who moved on. I thought surely I can't leave Pat to second Derek on such a climb (how I underestimated her) and I thought I'd add strength to the party if I joined it. That left Alan in the lurch and he had to come as well. How different was this climb from two years ago. Then, after first climbing and retreating from the overhang, the Slab had been nothing at all; this time it was desperate. I had thought the climb a little wet the other time, but this time it was far worse – the finger-holds for the first move off the ground were very slimy, and by the time I got onto the Slab, my fingers were practically useless and I used the rope through the sling as a handhold practically all the way along. Last time it was only for 6 inches, until I reached the finger-hold. The move round the corner was quite difficult, and the 'Caterpillar' tricky all the way up (last time it had just been a walk). I leapt onto the Slab for great quantities of turf were missing. Derek had sent a lot down, as John said. He thought Derek had said a sod was coming down, not a lawn. Alan thought it would be easier without the sling and so I didn't change ropes, and flicked it off when I reached the corner.
Derek made the next pitch interesting by traversing to the left, the rest of us went straight up the Slab before traversing. I made the next pitch interesting by thinking I'd do it in rubbers to save my socks for the wetter difficulties ahead – fortunately I was well placed when my foot slipped! The others mostly climbed in rubbers; I don't know how they did it, and when Pat couldn't manage it like that, she simply took off her rubbers. I remembered wasting time on pitch 4 before, but I also remembered the method I worked out; unfortunately it was no good to Pat – she simply couldn't reach the holds, so, sensibly, she accepted a little help. I was thrilled when I came to do it, to find that I had remembered the way – right hand in the hold, right foot high up and a push away with the left hand. I was surprised how difficult I found the turf moves just above.
Next we were confronted by the terrible pitch 5. I had been claiming it as the crux all the way up. Derek took his time on it, and wouldn't take my advice and do a lay-back move after a long step.
Pat didn't have a great deal of trouble and then it was my turn. I thought I wouldn't do the long step at first, but once I was on the flake I easily changed feet this time and then tried to make my lay-back move. The rock was much too slimy to use as a handhold, while my socks were gripping perfectly. I was expecting my hands to slip off, and I had to find another way of doing it. I tried not to think of my foolhardy days when I used to lead such things! Derek suggested that, as I had led it, it was known that I could do it, so that it wouldn't matter if I had some help. I don't know whether that was the spur, but I got up after that – one the Slab in the corner. At the crack, my foot slipped, despite my sock, but my hands were well jammed in the cracks – this is the second time my foot has slipped here; I'm not so keen to go there again! The crack was filthy, but at last I was up and putting myself on a thread belay before bringing up Alan. He also didn't like the place where I wanted to 'do a lay-back move' and got onto the Slab (we'd all tried it) and couldn't retreat and held the rope at one point (he confessed afterwards).
We had considered splitting into twos for the Great Slab itself, but Derek warned me that the next pitch had its moments, so we followed up there roped as a four. Derek and Alan moving up together, and then Derek went on, belaying on the thumb of quartz (I hadn't dared use it for more than a runner last time). Alan then led up to it, and I followed, as Derek continued up, going more or less straight up, not zigzagging to and fro as I had done, finding belays. About 10 ft from the top, Derek ran out of rope, and Pat had to move up, with Alan and me only belayed to the quartz! Then Pat moved on, having to take off her rubbers very soon – the first one she simply kicked back down the crag – waiting for some Prince Charming to find, as she explained later! – the second she managed to leave on the foothold, for me to pick up later. Alan followed her up, but, near the top, thought that a top rope would have its advantages and, after what seemed hours on this last pitch, it was my turn, and I moved up finding that each move on Great Slab required thought, right to the end.
We reached the top in time to see a magnificent sunset, it was after 7 o'clock (we hadn't started on the climb until about 2 o'clock), so I knew I'd be very late for my dinner, but I wouldn't have missed this moment for any banquet.
The sun had gone, but still the others seemed inclined to linger, so I started down the Western Terrace. The others didn't appear, so I thought they might have gone down Eastern Terrace. Actually they went further round to the right, and it was almost dark before we got away.
Soon we met Ernest, John and Norman, who had done Slanting Chimney, and we all continued down together, but separated at the Half Way House, where the others stopped for some lemonade.
Alan drove straight up to the Pen-y-Gwryd, but it was 9.15 and after closing time – I had hardly got inside the door before Slim was forcing me to finish his tankard of lemonade. Nat was with him, and I was hearing of his bad weather in Chamonix, and also of Don Cowan's holiday in Huntingdonshire! I learned that Joe was in the office telling Tom Bourdillon about the West Face of the Drus – he never appeared. Geoff Sutton told me about his bad weather in the Alps, and then Dave Fisher introduced me to Gwen and Dennis Greenald, and I was hearing about their skiing holiday and their summer holiday in Scotland – they only had 4 pegs and they needed 20 for one climb. They said they were staying in Cwm Glas and told me of the improvements Dave Thomas was making in it. Dorothy Sorrell and Jean Daw's friend were two of the other girls I spoke to, and then Roger Chorley started talking about the Cambridge Himalayan do – the only bright moment was when they got back to base camp and heard that Joe had done the Drus – they had 15 out of 17 days bad, when they were all set for the peak – and the expedition had to find £500-600 per person. George Band had been offered £500 for a book and he was having to write it as they needed the money. Apparently their equipment seemed very makeshift compared with the Italian party they met. I had managed to get two rounds of drinks, first from Nat and then from Dennis and, at about 10.30, we left, and all sat in Derek's tent while we made soup, and then Pat made a splendid stew, and we finished off with loganberries and peaches with cream, and so to bed.
The night before, someone had said they wanted waking at 7.30. I woke up and noted that it was 6.50, and then the next time I looked at my watch, it said 7.30, so I queried through the tent "Who wanted waking at 7.30?". "It's only 7.25 you fool" was Alan's angry reply, apparently he had been watching the minutes pass, to wake the camp at the exact moment.
Alan wanted to lead, and he and Pat hadn't done Flying Buttress. "If only we'd known that, we needn't have gone to Cloggy yesterday" I said. That left Derek to climb with me, and Ernest invited himself along as well – John and Norman seemed to get on very well together. We went up to Dinas Cromlech, changed into rubbers and climbed the first pitch of Pharaoh's wall; we had Ernest up, and then Derek attacked the crux and, after cleaning his rubbers on Ernest's sleeve, was up, slowly but surely, and then putting on a runner before traversing back to the corner. I didn't start very well; I got too high before traversing right, and had to descend. I put a sock into the wet foothold (a pocket) and kept my rubbers dry, made the traverse and started to look at the wall – my hands were already suffering from the strain, and I began to realise that the wall was far too steep to allow any rest on it, and also the handholds needed feeling for, higher up (similar to Brassington); I thought of retreat, but then I thought I might as well have a go, for the most which could happen would be that I would fall on the rope, and I think Derek understood my position! Every time I moved a hand higher, I think it was a grab, for I was never sure that one hand was enough to keep me attached to the wall, but it worked out perfectly. There was always just sufficient handholds and I had just enough finger strength to get me up to the runner. I warned Derek that I'd have to sit there until my hands came round. I had the cramp in my wrists which I always seem to get after a little strain on my fingers. I expect Derek thought I'd forgotten about the rest of the climb, the time I sat there, and when I started on I found that the traverse presented no difficulty, and I could have done it without hands! I was soon tied on, and taking in Ernest's rope. He had a second try before he made the first traverse out, and then he decided that his hands were too tired for him to continue and he went down. Derek and I scrambled to the summit and down and round to Ernest at the foot of Pharaoh's Passage. Once more I tried to point out to Derek that Holly Wall would provide a pleasant climb for the three of us, but Derek wouldn't consider anything less than a 'vs'. I wanted him to go up between the wall and the overhang on Pharaoh's Passage, but he favoured a route further out to the left – he got into the most sensational position, obviously he must have found good handholds for he was practically swinging on them, while leaning back at an angle of 45º. He tried various places, and then tried again just to the left of the crack I favoured and, with a swing on his hands, he was round and up the overhang, and I was trying to follow. By the time I had found the lower handholds, there wasn't much left in my hands, so I retreated, and John Watson (he and Norman had just appeared) tried. He removed a huge loose block, which left a good foothold, and was up easily; I had watched his method and reckoned that I ought to be able to do it, so I tried again, but once more my hands went weak (I blamed it all onto Pharaoh's Wall!). The good handhold was no use to my right hand, I had to jam it in a crack, and this wasn't sufficient, so I tried to retreat, only to find that Derek had different ideas, and soon the rope was so tight that hands were of no importance, and I could reach the good handhold to the left. I put my left hand on it, and my right hand on top – hoping I think to lock my left hand on, should it disobey me and open, and then I swung round to the footholds, to the accompaniment of a gasp from those below, and could then climb up, saying that I'd like to try it again when my hands were fresh another time ("some people never learn", the others must have thought). After my exhibition, Norman and Ernest were soon up.
After this, there was even less chance of interesting Derek in Holly Wall; he had found another 'vs' on the cliff, which he hadn't looked at, René, and we made our way round to it, climbing the first two pitches of Flying Buttress en route. We had great difficulty in recognising the start of René, but Derek eventually went up by the tree and could see the perched block. I made my way over to it, and belayed, and Derek climbed up past me. At 20 ft, he found a belay, but said that there was no stance, so he put a runner on and continued, after I had tied on further back on the rope, to give him sufficient for finishing. Soon after this Derek was out of view to me, but Ernest gave me a commentary of where he was going, that he had reached the Sloping Shelf, that he was on it, that he was now out of sight of Ernest etc.
As Derek had climbed above his runner, he had knocked it off, and it caught in a twig above me. A week later I learned that he had put on another runner about 20 ft higher than the first, but no-one had thought to tell me that at the time; I thought that there was no runner on, and from the slow rate at which Derek was climbing I thought that it was most unlikely that there should be any incut holds on which the rope could catch. Derek was 60 ft above me and I was only 20 ft from the gully and therefore there was nothing I could do "if anything happened". Even so, I was paying out and taking in his rope, inch by inch, as he moved up or down – the middle mark was just in front of my face and I watched, rather horrified, as it moved slowly up or down. Ernest was shouting up, offering to fetch his rope and take it round as a top rope, but there was no reply from above. I was watching the red mark, trying to judge when Derek was at rest enough to take a sane view if I shouted up to him that it wasn't worth it, but it seemed to me that there was no rest for Derek up there, and I was so afraid of irritating him – then the rope went up another 2 ft – he must be over the crux! – but then it stopped – worse than ever, and then the inevitable happened, there was a muffled cry and a sound of falling – no, this couldn't be happening again so soon after Easter, the rope must catch somewhere and hold him, but no, he was bouncing right down, past me, down into the gully, and down that – well at least the rope must stop him going further down there, he must be 60 ft below me, why doesn't he stop? Then I saw that the rope wasn't tied to him, the knot must have come undone. I must speak to him about it some other time – a funny thing that the end of the rope has become so frayed! Ernest was going down to him, forgetting that he was still tied to the rope, and I was frantically trying to untie my belay and waist loop. Then Derek was looking up. His head didn't seem damaged, perhaps he'd get away with only a broken arm or so, but no, he said he was all right. I was afraid that he might have cracked something, and was still too numb to feel it, so I wanted him to stay where he was for a little while, and Ernest sounded as though he had recently been studying first aid. Derek mustn't move until a doctor came, and he must be given some hot, sweet tea and kept warm. I went down to the foot of the cliff and brought him up some water in a plastic bag and by the time I got back Derek had had enough of playing the invalid. He was still very pale, but was insisting that he was going to walk down there and then. I tied him on the rope – by this time I had realised it had broken, about 20 ft from him, and paid it out as he got down the gully.
Ernest then went on and I came down with Derek, going in front and setting what I considered a suitable pace (I didn't want to jar him at all), but eventually Derek got in front and set a pace about twice as fast as mine had been! By the time we reached the road, Ernest had Norman's car to meet us, and even the hot sweet tea which was so essential for Derek! I walked back to camp and arrived just as Norman, Ernest and Derek were setting out for the doctor at Llanberis.
I had tea with John. He seemed to have enjoyed his lead of Pharaoh's Wall – and then Pat and Alan arrived, and I had more to eat with them. We ate up the other two tins of fruit, feeling rather guilty about not leaving anything for Derek. The weather was rapidly deteriorating. Great gusts of wind were blowing under the tent and we had to have the primus in the centre, and then it started to rain. We'd better wait until it dries out before striking the tent we thought – fortunately we didn't wait for this, for the rain became more and more heavy. We carried everything to the car, and got in, out of the rain, and waited for Derek. John had gone off at about 5 o'clock and we said we'd take Derek home. We waited and waited – we got engrossed in 'spaceships' – all about ropes getting untied! – but then it was over. I suggested that Alan should get onto the road, to save time later. Pete and Geoff were also in the car sheltering from the rain, and then, at 7 o'clock I had a brainwave, if we took one of the others back, we could leave Derek to Norman. They tossed up and Geoff lost, so Pete got in the front and we set off, leaving Geoff to wait at the farm until Norman arrived. I was convinced that Norman was having mechanical trouble (he had had some on Saturday) for I thought that Derek would either be kept in or else allowed to go. I didn't realise that they would X-ray him there and then.
I don't know whether it was the sight of the ambulance and the battered sports car on the Maerdy bends, whether it was the teeming rain most of the way back, or whether it was that the Sunbeam Talbot wasn't quite itself, but we had an uneventful ride back, no thrills at all!
I was ready about 6.10 p.m. and came downstairs – no Portia – she hadn't failed us again! – no a few minutes later she arrived, and I looked forward to putting my luggage in the back without trouble – but no, they had mislaid the key! I found that Alf was the 6th member; I felt that he lent dignity and knowledge to the company; Bob and Alan were already there, and we toured Nottingham picking up Vera and Derek. It was a very good trip to the Mermaid, where we found Ernest's car, with Geoff and Diane there before us, and later Phil rolled up in his V8 Pilot – driven by Arthur and with Evelyn and Betty – Norman and Margaret had brought Pete.
Soon on again. Pleasant to take the Welshpool road for a change, and we had promised ourselves a step there for fish and chips. Unfortunately the town is less well organised than Llangollen, we could only get chips and had to eat them in the road! – and so on again, the road becoming more tricky until we reached Dinas Mawddwy. "There's a 1" map in the cubby-hole" I told those in the front; there was no action and Bob still seemed rather vague, so I repeated my remark. "We don't want that, I've been here before" was Bob's reply. It was a good job it was Bob directing us. Had it been one of his friends, they'd never have heard the last of it! We went through the village and then turned off up a narrow lane which only just took the brake – on the corners, it didn't quite take her, and the mudguard became detached! Eventually we passed a turning place and decided we'd gone far enough, and Alan backed into it. It was quite a wild night, and it was still a mile or so to the official camping site, so I looked into a nearby barn, and decided that I'd spend the night there. The others came along later, looked at the open windows and said that they had found a better barn further along – they stuck to their barn and we stuck to ours. I believe ours had the sounder roof! I'm sure this segregation of the sexes must have impressed the farm people the next morning!
The diagnosis was confirmed, Portia's brakes were US and she must be taken back to the nearest garage. Conversation with a farmhand confirmed that we should have taken the road the other side of the valley, and that it would be necessary to walk the mile or so to Blaen Cywarch. I said we couldn't expect our passengers to accompany us to the garage, but Alf insisted and Derek went with Vera to the campsite, and then up to the Creig.
Someone had to walk in front of the brake to warn any approaching car that a vehicle without brakes was careering along – when I was in front I was very pleased not to have to give the warning, I should have felt such a fool! At times I was riding on the running board (on a sound bit) and I really felt that the lane wasn't wide enough to take both Portia and me.
At Dinas Mawddwy, we called at the garage and got no joy, but were told to go up the hill to the one on the main road. I took to this place as soon as I saw the huge bell hanging up inside – no ordinary garage bell – it wasn't meant to be, either, it was the church bell; it had been cracked for about 150 years and they had just taken it down to have it mended – it had the date 1685 cast in it.
Bob reminded me that I had said that it bored me to see men fiddling with cars, but not this man, he didn't fiddle, he had the tools handy and got on with the job. He found the hole in the braking system, it was at the back. He took out the faulty bit of pipe, soldered the end onto a piece of hose he had and put it back – and then he roughly nailed on the mudguard before putting the wheel back on. Alan then drove down the hill – always down a hill, for we could only get it going by pushing – and found that the brakes still didn't work – of course not, it wants bleeding, said Bob. When tackled the man quite agreed, but said that he was going to Dolgellau for the afternoon and couldn't do it then, but would do it later, if we left it. We went down to the Red Lion. I thought it was to be for bread and cheese, but Bob immediately ordered four lunches, which we were eating at the same time as two fishermen from Wolverhampton. They gave the impression that Craig Cywarch was very frequented by climbers these days!
I enjoyed the day, absorbing local colour I felt and, on the way back, as we passed a pen of sheep, one of the men was kind enough to explain that they were looking at their teeth to tell their age and separate the old from the young ones – Bob soon walked on, disgusted that I should be so rude as to ask what they were doing! We picked up our packs at the barn and walked on to Blaen Cywarch to the camp site. Bob and Derek pitched their tents and then the others went for a walk – they had gone before I realised. I was busy talking, first to Margaret, who had been left behind with a cold, and then to Evelyn and Betty, back from a walk round the valley, on the tops with the most wonderful views, they said (they had been given the impression that there was no climbing for them).
Then Alan Dawes arrived on his bike, and then others started to arrive back, with tales of first ascents on the crag. Derek had led the first pitch of the gully, and no-one had been able to follow him, but I rather think he was glad not to have had too energetic a day. When I finished making tea, Derek started making an elaborate stew, and stewed fruit and blancmange to finish. My mouth began to water, but I was told that it was not to be touched until we returned from the Red Lion that evening.
Bob was trying to organise a jolly evening, everyone was keen except the car drivers! – if only we'd had Portia handy! Ernest had promised himself a couple of chapters of Homer in his tent that evening, but eventually gave way. I was so hungry I could stand about the campsite no longer, also I could do with a walk, so I set out in the drizzle to walk down the lane – the proper one this time, the one we didn't take!
I expected a car to follow me pretty closely, but nothing came and I began to wonder whether they had changed their minds.
At Bryn Sion a car stopped just by me; I eventually realised that it wasn't one of ours and walked on. On the main road a car soon stopped for me, but I didn't want a lift, it would only mean that I'd have to stand about Dinas Mawddwy in the rain, waiting – but I felt an awful brute and the next time a car stopped, I couldn't bring myself to refuse, and accepted the lft, and stood in the shadows under my cape until the first car arrived, and so began a pleasant evening in the local. I was in a 'kitty' so I had an 'expensive' drink – that left me so thirsty that I quite enjoyed some beer afterwards.
Back in camp I found that either the pigs or the dogs had been at Bob's tent; the pole was down, and all my meaty things were eaten – that was my own fault, I had been warned to hang my sac in a tree. Derek's stew and sweet was most appreciated and then I called in Arthur's tent where he and Phil, and Evelyn and Betty were finishing their session, and so back to Bob's battered tent, where he and Alan were already half asleep. As Alf put it the next day, there'd be silence for 3 hours, and then there'd be yap-yap-yap – it wasn't a monologue, two or three people would join in the conversation, and then it would die down as suddenly as it had started and there would be silence for the next 3 hours. He couldn't imagine what it was we talked about. I think Bob was a little sensitive about the imperfections of his tent and expected us to criticise it; actually I think Alan and I thought how well it was doing, all things considered.
There was one other incident, Bob started feet to door, but changed over in the night and joined Alan and me with head to door – then he swore that I had turned round in the night.
There had been much rain in the night and it looked like continuing all morning; at first it was a question of avoiding the drips and then it was a question of how high the water level in the field would come. Betty, Evelyn and Vera were worse placed than we were and had already abandoned ship.
As the rain eased a little, Derek joined us, and breakfast included porridge, and then Bob and I were whisked away to a committee meeting, in the presidential tent.
By the time the meeting had finished, it was fine; it was glorious to smell the fresh air in the open and I decided to go for a walk. I couldn't get away at once because other people were of a similar mind and the Portia arrived back. Alan and Derek had fetched her, bless them. Eventually John and Bas, Alf, Alan and I set off up the hill behind the camp at about 1.30. We started to follow the trackway along the hillside, but found we'd lost John, concluded that he had cut straight up, so we did the same. Soon we were in a gale force wind, walking at an angle of 45º when it caught us sideways on. How I enjoyed the battle – it seemed years since I'd known anything like it. No, this moping around villages isn't the real object of a weekend in the hills.
We found that just over the brow of the hill, we were reasonably sheltered, and we could make quicker progress to the unnamed summit of about 2,000 ft. The view wasn't extensive, but it was lovely, miles and miles of unknown moorland in all directions. The weather looked pretty thick to the north, we had none of the views to Snowdonia, they were reserved for Saturday's walkers. We made the circuit round Cwm Terwyn, and then came down an exceedingly steep hillside – from a distance we had picked out a track, but when we were on it, we hardly noticed the line of easier going, but we were soon down, and had about half a mile to walk back to camp, where Derek and his assistants had the stew practically ready. It was followed by apricots, strawberries and cream – we just managed to keep this from the dogs, although they had their use as dishwashers, provided we managed to remember to boil the plates afterwards!
At 4.30, all was packed, and we only had to push Portia to start her and we were away. The only real incident was one car which stopped us to tell us that the mudguard was loose again. There were heavy rain showers but we seemed to get to Shrewsbury very quickly. We didn't want a meal, so we went to the milk bar for soup, and then shop-window gazed into Della Portas, before setting off again. Our next stop was in Lichfield, a stop more in Alf's line, and so back home by about 10.45 – Portia had made it!
Portia's second visit to Wales! There were six of us, the four shareholders and Barbara and John. I sat in the back with the two passengers. I could tell Barbara wasn't enjoying herself. "There's nothing in this driving business", was Bob's comment as he drove the brake from Rodney Road to Meadow Lake, a few nights previously. That remark had worried me, and now his driving was worrying us all. Despite all his criticism of Alan's driving, he had no conscience when he skidded on corners (and his weren't Alan's 'drifts'). We got some petrol Beeston way. The man there was quite sure we were a comic turn, couldn't believe we were going to Wales, and gave us some puzzles to amuse ourselves; however, here he helped with the pushing to get us started.
Despite Bob's hair-raiding driving, we weren't making our usual good time, but we made it to the Mermaid where we had our usual stop and then Alan took over.
I've never before so appreciated his driving, his deceleration before bends and acceleration round them. He'd get up to 63 on a straight stretch, and there were no anxious moments. We had promised Portia a night under cover, but the garage was full at Glan Dena and she had to be left outside. Trevor Jones was there, with three friends he had brought in his grandfather's new car.
The weather was anything but promising. We delayed our start at first, but eventually set out for Glyder Fach, cutting across to the foot of Bochlwyd Buttress, then up the track and round the east side of the Llyn and left our packs at the foot of Beta, where Bob and Alan started up. I followed with John and Derek behind me (Barbara hadn't come with us), but Derek took over the lead on the last pitch and held it for the next climb. The rope in front went left, for a gully, but Derek thought that Needle's Eye, just 'vd' was suitable for us. I was interested to see it again, after all these years; it was all much easier, or perhaps it was having a rope above me.
Derek was a reformed character, very cautious, and he even took off his boots for the traverse into the eye! John did the same, even as a second. For the top pitch or so we were feeling a little elated, I think we had got to that stage of wetness, and were actually looking for difficulties; we hesitated a moment or so, about the way down, but soon started down the gully, where my usual descending technique made me even wetter behind, with the stream which was flowing down that way.
We joined the others at the rucksacks, shared any food we had, and started down, going the other side round the lake. Near Bochlwyd Buttress, Barbara met us, and everyone decided on another climb – enthusiasm in weather like this!
Derek and Alan started up the Arête and Slab. I wanted to do the chimney, but no-one else was interested. Bob went off soloing on the crag. John said he didn't want to lead in vibrams, so I joined on with him and Barbara, and I followed Alan up. I watched the other two on the mantelshelf and decided that I would need a runner before tackling that. I went to the right to fix the runner, and decided that there'd be plenty of time to bring up my second. In fact Barbara came up as well, before I moved on – I didn't do the mantelshelf elegantly (I never do!), but was soon joining the others on the top, and then a quick run back to Glan Dena for tea and dry clothes, and then an elaborate meal. The chips were all right, someone said, they were Derek's effort, I don't think anything I touched was approved!
Barbara and John were for an evening in, but Portia was to take the four of us, together with Trevor and his three friends and Jean Griffiths, who had arrived that afternoon to Tyn-y-Coed, the latest pub, invaded by climbers in Capel (by those who rebel against the Royal). Bob, of course, was to drive (Alan was pleased to get out of backing the brake onto the road, for it was impossible to turn her round). What a fiasco – she had to be pushed, of course – for she wouldn't start with the starter. There was one amusing incident; I told Bob to stop as he was going into the fence, but he deliberately went on backing until the yells of all the others stopped him. I had no more tact than to ask him why he hadn't stopped when I told him, to which he replied that he wasn't going to be told by me what to do, which shows how relations stood! I was horrified at the pace at which he took the bridge. Fortunately his aim was straight and he got across, and then tried to turn in the entrance, but, after stalling the engine several times, he was hounded out of the driving seat, but Alan had no better luck and we had to go along to Ogwen Cottage to turn, and eventually we arrived at Capel, to Tyn-y-Coed, which is the Crag and Cave's latest evening meeting ground. Pete and co. were there and a pleasant evening was spent.
When it came to the return journey, Alan announced that he could no longer see through his contact lenses and he was too tired to change them, so Bob would have to drive. I was tired of binding to no purpose, so I didn't say a word, but got in, sitting behind the driver. I didn't enjoy the ride, but there were no incidents until we approached the turning off to Glan Dena, I remember feeling relieved that Bob slowed and changed down, but that feeling of relief soon changed to horror as he stopped decelerating and swung round the bend much too fast. "You'll never make it at this speed you fool" Alan yelled at him. For a moment it seemed that all would be well, better luck than he deserved I thought, for I was terrified of the bridge without a parapet, but I had thought too fast, for he couldn't straighten out in time. We continued our circle to the right, bumping down off the built up causeway. "My poor Portia" I thought, "Will this do much damage?", but it wasn't over yet. She then turned over on her side and I had my head out through the window, and was trapped by the roof across my chest – my hands were inside, it was impossible to get them out to help myself. Then as the others began to get out the thing started bouncing up and down on me. It didn't hurt, but I was afraid it would soon come down with all its weight onto my poor ribs and I didn't take that very well! I'm afraid people may have thought I was hurt, for I wasn't taking it very quietly, but soon they lifted Portia a little and I was able to wriggle out. We went on to the hut, where Barbara and John made tea and thoroughly congratulated themselves on not having come! One of the girls had a cut near her ear, which was bleeding quite a lot, and Trevor had a cut on his hand, but someone soon came round with a first aid outfit and then we just sat and talked and laughed, all but Bob that is, who rather seemed to sit with his head in his hands, swearing he'd never drive again. It seemed too good to be true, a repentant Bob, how long would it last? Some of us were still sitting there when Derek came out from the bedroom and reminded us that other people wanted to sleep even if we didn't.
It had been a wild night, and there seemed no incentive to get up. Poor Portia left out on such a night in her state of health! Breakfast was got through, and then another trip was made to look at the wreck. An A.A. man came along and quoted a garage in Bethesda where they could help. We came in for a committee meeting. I know I was all in favour of getting help. I said we'd have to have it sooner or later, and the sooner we had it the cheaper in the long run, and eventually some of them went along to the call box and phoned. Meanwhile people in the hut were very pessimistic saying that the garage only had a little crane, and couldn't possibly pull Portia. John was giving lots of advice about bales of straw to put over the stones, otherwise the righting would do far more damage than the overturning – and so on. It was pouring with rain when the little lorry arrived, but that didn't deter the two Welshmen. One gave the orders, and the other carried them out and, according to Bob, I "thoroughly got up the back" of the one doing nothing!, but the things they were doing to my poor Portia. I hadn't realised before, how much I cared! They pulled her this way and that, and then they dropped the front wheel, which was still on the causeway, down, and then they pulled her backwards onto the road, and finally gave Alan a tow in her to get her started (it took more time than usual!). One tyre looked a little sorry for itself. I don't know why the man should be so annoyed when I asked if he had a pump. Perhaps it was because he hadn't and eventually we all congregated inside, away from the rain, where the garage man demanded a cup of tea and a fee of £3.10. I think he was curious to see the inside of Glan Dena and certainly we were interested in some of his tales. This must have been nothing to him. Apparently his biggest effort was to pull out a full size coach, stuck in the bog.
We had lunch and relaxed, and then the boys went out to rail on the side (it was still pouring with rain!) and then we had tea and relaxed before thinking of returning home. I had been so relieved that Barbara and John had left in the morning, having got a lift to Birmingham. We had so many nerve racking hours, I couldn't have expected a non-shareholder to have patience with any of it.
Eventually we were ready, but the back tyre was so flat. Fortunately an R.A.C. man came along and was able to pump it. We wanted to change wheels but our wheel brace broke and the R.A.C. man hadn't one to fit. The only thing to do seemed to be to drive to Capel, hoping that the tyre would hold up. Then came the task of starting Portia. How we pushed – at least the others did. I had no patience with this. I was stiff on one side and I refused to use it, and only used my left hand. The R.A.C. man helped, but it was no good. Would our luck never desert us? At the required moment an R.A.C. van came along and gave us a tow, and so we set off along the A5 – never managing to do more than about 10 m.p.h. until we started the descent, and then, just outside Gwern-y-Gorff Isaf, the tyre collapsed completely, coming away from the rim of the hub – much to the amusement of two people standing there. It was decided that Bob must hitch to Capel and borrow the tools to change the wheel, and, to aid his hitching he carried a petrol tin (we were a little low) and we amused ourselves telling tales about the man who always carried a tin when he hitch-hiked, and from that we began to invent a suitcase made in the shape of a petrol tin! We were amazed when a car stopped behind us to see Bob come out. We hadn't seen him go up the valley – the man and young lad from Capel soon had the wheel changed and then we drove down to the garage, while the tyre was being mended. We had always joked about our spare wheel and said that it wasn't even round. It never occurred to me that we could go home on it, but when I mentioned changing wheels the garage man wouldn't hear of it. He said that however bad that tyre was it couldn't be worse than the one he was mending. He said he'd put a couple of gates on it, but the walls would still be terribly weak.
We asked him if he'd look at the carburettor; at first he said no, but later he reluctantly agreed, but said that Portia must be brought inside the garage which was only about 6 inches wider than the vehicle. Alan eventually managed that, without stalling the engine, the bonnet was lifted up and the man announced that he had never before seen a carburettor like that. He said that the engine went now. If he took it down it might not go at all, so we were better off as we were. Alan never said a word!
The rain was teeming down as we set off; it was about 6 o'clock and the lights were on. I didn't feel that Alan was his usual self at all; there was hardly an inch to spare between us and the left hand hedges! I'd said all along that we'd go to Bettws and decide there whether we could go on home, or go to Llandudno Junction and catch the train. It now seemed to me that however Portia went, we could never stand the strain of driving home and I suggested turning towards the coast. I was secretly furious that I had lost the 5.19 train and would have that all night journey through Birmingham.
However, at Bettws Alan followed the A5 and things began to look up, the rain gradually eased, the lights towards us didn't dazzle quite so much, and we made good time to Shrewsbury for the usual halt.
Bob then drove for an hour or so, to give Alan a rest – what a reformed character he was, if only it would last! And so we were back not so very long after my 5.19 train would have brought me.
Bob was left behind to work on Portia. Derek got a lift with Ernest, John Watson with Phil, John and Barbara decided not to go, and Alan and I went by train, catching the 7.10 to Crewe. From 10.30 p.m. to 2.18 a.m. we drank cups of tea, looked at time-tables and went to the booking hall to ask the times of trains back. I was so used to waiting for the Windermere carriages to be attached that I didn't listen to the speaker, walked up to the front of the train and waited – the engine was detached, as always, but instead of coming back with lovely empty carriages, it came back alone and I began to realise that things had changed. Alan and I quickly piled into an empty guards van – I was glad that John Drury, who was already on the train hadn't taken my advice and moved out onto the platform. I was dozing nicely until about Preston, when we were asked to move out as they were putting the mail in (since when have you run away from the males? was Chunky's remark later on). Later, we got seats in a carriage and listened to a fisherman who saw no point in walking, let alone climbing. "No, of course he never catches anything when he's out fishing", he admitted!
At Windermere it was dark and drizzling; I tried to find some excuse for waiting and catching the bus, but the others seemed determined to catch the early bus from Ambleside – I went as fast as I could. Alan was ahead, and rapidly gaining, and I couldn't get away from John. How does he manage to chat at such a rate, that time of the morning? One or two vehicles went by, but nothing stopped. We must have walked about 3 miles, time was getting on, we'd never do it, when a lorry stopped. I piled in, while John waited for Alan to come back and we all managed to get in, much to the amazement of the driver, I think. I was sitting on the engine with my back to the way I was going, and I found the journey most hair-raising. The window was steaming up inside. It was dark and raining outside. There were many twists and turns to the road and, it seemed to me, that in times of emergency he tugged at a piece of string attached from the steering wheel to the floor – at last I could stand it no longer and asked what the string was for and he explained that the spring on the accelerator had broken and the only way he could release the accelerator was by pulling on the string – I was not exactly re-assured!
We were left at the bus station where we drank tea, while waiting for the bus.
At Raw Head no-one was about. We tried to light the gas and found it needed another Calor Gas cylinder – even rolling this across the floor didn't awaken those upstairs. We cooked our breakfast, washed up and then sat down and read, until the first faces started to appear. Presently it left off raining, so Derek, Alan and I started out towards Pavey Ark. John came as far as Mill Ghyll, but then turned back because we were carrying ropes. The rain soon started again. We were just about soaked by the time we reached Stickle Tarn, and the wind up there was very strong and cold. We walked along by the foot of the climbs, but fortunately no-one suggested "having a look" and then reached Jake's Rake, of which we made a very daring ascent! and, not content with that, at the top Alan started climbing impossible slabs as though he were enjoying the conditions. We tried to find a sheltered place to sit, but were glad to get moving again, even if we had to fight our way against the wind. Alan was making for the summit of Harrison Stickle. I called him back and explained that it wasn't on the way to the old D.G. – I was rather sorry afterwards – we went on towards Pike o'Stickle and got to the top of that, before skirting round Gimmer and joining the usual track down. It was early afternoon, but we got our tea in the bar; I was amused to find that we were the only people who were wet – and so back to Raw Head, calling in at the new hotel for the milk we had ordered.
We cooked early to avoid the crush and a successful meal it was, without Simpson to disorganise us (I think I prepared the sweet and didn't interfere with the main course!). Most people went out for the evening, but some of us went to bed early.
I was surprised to hear activity at 7 a.m. John Drury and Watson wanted to make the most of the day, and they were obviously getting up as they had arranged. I went to sleep again, but soon I heard another restless soul, so I got up at that. When I got down I found that Alan had mistaken the hour and got up an hour before he intended! When I arrived I found the grates cleaned, the tea made, and breakfast nearly ready!
Then we hung about waiting for other people to get ready and for the rain to stop, eventually both these things happened and we set out Bowfell way – we didn't bother with ropes this time and so were amazed when it started to clear up – i.e. a few blue patches in the sky. We made our way up the Band, and started to regret the fact that we weren't climbing – but a few people had brought ropes – so we sorted the party out into those who wanted to climb, and those who didn't. Derek, Alan, Geoff and Keith wanted to climb, and there was even enough rope for me to join them, so we set off along the lovely little path to the old familiar climbs. Alan and Geoff for the Cambridge climb, leaving Derek to take Keith and me up the Buttress. Derek was longing to do this climb again, but was amazed how difficult he found it. I was horrified what a mess I made of the crack. I had my excuse (as always) – my hands had got cold paying out Derek's rope, and I hadn't had the sense to warm them up before starting on it myself. The lull in the weather was over, and how! There were heavy snow showers, the ground eventually becoming white. Derek's worst move was the exposed one high up, but he made it eventually (he was climbing on new, double, full weight nylon!). Keith was climbing so much better than either of us that, for the last, easy pitch I sent him on ahead and, at the top, he met Alan, who had lost Geoff at the top of their climb; however, we all met again at the bottom where we collected our sacs and set off down, where once more the weather improved and we had a glorious run down.
In the hut we found that the Oread section had made a good job of clearing up; we felt so guilty making the floors wet again.
John Goldsworthy was giving the three of us a lift to Carnforth, and suggested that we should leave about a couple of hours to get there, and I was a little worried because we didn't leave quite on time, but I needn't have worried that John would be a slow driver! Alan found the journey a little hair-raising, but we had nearly half an hour to spare and had tea while waiting. We caught the 9.50 from Leeds, but missed the 12.08 bus from Derby and had to wait for the 1.15 train.
Bob, Alan, Keith, Pete, John Clay, Geoff Hill and I set out in Portia this Friday evening. We soon had to slow down – fog – and after Burton it got really bad. Alan would look down at the white line, relying on Bob to keep a lookout on the left and Keith to look straight ahead. It was rather amusing, at one time we were in the front of a procession, and those behind would get impatient, until they overtook and had to lead the way, that slowed them considerably.
In Lichfield it was appalling, also there was no white line, we crawled through until, out the other side, we could just make out a 'car park' sign, and we drove into it to have a rest from the strain (it would have been madness to have parked on the road in those conditions). We went back into the city and had a supper of fish and chips, after a drink, and then back at the car park the fog seemed no better, so we decided to camp out; back in the city I had noticed a lovely smooth piece of turf, ideal for our purpose I thought, but the others thought not. Behind the car park there was a rough field and really it was most convenient, there being public conveniences by the car park. I could do with a few more camp sites with all mod. cons. laid on!
I hadn't brought camping kit, but Portia was well supplied; Alan had a spare sleeping bag and I was very cosy.
We suggested that we should get up at 5.30 and be off by 7 o'clock – thought that would give us time for a hurried breakfast, but no, it only gave us a mug of tea.
It had been an interesting night. the Martians were there, we'd seen their orange light! I could only think they'd brought a cart on a treadmill, for at intervals there'd be this rattling noise, like a cart rumbling along, but it never got any nearer, hence it must have been on a treadmill.
Camp was struck before light, hence the inhabitants of Lichfield didn't get a chance to wonder what we were doing camping in their city. The mist was thinner, and it gradually disappeared completely soon after full daylight, and we wondered how extensive it had been the previous night (Birmingham A.A. had painted a very black picture, when Bob had rung them).
There was some talk of a stop for breakfast in Shrewsbury, but Bob knew of a transport café further on, and eventually we found ourselves at the milk bar at Llangollen ordering breakfast.
Just before we left, Trevor Jones rolled up in his van and we had a chat.
It was a beautiful morning, sunny and with the autumn colours at their best; we definitely miss something, always coming along this stretch of road after dark. At one time the dial read 73, as Alan put his foot down. What a wonderful stretch of road it was from Bettws to the Pen-y-Gwryd. We stopped at the latter, for the keen types were going climbing on Lliwedd – Bob, Geoff and Derek – yes, Bob knew every inch of the cliff and it was a cliff simply made for vibrams! The rest of us thought that, as we usually stay at that end, we'd make the most of our base in Beddgelert and explore new country. At the beginning of the lane to Sygan Fawr, we found the note left by the others, advising us to leave Portia there, so we did so, and walked the half mile – yes the hill would have been a little steep for Portia.
I was shown up to my dormitory, while the others pitched camp, and then soon after 12 o'clock we set out towards Cnicht.
I had wanted to break new ground and get to the Moelwyns, but we were obviously much too late for that, so we compromised with Cnicht which was new to the others. We made more or less straight for it, up hill and down dale, and had our 'lunch break' at the foot of the last rise – it had started to rain and there was mist higher up. We cut short the cigarette smokers – it was too cold to wait until they had finished, and continued up; to our amazement and delight the mist cleared more or less, we were able to look over to the Moelwyns – a shame they were so far away. Further north, we heard some shouts and saw what we took to be the main party, descending – we continued along the top of the ridge to the summit, and then descended to the south, to get the Matterhorn view of the mountain. What a glorious sunset over the sea – and then down at dusk to Bwlch Gwernog, where a cottage advertised lemonade – but they had no pot of tea, so we continued to Pont Aberglaslyn and then Beddgelert, but still no pot of tea, and we didn't want an afternoon tea, so we continued 'home' where I expect a climber's needs to be understood, but no, still no tea. How grateful I was to Alan who invited me to tea in his tent – by this time it had become an obsession with me, in fact the sight of the river Glaslyn in full flood had taken second place to the thought that it was tea time!
As I was staying in, I had a bath and then settled down to read Climbers Club Journals until supper time – and then back to the journals. Quite late, Bob and co. arrived, no, Bob had not found his climb, and Lliwedd is not suitable for vibrams!
This was another fine day, but the sun didn't quite manage to shine and light up the glorious colours. Some people were for Moel Hebog, but I joined the party which wanted to climb on a local crag – on the hillside above Gelert's grave there is "Gravestones Buttress", supposed to be 'vd' if done direct. John Smith the meet leader, and the only one with 'gen' on the climb, was behind, and the others seemed to want to wait for him, but I found a cairn and a line of scratches leading up from it and started soloing up, but no-one tied onto the other end of my rope, so, after about 200 ft of easy to mod. rock, I waited for Bob and Keith and tied onto the end of theirs. Bob seemed allergic to the scratched way and climbed one rather desperate slab, with the flake holds peeling off under our tricounis – and so up to the crux – back on the proper climb – which were quite pleasant and reasonably exposed. Bob had the honour of leading the whole party up this part, for both of the other leaders were glad of a rope down. We ate at the top and then set off to the top of the little summit above us, and so quickly down to Sygan Fawr, where a magnificent stew was cooked, and then tents were struck and some of us reached Portia before the rain became really heavy.
Eventually we were all installed, with the lateness of the hour and the inclement weather, we decided against the return through Bala, and went up the Nant Gwynant, and on to Capel, where we left Joy, who wasn't returning to Wolverhampton until the next morning.
All went well until we reached Corwen, where Alan stopped to see how the radiator was – Bob jumped out, but he wasn't interested in the radiator. "I'll just clean up the points while we're here, he said, and proceeded to do so. When we tried to go on, we could only crawl along. It was as though we were only going on 4 cylinders. "This is no good" said Bob, "I'll have to get it right before we go on" and he got out again and re-cleaned the points. If we had only been going on four cylinders, now we were only going on three, so again Bob got out and cleaned the points. After this, the engine would hardly shift Portia! A council of war was held. Even Bob agreed that we should have to go to a garage, and the question was would there be one open in Corwen? Bob went back to investigate and his circulating torch in the distance was the sign for Alan to turn round and crawl back to the town where a little filling station was open.
The man was more interested in selling petrol than looking at our points, so all but Bob went off to a café and drank cups of tea until it shut at 8 o'clock, when we rather apprehensively returned to the garage. I gathered that Bob had his fingers crossed. New points had been put in, but they weren't sure whether that would cure the trouble. "When's the next train?" I said. "There is no train on Sundays" was the reply. "Is there any transport to the coast" was my next query, which received a negative reply – and still the thing didn't go, but after they had tightened up a few loose contacts, we got a spark from each plug and the things went. I was amazed at the change; the 12/6 included 9/- worth of spare parts. We had some trouble collecting John and Pete. Apparently they had wandered off to the church, told their tale of woe to the curate, who had found the key to the village hall which he was offering them for the night.
There were hardly any more incidents. We by-passed Shrewsbury, and stopped for a drink at the Mermaid and then reached Burton (within a taxi-ride of home, as Keith put it) before a contact came adrift, but Bob soon fixed that.
Our passengers seemed very happy towards the end, were singing and I had trouble quietening them so that we could discuss our best way through Nottingham. I think I was dropped at about 1 o'clock.
Bob had said he'd give me a ring at 6 o'clock to say whether Alan was arriving home at 5.30 or at 9.30. I never had really believed in this Welsh weekend, if Alan got back in time. Surely the trains would be hours late, with lots of Scotland cut off by snow?; surely his parents would discourage him from setting off for Wales? At about 6.30, Alan rang up to say that he'd collect me at about 7.30. We went on to Lenton and picked up Derek, and so towards Wales, Alan assuring us that he'd had no experience in driving on icy roads! We remembered that the Mermaid had been open until after 10 o'clock on Sundays and Christmas Eve, so we pushed on to there, only to find it closed. That suited me for we went into Shrewsbury for a cup of tea. The trouble was that the café seemed full of people turned out from the local! We continued to Glan Dena, 5 hours for the journey didn't seem long, considering the state of the roads! The Crag and Cave had a meet at the hut, and had only just arrived – just long enough to get the tea on.
I didn't take a great deal of trouble in making my bed, but regretted it later, for it was a bitterly cold night.
I think most people were glad to get up. Breakfast was soon over and then they set about thawing the pipes and mending a leak. Derek was most amused when Bob elbowed him out of the way for this work, and the other three of us sat in the roof watching the men at work.
At about 10.30, excuses for hanging around got more difficult to find, and eventually we found ourselves setting out in the cold, cold snow. Derek had never seen Cwm Idwal, so we thought we had better wander out that way. The wind changed suddenly from east to west, and the snow lower down became rain, but, of course, we kept in the snow. It was amazing how the angle of the slabs steepened. When they were snow covered, they looked most formidable. Bob used an ice axe to climb the bottom 7 ft of 'Charity' and then slid down. The whole process was repeated once!
We continued on towards the Devil's Kitchen, Derek and I going a little way up the rift. I thought Derek did rather well considering that he was in vibrams and had no axe, for the stones were inches deep in clear ice.
Next we continued up the path, "I've bumped my head", I said. "Hallo Eileen", shouted a dim figure coming down the track – it was Joe Brown, looking for South Gully – I suppose he and Neil were getting into training for bigger things! We continued on up and up; we didn't really know when we were on top of the plateau, or when we were continuing up to Glyder Fawr. On one sheet of clear ice, I was amused to watch my three be-vibrammed companions. There was a little snow on top, but the chief condition was deep verglas on every stone, and even in nails every foot needed to be placed with care – no happy boulder-hopping this day. We missed the actual summit, but continued along the ridge to Glyder Fach, sometimes seeing the track under the thin snow, and ascending Castell-y-Gwynt by mistake. After Glyder Fach, Bob was for descending by the side of Bristly Ridge, and I was for the Miners Track. The trouble was we saw three tops of Bristly Ridge and didn't find the following of the Miners Track as easy as we'd expected; however, we eventually reached the head of Cwm Tryfan, and dropped down the side and cut straight down to Glan Dena, soon getting below the mist, and then below the snow level, although there were patches of ice all the way down. What a day for photography it would have been, with a little sunshine.
I think we were back before 4 o'clock, and once more the Crag and Cave had the kettle on, so we had tea before changing. We had finished our evening meal soon after 6 o'clock. It was nearly a mixed grill, pork chops, spam, fried onions and chips, after our asparagus soup, and then fruit salad – bananas, apricots and apples, with tinned cream, which I had doubled in volume in my attempts to whip it, but had failed to thicken it.
We were left with a long evening. "Let's go to the pictures in Bangor", said someone. It must have been Bob, for they got their way, although the rest of us were luke warm. "The Purple Plain" was on at the main cinema. Derek had seen it, so he went on his own to see a different one, while the three of us saw this one of the war in Burma. There were one or two shorts before it, including a passable one on winter sports. I found the main film gripping, but it showed me what an impression my day of treading delicately on iced rocks had had on me. I couldn't bear to see them walking carelessly over rock in the film, didn't they realise it was iced? I even expected a hand to slip off it and moonlight only made the ground look as though it was snow covered!
Back at Glan Dena, we had poached eggs on toast, and found that the water was running again – the thaw must have set in, certainly we had a much warmer night.
There was no sign of the others at 9 o'clock, so I awakened them and breakfast was soon over. We could have had a few more hours in bed, for the snow was falling steadily, it was obvious that we wouldn't go out, for we'd have to make an early start back.
We chatted, then decided it was time for morning coffee. Fortunately Pete joined us for that, for he was able to provide us with the coffee, milk and sugar! The morning in was Bob's chance to get his stew going (he'd been talked out of it the night before) and at about 12 o'clock (much too soon after the coffee), we had stew and boiled potatoes, to be followed by fruit salad again, and soon after 1 o'clock we were ready to start home. The Birmingham bus had returned from Capel and said that three lorries had nearly got stuck there and said that conditions were pretty grim across the Denbighshire moors where the snow was drifting. We therefore decided on the coast road home, the snow gradually thinned until it turned to rain, near the coast, but further east the snow line crept down the hillsides until we were in it again. Oh, for some sunshine! The trees were completely laden, and some of the woods would have made beautiful photographs. The roads were icy all the rest of the way back; we went through Nantwich on to Stowe, where it was nearly 5 o'clock and we had promised ourselves afternoon tea. There was one café place which said "always open", but that can't have applied to this Sunday, so we went on to the middle of Stowe where we asked. We were directed to "The Crown" – I think it was. Naturally Bob was all against it, and I felt myself being over-ruled by the majority, but fortunately Alan put his foot down and said that he wanted tea, so we went in. The outside had pleased me, with its big bay window, and the inside pleased me more so. We sat near the big fireplace and tea was brought to us on a low table as we sat in the easy chairs. The others were most reluctant to leave the place (I was sitting in the front of the car, a much warmer place than the others had!), but eventually set out and were in Nottingham, soon after 8 o'clock.
We didn't have a single skid – of course, one takes "Drifts" for granted when travelling with Alan!
Arthur gave a lift to Betty, Bryn and me – we had the usual stops at the Mermaid and at Llangollen, and arrived at Ynys Ettws in the small hours, when Betty and I walked down to Cwm Glas where Phil was organising the party on bunks or lilos and trying to cope with the influx of C.C. people, at first Geoff, Frances and Gillian, and later Dave Thomas, Tony Moulam and a couple of girls – that party had to sleep in the outhouse.
I was up at about 8 o'clock, but the bodies on the floor didn't take the hint and get out of my way! I needn't have worried, for it was some time before a party was ready to set out upwards. I eventually joined up with Bob and Geoff, Diane and Keith and we followed John and Barbara's steps up to the North Ridge onto Crib Goch, catching them up before the ridge, and we pressed on; we were now above the snowline (the road was clear) and the snow was falling heavily, and a strong wind on the ridge promised to make things interesting. I started up the ridge and pressed on, making the steps until it steepened and I wasn't sure what was beneath the soft snow, and tried to traverse round, when Bob got ahead and continued up to the top. John and Barbara, being without axes, turned back, but there was no ice on the ridge and I put mine through my sac to leave my hands free.
At the summit, to Bob's disgust, we roped up; Diane and I thought we should and the others were indifferent. I measured the intervals of cord and left far too little between Diane and myself, but there was no difficulty along Crib Goch. The wind seemed to have dropped, and next it stopped snowing, but we were in thick mist, making contact with the lower slopes by the cry of "mothballs" which we could heat occasionally. And so on, over Crib-y-Ddysgl down to the col before Snowdon, and then there was an occasional patch of blue sky drifting across. No, this couldn't be happening again. I'd had a view so often recently, but it happened, at first a little sunshine and then cloud again, but then longer patches of view, and from the top Broken Spectres again. We waited for some time and got very cold – a poor race of mountaineers we are these days, not being able to find a way into the hotel! We saw Pat and Alf safely onto the summit and then descended towards Lliwedd, over the top and down to the Pen-y-Pass for tea. What a lovely afternoon tea, after the rest of my party had gone, Arthur and Ernest arrived, and I sat on with them to pass the time, and eventually went down to the Pen-y-Gwryd for dinner – I thought it was 7.30 so I was a little late for 7 o'clock. I found that all the extra people from Cwm Glas were there and not a great many more – Ted Wrangham, Roger, Hamish etc., but not a great many. Afterwards we sat in the bar with some of the Polaris. "Where are all these famous climbers you've been having dinner with" was Ernest's greeting; apparently Phil had been telling him about the A.C.G. At about 10 o'clock, we adjourned to the dining room, where Roger showed his slides. They were splendid; he complained that George Band hadn't returned a number of them, but he gave a very lucid account of the Rakaposhi trip. He had drawings done by Dave Fisher's mother to illustrate the routes on the mountain – of course, I hadn't heard all the incidents, so I was amazed to see the place where 60 ft of cornice and Ted and a porter disappeared! The first part I may remember even when I forget the details of the climbing, and that was their trip there by dormobile, through Switzerland in May time and then through the Middle East – a photo of the street called Straight in Damascus and so on through lands of great topographical and historical interest.
It was well worth walking down to Cwm Glas afterwards, to have seen the slides.
Again I was up at 8 o'clock, and again it was a long time before a party was ready. I had been watching the weather, the sky was clear at first, but soon heavy clouds in the south started rapidly covering the sky, so I made up my mind that it would snow before long and I suggested Lockwoods, and the suggestion was taken up with alacrity by Bob!
We got into various cars; Ernest took his down to the Power Station, but Arthur left his at the Pen-y-Pass and we walked down. Phil went to Capel for petrol, and by the time he came back the clouds had gone, so they did the Horseshoe. I thought that at least Ernest's party would be out of the way on the climb, but not a bit of it. They weren't attempting to climb when we got to the foot of it; I didn't want to wait until about seven people had tried it, so I roped up and started up. Sooner than I expected, I began to find it exposed and brought up Bob, who I found had tied on next, and then the move went O.K. – didn't seem exposed at all. I waited while Bob brought up Keith and then Bob and I waited on the Terrace while Keith brought up the next, Bryn, on his first rock climb, but there was a long wait. We didn't know what was happening, but eventually Bryn found a way round and there were complicated manoeuvres, getting the rope the right side of trees etc., and everyone else followed up this way, to avoid further untying. Next, Ernest got ahead, with John Gadd and Geoff Hill. Bob decided that he and I would do a variant, an outside route, instead of going through the window. Keith was left with Bryn and Arthur. Next we waited, while the other rope did the tree pitch and finally we had a very long wait at the foot of the chimney – it just wasn't Ernest's type of pitch. Quite early on I heard him say 'damn' and higher up, when all difficulties should have been over, I heard him refer to his 'b___ sling'. John seemed no happier on it. I felt so sorry for Geoff having to wait for those two before simply walking up himself. Bob found a traverse up and was able to prevent Ernest chimneying the whole way up the crack instead of walking through. The climb had taken far longer than we'd expected, but eventually everyone was up, and we ran down to the Power Station, and Ernest gave Arthur a lift up, so that he could come down to the junction of the new and old road, the point to where Bob, Keith and I had walked. A quick meal in Cwm Glas and we were ready for the return, arriving in Nottingham about 11 o'clock .
The Pinnacle Club dinner had come round once more; Pat was prevented from coming at the last moment by her mother's illness, so I caught the 7.10 on my own. It wasn't the best of journeys, for I arrived at Chester after 11.30 to find the refreshment room closed! At the Junction I started to enquire about the second train, when I was told about a fire in the waiting room, and I thought it would save a lot of trouble if I went there. I got out my bag and stretched out along a seat, and would have had a good night's sleep, if the officials hadn't been so keen that I shouldn't oversleep. It seemed to me that they came round every ten minutes – to ask me what train I wanted, to say that the Llandudno train was waiting, to say that it was time to get up for the first Ffestiniog train, and then for the second – I got up and into this last, only to have the guard ask me my destination and promise to wake me! Bettws waiting room was more comfortable than usual, there was a roaring fire. Fortunately I had put my sack outside, so the bus conductor told me the bus was waiting, or I should have missed it, through relying on it being as late as usual!
I had had first breakfast at Bettws station (an apple), so I was quite prepared to start my Alpine day, with the walk along to the Pen-y-Gwryd, but I soon found myself dallying, by the Capel lakes, thinking what an ideal foreground they'd make for photographs. There seemed no sign of the sun, so I walked on, and was able to find a peninsula when the tips of the horseshoe first turned pink. And so I meandered on to Pen-y-Gwryd, photographing and dreaming – as the peaks turned from pink to yellow. I got just the same awful hopes and fears, feelings I get in the alps at this moment. Surely I was being too ambitious in thinking that I could tread those snow ridges, they were too far away, besides being too steep and difficult.
At the Pen-y-Gwryd, I decided to have breakfast, even if I hadn't a bed, but I found I was staying there. Some familiar faces soon appeared, Nea and Katherine Chorley, Eileen Pyatt, Fred Piggott and his wife. Rarely can a Pen-y-Gwryd breakfast have been appreciated so, I went on and on with the toast and marmalade, and with the tea, but eventually even I could eat no more. Next I could think of the next stage of my alpine climb, and was rather disappointed that most people wanted to save that until the next day; however, Jean Brazier, my room-mate, was as keen as I was for the Horseshoe and so we set out up the road to the Pen-y-Pass. This was the second time Jean had done this walk, for she had been out before breakfast – it was two years since she'd done any real mountaineering, but now her fifteen month old twins were old enough to leave. Quite a number of parties were starting along the Pen-y-Gwryd track; we passed a couple of lads just before the col who warned us that there was waist deep snow on the top – two of their friends had been there yesterday! We pressed on up and found excellent conditions on Crib – there was snow on the rocks, but not as much as a fortnight previously and when the rocks were clear they were almost warm in the sunshine. We were soon up. I didn't know how much Jean had done, but she was almost annoyed at my queries, whether she was happy unroped. I got a few photos of the ridge, with Snowdon in the background, an occasional cloud settled on the top of Y Wyddfa, but not for long, and then I took many photos looking towards the sea to the south, the happy sunlit sea, with the odd cloud shadow or so, chasing across it. It was rather a coincidence that where it had cleared last time, we were in the cloud this. We got no view from Snowdon, but it was a very pleasant summit – or was it only due to the delicious hot coffee which Jean produced from the thermos in her pack.
Soon we were below the cloud, I cut an odd step or so for an occasional patch of snow would be icy – O.K. for nails but not for Jean's vibrams – I'm not saying they were good steps, but it is so rarely I can claim to have cut any at all! Then down to the col and the last pull up to Lliwedd, for another halt, and then to turn reluctantly down. We were much earlier than last time, how we'd have loved to have seen the sun set, for it was warm when we were sheltered from the icy wind, but there wouldn't have been time.
At the car park, some of the young lads we'd been following round were getting into a bus. I looked at it curiously, for at the hotel I had seen 'Stoats' written in the snow and I wondered whether the bus was from Birmingham and could give me a lift. It was Jean who first saw the address "Beeston", so I was soon talking to them, "You mean that you've come all the way from Nottingham, yet let me come by train" – they didn't seem to mind being spoken to like this and agreed that they had some spare seats and could give me a lift back and said they'd call for me at the Pen-y-Gwryd at 3 o'clock.
We had a pleasant pot of tea in the bar, talking to Eileen, Kay, Maud and Kathleen Chorley, and then a bath in the exciting bathroom with all the gadgets, before putting on a dress for dinner. Down again, I met Jean Griffiths, who had arrived in the afternoon and didn't know that I wasn't staying in the hut with her.
I felt I was demoted a table from last year; we were at the bottom one and once more I had my back to the top table. Annice Flew proposed the Guests and Kindred Clubs and Dave Thomas replied, dressed in a suit he seemed quite subdued and normal. Next, Fred Pigott proposed the Club and President, and Nea replied, making by far the best speech of the evening, but perhaps it wasn't quite up to last year's standard.
Then we adjourned to the billiards room where Dennis Kemp was to show his Corsican slides – there weren't nearly enough chairs set out (we had collected many extras for this part of the evening) and the lantern was arranged so that there wasn't room to get in any more chairs, but eventually we started. Dennis tried to be amusing and made up a tale of an early ascent of Snowdon, reading part of Albert Smith's "Story of Mont Blanc" and showing slides of Chamonix! I wasn't at all impressed by his Corsican ones.
I think I was the first to bed that night!
Rae and I sat at a table with Dennis and Jack Longland. Where Jack heard that I was having transport trouble (I was afraid that with the new snow in the night, the bus might leave earlier and, as they didn't know my name, they couldn't let me know) he said that he could take me back to Derby, if necessary, but it didn't fit in as he was leaving in the morning to go skiing on the Berwyns.
I was soon packed and ready, but had to wait about a couple of hours until the people were up from the hut. We decided on Moel Siabod as a short day and made for the West Ridge and continued up and up. It was still misty. There was one wonderful moment when the top of Crib came out above the mist, but while I was waiting for it to clear, it came down again and I got no photo. The party soon separated, the two Jeans and I, ahead, and Kathleen, the Piggotts and Mrs. Baumont (L.S.C.C.) behind. Eventually we came to a highest point. There was a little cairn and the ground dropped away in all directions, so we sat and ate our lunch, and then at half past one it cleared, and we saw that the ground rose again for the summit quite 10 minutes away – 1.30 had been my latest time for turning back, so Jean G. and I left the other Jean to go on alone, while we cut straight down the hillside, just missing the others, still on their way up. It was glorious powder snow, would have been ideal for skiing if it had had a smooth surface beneath.
We were back to the hotel before 3 o'clock. I had time to change and then we ordered a pot of tea, but before it came, the bus arrived (I didn't really expect it so soon, thought it would be sure to be hours late). Jean also came on it as far as Bettws to save herself the walk to Llanberis.
The Beeston Y.H.A. town group were a young crowd, and I expect only a few of them knew anything about mountaineering; they obviously didn't come as far as this very often, but they were a jolly crowd, and kind, they kept coming back and offering me various sorts of food they were passing around. We had an hour's wait at Shrewsbury – half an hour while 20 of us fed at the snack bar and the other half hour while two of them had a proper meal! There was another stop for beer later on, and then at Beeston we had to catch a bus the rest of the way, but I was indoors soon after 10 o'clock, a great improvement on the time I'd have got back by train.
Bob and I caught the 8 o'clock' to Grantham. We were surprised to see a pair of skis outside the refreshment room, but even more surprised to see Betty Bird within! She was on her way to the Cairngorms with some of the Barnsley M.C. and we travelled with them from York to Edinburgh. It was rather an unkind time of day to make us change, but eventually we were settled in the 4.30 and all too soon we were having to get out at Glasgow. Alan arrived at the same time, and soon our skis were strapped onto his roof rack and we were speeding through the night. There was a suggestion of breakfast at Wardlow Road, but Alan found that he had forgotten his keys, but we were having it in Glencoe soon after 9 o'clock.
Ridiculous to go all that way for two days was a commonsense viewpoint. "If I can only get a few hours of sunshine to see the hills under snow, and to get some photos, it will have been worth the £5 fare and the sleepless nights – well I had all that just for the drive to Glencoe; there were three stops for photos. Alan said there was more snow on the hills, but less on the road than on previous weekends. There was no ice where his J.M.C.S. driver pranged his new Morris Oxford!
Eventually we were approaching Rannoch Moor and Alan pointed to a pure white mountain ahead and said that it was on the north side of that, that we skied – what more could we want!
The scene was of Alpine brilliance as we unlocked Black Rock, and Bob soon had the breakfast on.
Next came the long carry, skis on shoulder, up behind the hut, onto the plateau, and then up to the little bump, Craig Dubh, 2449. There was a bitterly cold wind, but some good powder snow – it wasn't until I tried to come down that I realised how patchy it was. Alan put on his hired skis on the summit and soon learned how to get up from a sitting position! We came slowly down to Corrie Pollach, Bob and Alan trying stem turns on any suitable snow; Bob and I probably giving Alan different advice.
I've always wanted to give some instruction on a nursery slope, but it seemed to me that Alan would have to get more used to his skis before he could try an uphill christy, so I hadn't much advice to give.
Alan kept telling us that the Pukka skiers went to the top of Meall a Bhuirich, but Bob didn't want to go – so I didn't bother go on my own, partly because I don't enjoy solitary skiing and partly because it looked so steep and difficult (looking at it face on I doubted my ability to walk up it, let alone ski down it). Eventually Bob prevailed upon us to return and watch the sunset from Glen Etive. We began to carry our skis down the way we'd come up. This wasn't as easy as it sounds. There were patches of clear ice and Alan's hired boots had plain leather soles. I took a different line from the others and met some ski-club types on their way up, complete with slalom flags. The man asked me why I was carrying my skis down, why not leave them up there for the next day? The snow not good? - but there's excellent snow at the top etc. When I told Alan, he was all for taking our skis back to the plateau and Bob was outvoted. We tried to note carefully the position of the skis in case it would start to snow!
After afternoon tea in the hut, Alan drove us down Glen Etive. We stopped at the wire box bridge and played. The box was padlocked up. The river was pretty well frozen over, and we got a few photos, before going further down to an excellent spot. Behind us there was an ice fall, and where we were standing there were holes in the ice down to the running water nearly 2 ft below. On the top of the white ice, was a glazing of clear ice which jutted out at the edge of the hole. On the bank nearby was a tree, and in the background was a mountain – behind the mountain was a cloud, and then, behind the cloud was the sun, what more could a photographer want! After this, we continued even further down the glen, to the trees below Dalness, from where we photographed the last of the sun on Bidian, and on the end of the Buchaille Ridge. It was a lovely evening, but not nearly as sensational, apparently, as those Alan was used to. We returned for Bob's stew at the hut, where we found Scotty and four pupils had arrived. We went to bed while they went to Kingshouse, meeting Gwen Moffat, apparently.
Bob was up at 7 o'clock as he had threatened, but I stayed in bed until half past, when I received a cup of tea. We were away in good time, but it was too bad that, after Bob's noble effort, he didn't get his way – a Gully on the Buchaille, for both Alan and I insisted on skiing. We went up, picked up our skis and continued up to the top of the mountain.
Eventually we got the view, across Loch Tulla – it wasn't clear, but no less lovely for that. Also on the top I was fascinated by the "clogs" in the snow. I could imagine the day when the snow started to fall – no wind so that it lay deep, even on the summit – and then men came and walked in the snow, leaving great holes, but also, unknowingly, compressing the snow beneath their feet, so that when the wind came and blew away all the powder snow, only this compressed snow was left, and there it still was, weeks later!
After several photos, I put on my skis – what a dream this top slope was, perfect for stem christies both in texture and angle. Lower down it steepened and was much beflagged. I left that alone. It was too steep for me, and I concentrated on the top slope. At times I meant to give advice to Alan, but once I'd start down I couldn't bear to stop. I soon forgot all the resolutions I'd made the previous day!
We were up soon after 10 o'clock, but eventually others arrived, and I talked to one in a green anorak – obviously a mountaineer, for the Scottish Ski Club were "them" to him. "They wanted to hold their race on Ben Lawers, but they had no snow there, so they're coming here". It seemed incredible that about 10 Norwegians should have come over for the race.
Once at the bottom I found that the others were going down, but I decided I could have a few more runs. Alan had divided out the food in my absence. He said he felt a little like a Tensing, giving an offering to the Gods, as he put my share down in the snow!
I didn't enjoy the rest of the run down; I was only glad I was alone, and hoped that the others weren't watching me.
At the plateau I found Bob, who had lost Alan; we waited a little while and then decided to go down in case Alan had got in front. Bob went straight down, I followed the ski tracks to the east, and then cut back. It was rather tedious. I hadn't the courage to do anything but straight running and sitzmaks in the heather with its thin sprinkling of snow, but I achieved my ambition to reach the hut still on skis.
Talk about a bank holiday playground, the cars stretched all the way to the main road!
Tea, a quick meal (scrambled egg) and we were away, petrol at Bridge or Orely, and so to Bearsden for supper. I think Alan did splendidly – in no time he was in with mushroom soup, followed by spaghetti, sausage and egg, and masses of tea.
Alan rang up the station about our train and was told that it left at 9.25, then at the station, they kept telling us that it was a pity we lost the 9.05, as it went straight through to Nottingham, without the change at Carlisle.
We weren't stretched out, so the change wasn't such a hardship and we were able to get more tea, before joining the 9.53 from Edinburgh.
This wasn't at all like its mid-week self. Bob and I had to get into different compartments even to get seats, and there was no question of stretching out. The buses were running when we reached Nottingham and I was indoors soon after 6 o'clock.
It was my meet, and with my record of weather for my Lake District meets, I thought I had better get a roof over our heads and booked the Karabiner Club hut. For a change the weather was perfect and all the thanks I got was to be told that the club would rather have camped!
Pat and I met Arthur outside the 'Robin Hood' at 6.30, put the luggage on and set out on the Bawtry road. Punctually at 8.30 we met Derek at the Brotherton Fox, but then we just sat for half an hour, wasting time. We had another halt at Otley, but ate our fish and chips standing up in the shop and were soon on again, non-stop to Coniston. I knew the instructions and said "Turn up by the Black Bull", but on the map this road seemed to have gaps in it, so I directed Arthur up by the Sun – he wasn't too happy at the sight of the road by the gate, but he drove on, although we got out as the road steepened, then we came to the locked gate. Arthur refused to leave his car where it was, but insisted on backing it down, with Derek to guide him. As soon as the others came back to the gate, I set off up, and was surprised to hear voices from the other side of the stream. Eventually, I met Geoff and John Watson, who said that Ernest's car wouldn't make it, and that Bob and Ernest seemed settling down for the night, waiting for me! The light was on in the hut, and soon Alan was down, making tea with the two kettles of practically boiling water he'd heated previously. A very good effort on his part, I thought.
We were up in good time and ready to set off; I used to think of the Cirque at Coppermines as being not very pretty, but after seeing it in the moonlight the previous evening, I was seeing it with different eyes, and thought what a wonderful situation the Karabiners had for their hut.
Arthur wanted to know which way we were going, so that we could follow, so, to say something definite. I said that we'd go over the top of Old Man. We waited and waited on the top, but he didn't appear, so we went on to the crags, where we found Arthur, who had arrived already by by-passing 'Old Man'. There was no snow on the buttresses, and the sight of the easy scramble up 'C' was too much for some of them, who roped up at the foot of it, but I like to fall back on that in really bad weather, so I went on to the foot of Great Gully; there seemed a fair amount of snow in it, and I wanted to make use of the snow while it was there.
I found that Arthur, Pat and Alf were also for it, and that John W., Geoff and Keith had followed me. I wanted to do the direct start, and John wanted to lead, but soon thought better of it, so it was my turn. I got up the first part (no more than John had done), but decided that I ought to have a runner on before getting over the second chockstone. I had left my own sling in my sac, so I called down first to Keith and then Geoff passed me up one, for one wouldn't go all the way round. I didn't only use the slings as runners! First one hand and then both pulled on them – I don't know whether the snow was covering some handholds.
By this time, Arthur had retreated from the ordinary start, which gave me a clear run. John didn't like the pitch much more on a rope, but he had an all-out attempt, so much so that I had to lower him off.
Ernest had appeared, Geoff and Keith had gone off to follow Alan and Pat up Giants' Crawl, so I couldn't help but ask Ernest to tie on, and suggested that he tied on in the middle while John rested. Ernest got up the ordinary start with difficulty, we pulled up the packs and then John came up and lead through. This was quite a cunning move on my part for that gave me the next pitch of interest; it involved a little chimneying and then it was necessary to cut a few handholds, and remove the ice from the rock holds – after doing this I came down to rest and warm my hands, but the suggestion of a shoulder spurred me on, and with warm hands the pitch presented no problems. I went on up to a rock belay, but left Ernest on the lip (once he was over it), while I hauled up sacs and hung them on my axe in the snow.
John had the next pitch of interest. He was soon down to leave his sac, but had no more trouble, and then had to go up about 100 ft to find a rock belay. At first Ernest tried to carry both sacs, but was soon down to drop them and then he announced that John would have to pull him - John up 100 ft on nylon! He came off, but the stretch in the nylon deposited him in the snow at the bottom and next time he was up.
Then there was much walking snow, until I belayed below the final pitch. I looked around for the icicle, the essential hold when Joe Brown had taken me up, but the pitch was quite clear of ice. It looked distinctly hard, and I wasn't sorry it had fallen to John. It was just his type of pitch too. On a rope I found it most enjoyable, to balance up with a tricouni on the minutest hold, until my weight was above my hands on the mantelshelf.
Bob and Derek were following us. Derek seemed pleased to be following up that pitch. We continued over the summit, picked Pat and Alan up and then traversed along towards Swirl Howe, and then up to Wetherlam. Fortunately Bob waited for Ernest at Prison Band, and they went straight down; otherwise the whole party would have been benighted on the way up Wetherlam. The light was failing rapidly as we started down, but I got practically to the chimney before it went completely and had a track back to Irish Row, where Bob had the stew well under way, so I busied myself with a fruit salad.
Later that evening we walked down to the Black Bull for a sociable hour or so.
Another perfect day. What had come over the weather?
This time we contoured round Old Man and made our way to Goatswater, where Derek amused himself building a cairn way out on the ice. We had left the hut at about 9 o'clock, plenty of time for a good day's climbing, but then I began to have my doubts, was afraid that all the time would be frittered away playing (it was a perfect morning for it). Eventually we gathered at the foot of "A Buttress" and Derek and I roped up for "Gordon and Craig". I was interested to be doing the climb again, for the third time. It went very easily in nails (Derek was leading). The traverse was grand; Derek hesitated before making the final move of the climb. When I came to follow, I found that he had climbed the place where I had come off 15 years previously, so I retreated to the left and found that move very easy. We descended to the south. We still had time in hand, so I directed Derek up Easter Gully to see the historic amphitheatre. The rocks in there were quite dry, I'm sure Hopkinson's Crack would have gone – and then he went up Blizzard Chimney, he was still in rubbers, and this wasn't quite dry, but he removed the snow and continued up and unroped before the quick descent of Easy Terrace.
At the bottom we collected a large party and slowly made our way up Old Man, for the quick run down to the hut and tea – for those who were lucky, but I oughtn't to grumble at the lack of it, for Bob was getting a good meal ready. We were ready at about the scheduled time of 5 o'clock, but Keith and Geoff hadn't got back, so we hung about, got the packs on the car and then Arthur drove down to the village for petrol. At about 5.45 they arrived, had had no guidebook and had lost the way on Woodhouses, ending up on a 'vs'. Pat and I hurried down to the village and we set off, having a good run back, dropping Derek at Leeds and Pat at Calverton.
The 8 o'clock train give me nice time to have my tea, repack and make some sandwiches, but at about 7.30 I could stand the strain no longer and went to the station, far too early, only to find Michael already there, being seen off by Mr. and Mrs. Daley. We were soon in the train and I was hearing about Michael's previous night's journey from Cornwall. I was very pleased that Michael had managed to catch this train, for otherwise we wouldn't have reached Glasgow until about 8 a.m.
Michael and I spent our time at Grantham walking up and down the platform, first of all up to the front of the platform, and then, remembering the sleepers in the front, we went back again, and then forward as we realised that there would be no sleepers on the duplicate train which we hoped to catch.
We were three in the carriage to Edinburgh and then changed to another platform, (although I had told Michael that we stayed where we were). As soon as we got over the bridge, we were sent back again to the usual platform. We had arrived at Edinburgh in good time, but had to wait for the Glasgow carriages to be attached to the Fort William train, which was half an hour late.
Alan was still waiting at Glasgow and had things very well organised. He ran us quickly home to Bearsden. He had had his grapefruit, and while we were having ours, he brought in the bacon and eggs. We were soon away, along the usual Loch Lomond road, then trying to chase the train across Rannoch Moor. I was most grateful to Michael. He seemed at his brightest and best after his second night's train journey, and I sat at the back, almost dozing at times.
At Tyndrum, we were surprised to find Ernest with his bonnet up. He informed us that the engine had seized up! His passengers were Bob and Keith, so Alan offered to take Keith. We were rather squashed with his luggage as well; it blocked my view, and I became more and more drowsy and took less interest in things. Alan seemed determined to catch up the two cars ahead, so there was no stopping in Fort William. On we went, up the Great Glen, then cut off to the left. A new road had been made, but it still contoured round in and out, and seemed hair-raising at the speed Alan was taking it. We left the trees behind and the country became really desolate, with the tops in mist. There was very little snow. Then, the last lap, by Clunie Inn and down Glen Shiel. We went down past the campsite and found no sign of the other cars; we learned later that we had passed them in Fort William. John Cotteril was already in residence. He hadn't pitched on the exact spot Alan had chosen, but we thought it better to join him. Alan, Keith and I all pitched tents; I was camping with the Daleys, and my tent was to be used for stores. After a second breakfast Michael went to sleep and the other cars arrived, Alf with John W. and Derek, and Arthur with Evelyn, Pat and Paul. Eventually Ernest arrived, the engine had unseized, with the turning of the back wheel, apparently.
A walk was discussed. Much to Alan's annoyance the majority favoured the falls of Glomach; it was the only walk Alan had done on his previous visit, but he agreed to give in to the majority.
We drove to the nearest point and then continued up the river, then over the Bealach na Sroine from where we descended, getting below the mist and seeing into the next level, desolated valley – no sign of the falls. I was very puzzled, we seemed walking miles and miles for the pace was too fast for me. Gradually it dawned on me that that innocent looking river meandering along the level, disappeared down the falls. I have seldom been so impressed by a natural phenomenon. I think it was the 4 mile cross country walk which really took it out of the "pay 6d to see the Fairy Glen" category. Alan was quite impressed. There was so much more water than last time, and he found it a pleasanter spot with company.
We walked a little way down (I have seldom felt so 'exposed' on a path). John C. tapped at the rock and pronounced it metamorphic grit and eventually we returned to the cars and camp.
Each morning was of the same pattern, we'd get up in good time, find the weather promising and put our clothes, wet from the day before, to dry, before getting ready for the walk.
I was in the Saddle party and, remembering the pace the day before, I set out in advance along the road, only to find that no-one was in a hurry this day. It was an interesting walk, firstly the sun almost shone, and then there were two deer near the road. I got out my camera and they started to walk away, but a little boy from a caravan told me that they'd come back if I called them, and he proceeded to call them for me.
I waited for the others and we set off slowly up the stalkers' path to the top of the ridge and then along the ridge to the foot of the East Ridge of the Saddle, and so up the ridge. The rock wasn't in the least exciting in its snowless condition, but iced it would have given good sport. Much too high, in the mist and cold, we stopped for lunch, and then on to the top, where there seemed a fair amount of snow. All the fun of a rocky ridge was over, but we walked on to Spidean Dhomhuill, and the next two or three tops, but then the party's enthusiasm for the ridge seemed to go, and, in the pouring rain, falling by this time, we descended to the Allt a'Choir Uaine and followed it to Shiel Bridge and so back to camp for dry clothes and tea.
We invited ourselves in to Arthur's tent with Pat, for tea, and were reluctant to leave when Evelyn and Paul arrived back from the Five Sisters, equally wet.
Later many people crowded into the Daley's tent – "The children's tent", as John called it.
This seemed a brighter day. The trees were littered with sleeping bags. A fire was lit for the clothes we had to wear, but by about mid-day we set out by car for a point about a mile beyond the site of Battle. Strange to relate I quite enjoyed the slog up to the col to the east of the Spaniard's Peak. I gave myself an hour to make it, and it took that time, almost to the minute. Michael was my companion and we sat on the sheltered side and looked across at Ben Attow. We waited and waited, the others didn't arrive, so we began to look around. Fortunately we were able to see the last one ascending higher up to the Spaniard's Peak, so we set off in that direction. We passed the first peak, and then set off for the first Sister, as we thought, and at the cairn stopped for lunch. We had been in the mist ever since leaving the first col. Next we descended and then made our way up the next peak where we found a very large cairn. Michael was able to assure me that this was the first sister, not the second as I hoped. He'd been well gen'd up by Alf. We continued up and down, up and down, sometimes being uncertain about the route, sometimes following the steps in the soft snow.
We started down from the third sister (I think it was) when Alan's sixth sense told him he was on the ridge down to the valley, so we made a traverse to the right and found a more likely looking ridge. At times we seemed at the top of quite good cliffs leading down to the left, and walking along the top was made all the more exciting by the stiff and gusty wind.
Eventually we were up the fourth sister and taking careful compass bearings so as not to miss the more indefinite fifth, when Bob and Michael found that they had a lot in common, they both thought it pointless to continued what they were enjoying so little, and decided to shorten the walk by cutting down over the blip above the camp, and so straight down to the pub. The rest of us were determined to finish the walk, having come so far. The fifth sister was much more indefinite than her predecessors; we seemed to go over little hummocks until we reached the summit cairn.
A short rest and then we set off down, soon getting below the mist and into the sunshine, the sun shining over Loch Duich to us. "My camera" was my first thought, but there was no question of my stopping to get it out, it was far too cold, for the wind had by no means slackened. Down and down, each taking his own line, and so to Kintail Lodge, where we determined to be bona fide travellers and get a drink. The bar was closed, but that didn't stop Alan, who too us round to the front and in that way.
We asked for tea, but it was too late, and we had to have something cold. I was cold enough already, and didn't really enjoy it.
Alan was in a strong position to ask for a lift up the valley to fetch his car, as he was the one who had driven Alf back the evening before, then getting stuck himself without petrol. Evelyn with John C and Paul had had a lazy day, and was very keen to seize on details, such as the cutting of the fifth sister by certain members of the party! We had such a laugh when we found that, finding the bar closed, they had walked away from the pub without a drink.
There had been some talk of an Alpine start, to get in a peak before having to leave for home, but the weather gave us every excuse for forgetting about that. It was a wild night. How thankful I was that I was in a mountain tent, and not in my own. I looked out once or twice to see how the river was getting on, but I missed the sight of it round Ernest's tent and it was right down again by morning.
I think some people were nearly ready to start before we started to breakfast. I found my tent had made an excellent store tent, the wet clothes left in a heap on the ground had almost dried, so much wind had blown through the tent. Everyone went out to either the Saddle or Ban Atton, except Alan and I who had to leave, and Pat who had given herself an off day.
We spent a lazy morning packing, and then had lunch in Pat's tent before leaving at about 1.30. How I longed for views on the journey back, but it wasn't to be. The cloud level was below the tops, as we sped along to Clunie Inn and then over to Loch Loyne. I had glimpses of the peaks to the south of Clunie Forest and could quite understand Alan's enthusiasm for them, especially as he had seen them snow covered in perfect weather.
Then down to Glen Garry, but we thought there was time for a detour, and turned westwards by Loch Quoich. This was rather grim with all the hydroelectric work, the low cloud level and, at times, the very rough road, but we continued, hoping to get away from civilisation. Even the road above Bunchalie was in the same state; they were putting huge pipes up over the watershed, but then we were away from it, in a moment I could visualise the western Highlands as they should be, all the works were forgotten.
We had been following a car for some time, and at the top of the pass it stopped and the occupant came back for a chat. He really wanted to inspect Alan's car, to make sure that it was capable of ascending again from Loch Hourn! We chatted about the water, and I asked whether they could get stores in by sea; it wasn't until I saw a small scale map of Scotland that I realised quite how silly my question had been, but I enjoyed the short chat and then we descended the rough road, through the most enchanting country, with little lochans, and a few lovely trees, until we came to the end of the road. We walked a little way along the track, but there wasn't' time to walk round the headland, and then we were on our way back.
I was interested to see the Great Glen, as I had seen so little on the outward journey and we stopped for a quick meal at Fort William, and made up for lost time on the road. We must have waited quite an hour for the ferry at Ballachulish and that was what put our timing out, for with all Alan's skill at the wheel, we were obviously cutting it pretty fine.
Alan asked me which station the 9.25 left from on a weekday. I didn't know! Alan guessed the wrong station, and by the time we got to the right one I had lost it! We had a cup of tea, and then Alan left me to wait for the 10.50 (or so). As soon as he had gone, they announced an extra, the 10.15 to London, stopping at Carlisle and Crewe only.
"Why was I born under such a lucky star?" was my reaction, for I'll catch the connection at Carlisle after all; I joined the queue and Douglas Milner walked up with me. His sleeper didn't leave until midnight and he gave me some camping tips.
Again in the train, my luck was in. All the vacant seats were booked, but I stood in a 1st class carriage marked down for the use of third class passengers and, when the booked seats weren't taken I appropriated one, but that was the end of my luck. The train crawled along, there was no question of the Carlisle connection, and at Crewe it missed the 5.07 and I had to catch the 6.45, getting in at 10 o'clock, but I was changed and at work by 11 o'clock.
That well timed train, the 8 o'clock to Grantham again, tea while awaiting the connection, and a fruit pie. Then the train and a compartment to ourselves, a sunny evening and very green country by the side of the railway. Then the man came along announcing the last sitting for dinner. I am used to ignoring them, but not Bob and I needed no persuading, for didn't this come into the category of a holiday, so I was soon sitting in the restaurant car going somewhere interesting – my favourite occupation.
Eventually back to our compartment, which we had to ourselves most of the time. All too soon we were at Edinburgh at 2.30, far too soon. I had told Alan 3.30; quite early enough for him, I had thought. I appeared at about 3.15, rather annoyed that he hadn't been first, and soon we were in Ruo, speeding through the night with Bob at the wheel.
What a morning, perfect, but I remembered the last time I had arrived at Lochnagar on a perfect morning. The country couldn't have been better, and it seemed like parkland we were travelling through all the time. I was surprised at the extent of the fruit farming in Perthshire, but the highlight was the glorious wall of beech trees – impossibly tall and straight. How right I had been, saying I'd like to come to Scotland in the long fine days we have in May.
Then Alan took over the wheel, as the roads became more difficult (but not slower to Alan!). At one time a young deer ran across the road, it was too small to leap the fence, but it jumped through it, judging it perfectly. Then we approached the hills. They looked rather ghostly, why was that? – soon we knew – it was snowing. Oh, my lovely, long, fine days in May! There was ice on Devil's Elbow, but that was nothing to Alan, and after the pass, I'm afraid I slept through Braemar, waking up near Balmoral, for the exciting ride up to Glen Muick, reaching the Spittal at about 7 o'clock.
The next hour was spent trying to get a cup of tea from Bob's petrol primus – eventually a primus had to be got out to boil the water.
Soon after 8 o'clock we set out towards the wood. I wasn't as impressed as last time, and then up the hillside, thicker and thicker into the falling snow. I didn't carry my share of communal gear and still I couldn't keep up, and we halted occasionally. Then the col and the descent to the loch. I took a line of my own and soon regretted it. It was quite unjustifiable to go unroped on ground where I repeatedly disappeared up to my waist in holes in the snow! – but they weren't real crevasses, only holes between the large boulders. Eventually we all reached the loch, and finally agreed on a campsite, tried to remove the snow and got the tent pitched.
We spent a lazy afternoon waiting for it to stop snowing and Bob and I might not have stirred far, but Alan's conscience pricked and he suggested a trip up to the top. I was so glad, and we set off, finding it difficult going in the 12-18 inches of fresh snow. Gradually we gained height in Black Spout, and were rewarded by the view to the north, much of it blue, but Mt. Keen (I think) white) and there were even patches of sunshine. The snow wasn't quite as deep as last time I was this way, for I was able to kick steps. When we came to the dividing of the ways, we again chose the left hand exit, knowing it to be the steepest, and hoping it would provide more fun. We were not disappointed for we soon came to old snow which required steps cutting. For once I was ahead, and had to use the steps I cut (normally I cut a few, but prefer to move up in those cut by the other person). There were several hundred feet before we got onto easier ground. Unfortunately the cornice gave no trouble, much as we should have liked a battle, to tell Bob about. How well we were reward by the summit view – we rather ran round in circles, trying to get the best views for photos, in the patches of sunshine, the half circle to the south was a lovely mixture of snow mountains and stormy clouds.
Eventually we started eastwards, along the top of the crags, on our way down, pausing once or twice to look down gullies. We were terribly impressed by the Douglas Gibson Gully, with its vertical walls plastered with new snow, and, looking across it to Eagle Ridge. I believe both Alan and I lost all wish to climb it this trip, although that had been the sole purpose of coming to Lochnagar.
After the crags, we looked down a gully, but the snow was very hard, so we retreated and continued down the ridge and back to camp, where Sherpa Simpson nearly had the meal ready – curry and rice, and all the thanks he got from me was to be told that the rice wasn't done and there wasn't much wrong with it.
It was much milder. We'd heard rock avalanches in the night and it was obvious that the snow was falling from the crags. The gullies were out, because of the cornices on top. Eagle Ridge was out because of the difficulty under those conditions, so we agreed on the Tough Brown Traverse, as being easy and perhaps possible in these conditions.
We were soon at the foot of it and I believe I said a silly thing. I said that it was obviously the sort of place where belays would be few, so I'd rather not rope until we got to a real difficulty. I soon regretted it, there was a foot of loose snow on top of an indefinite quantity of moss, on belay-less rock, and I was rather terrified moving up on the steps Bob kicked in the moss through the snow. We went up a hundred or two feet, and then saw what was in front of us, the crossing of the parallel gullies, down which was falling a steady stream of snow, and could we be certain it was only snow? The crossing of this section would have been anything but easy, for there was clear ice about, and no belays, so I was all for retreat, and the others agreed – we had definitely picked the wrong climb for the conditions. We roped for the descent, thank heavens. We had a rock belay at the top, and half way down we put in a peg, and removed it again.
I became fascinated by this pegging business and once we were down, I kept trying to drive one in a crack, but either I hadn't the touch, or else the cracks I chose weren't suitable. It started to rain, so we had the bright idea of going back to camp and keeping dry. And so we started our 17 hours continuously in our sacks.
It was a pleasant, but not brilliant morning; after a leisurely breakfast, we emerged and photographed the tent, with most of the snow gone, and then packed, and started up the ridge, Red Spout way. We left our packs on the Main Ridge, and then walked to the summit, having ptarmigan to amuse us. We were in a very leisurely mood, and it was obvious we wouldn't have time to see the Dubh Loch, but we cut down to the Glas Shiel – what a shame the sun wasn't out for photos of the waterfall. Loch Muick looked quite impressive and what a magnificent situation for the shooting lodge. Alan and I were on the well kept grass by the loch, when Bob came over and said that in the house were pictures of mum and dad on the wall, 'mum and dad' proving to be Queen Victoria and Prince Albert!
By the front door were two stones, one said that it was built by Queen Victoria in 1869 and the other that it was bought by King George VI in 1950.
It was a lovely walk along by the loch, with the few trees just at their best, and then we cut across to the Spittal of Glen Muick. As always I was behind, so I missed the sight of Bob going up to his armpits in bog!
We were away before 5 o'clock, drove to Balleter for petrol – and a more reckless piece of driving I have never seen, was Bob's description of the ride down the glen, and the ride along the faster road to Braemar was equally hair-raising.
We were soon served with ham and egg in Braemar (it was obviously the off season) and then Alan continued his mad dash back. Cars seemed reluctant to let Alan pass. Possibly they knew that they were going as fast as was justified on the twisty, turny roads, or else they thought that Bob's 'L' plates applied to Alan, and that he didn't know what he was doing.
Going down the Devil's Elbow was far more sensational than going up, and I could well believe it was 1 in 4. I was glad to be seeing the country again, for I was in a better state to appreciate it, and it was quite a nice evening. When we reached the better roads, Bob took the wheel again and we kept up the same average speed – it took us 4 hours of driving to reach Edinburgh and were in good time for the 9.53.
It was the 9.53 I knew for mid-week travel. I had a side to myself again, and we reached Nottingham about 5.30.
Evelyn called about 6.30 and we were soon off and made good time to Rotherham where Evelyn was to leave her car, and we were to transfer to Eddie's. We were rather pleased with ourselves for being ahead of Ed's schedule; we didn't realise at the time that Ed didn't want to start early, that he was determined to make an all night journey of it! At bout 8.30 we started and made for Doncaster and the A1. Nearing the Leeds ring road, Phil's car overtook us and both cars stopped at the "Boot and Shoe". Here we were astonished to see Arthur step out, apparently as Phil only had one passenger, and Arthur only two (Pat and John). They decided at the last minute to amalgamate. We went in convoy to Otley for chips, and we continued to follow Phil for some time, but eventually he shot ahead, and then we had the first signs of rebellion from our driver. He wanted to stop and brew up! We were able to delay the stop until after Settle, and then we came to an all night café and had our tea there instead. After about half an hour, we were on our way again and I think I dozed a little until after we had crossed the A6, when I got hold of the map and kept myself awake directing Eddie. It was as we avoided Millom that Ed again got the urge to brew up, but this time we persuaded him that as we were so near Wasdale, he might as well wait until he got there. I was looking anxiously at my watch, as it began to get lighter on this perfect morning, for I had had a pact with John to get up at 7 o'clock and I had thought that even coming with Eddie I should get at least two hours stretched out in my sleeping bag, although I was hoping for a good deal more.
Eventually we were at Wasdale, looking for the campsite (no-one had brought their instructions). We saw Alan's car, but it wasn't where I expected it and, while Eddie started to walk back to investigate, I got into my bag; however, Eddie was soon back, and driving us to the campsite, and at 5 o'clock exactly, I once more crawled into my bag, this time to have my night's sleep, all two hours of it.
Someone had made tea and offered me some, my favourite drink, but I was scarcely civil. It was sleep I wanted.
Punctually at 7 o'clock I woke up and, in waking my 'gang', seemed to wake most of the camp; I wasn't popular.
We didn't hurry over breakfast, but got away in fair time and started up Brown Tongue to Hollow Stones. The morning was a little cloudy by this time, in fact there were a few spots of rain and, afraid this might be the last of the fine weather, I was all for doing 'my lead' at once. Afraid of being left without a climbing companion, I had written to John suggesting that my great ambition for the Saturday was to lead Moss Ghyll Grooves and, that over, I'd gladly second him up anything he chose. Now the time had come, I was a little doubtful. It was last September since I had even seconded up anything more than a 'vd' and a year last November since I had struck any real form. Added to that, I hadn't had a great deal of rest the night before, but I had deliberately put it down in black and white to John, so that little considerations like this shouldn't make me back out and we were soon at the foot of Moss Ghyll and roping up. We avoided the first two pitches of the Ghyll, by the easy ledges on the right, and then started the Groove.
I remember last time I had to force myself on the start, but this time it went a little easier, possibly because it was drier. I put on a runner up the top of 40 ft and then tried to do the next 15 ft. Unfortunately the rope wasn't running freely through the runner on an inserted chockstone, and I had great difficulty in pulling it through before I could move up. I was climbing on doubled three-quarter weight, and I could only pull one of the ropes through, as John came up the first pitch. He then made an excursion round to the Oval.
Next was the crux, looking even more uncompromising than I remembered it, not a scratch, not a hold on first inspection, and I began to realise that it wasn't only the streak of wet which had made it difficult last time. Up the corner, which needed working out, and then for the traverse – a foot on the used rugosity – I could even get my weight on it, with my right hand on the good hold on the other wall, but the very thought of letting go with this hand made my foot tremble, and I quickly retreated. I hope John didn't notice the foot, was my thought. What a hope!
"I must rest" I said, but even the corner didn't give me much of that and soon I was back trying the 'footholds' again. It was amazing how, as I used them more I got used to thinking of these mere roughnesses on the wall as footholds, and eventually I was able to let go with my right hand, and stand there quite safely, and then even reach across for the left handhold I remembered. Handhold! – it was another thing rather like the footholds. It wasn't at all like the 'Thank God' hold I remembered, and I was soon back to the safety of the right handhold. "The move's alright once you've taken the plunge and launched yourself" and eventually, feeling John's horror, although he didn't say a word, I got my left hand over again, my left foot on the roughness of the wall, and I was across, and resting before starting up the rest of the pitch. At the top I again wanted to reiterate Wilf's remarks of the other time. "There are ledges that wide" I said, indicating 9 inches, but the rest of the climb was sheer enjoyment, without an anxious moment and no more than 'vd' in technique (I didn't put in any 'artificial' pitches at the top, I must admit).
We continued up and down Broadstand, and so to the foot of Botterils. We both ascended the first 50 ft pitch, and then John tackled the crux; I had thought it would be his type of pitch, but possibly he didn't want to put his second, through what I had just put mine, and he decided to retreat, although he had a runner just below him.
We descended and decided on a Jones' route and Jones from Deep Ghyll was the easiest and we made towards that.
On the way we stopped to watch Bob, Alan and Pat on the awkward step of Moss Ghyll Grooves. Somehow I didn't feel they appreciated my repeated advice, "It's alright once you let go and make the move". Someone else pointed out a rugosity for the left foot, higher up than I had put mine and it was after that that Bob made it. Then on to Jones'. Moderate scrambling it seemed to me, until we came to the arête – the book said that the left hand side was probably easier, but John had no trouble on the right hand side, and I tried that. I found it desperate. There were only sloping ledges for the hands; the arête was absolutely vertical, and my camera and meter were pushing me even further out of balance. What a comfort to have the rope above me. Soon we were on the arête on the Pinnacle, and I had the idea of going down Slingsby's – I shouted across to the other party to know whether we were on the route, for, looking down the exposure was far more than moderate. In rubbers we made the route 'go' and were down to Steep Ghyll, where John suggested a climb up it. "Low Man by the right wall of Steep Ghyll" was of a suitable standard and John was soon starting up it. I quite enjoyed it. i rather had the feeling that we were pioneering, for I'm sure it's not done very often, and I felt it necessary to test every hold. It was a little indefinite, but not too artificial.
After this we decided to call it a day, descended from the Pinnacle, strolled across to the summit of Scafell, for it was a lovely evening by this time, and so down Broad Stand, once more, and so to our boots and then a run down to join Bob and co. All the time we had kept seeing a party of three, possibly it was because they looked hard at me, that I began to think I ought to know them; I wondered whether the big one was the fellow I always see at Raw Head, but eventually one of the others spoke to me. I was so glad he introduced himself; he was John Wilkinson, whom I thought to be still in Canada.
And so back to camp for supper and a stroll to the local in the evening, and a gossip to Don Whillam, who, it seemed to me, was rather at a loose end, and was rather mechanically working through the "vs".
A perfect day. Once more I annoyed Arthur by announcing 7 o'clock, but it was Bob who got up first and brought round tea in bed. Tents were only used for storage purposes this holiday. We lived completely in the open air.
I had suggested 'New West' to Evelyn and she jumped at it. Our date with it was really left over from the previous year! It was hot, even at 9 o'clock or so, as we slowly made our way up Mosedale, crossed the stream and rested half way up the steep part. We saw those behind stop, but Ernest came steadily on, and had his rest with us, and then we all went on together to the crest of the ridge, and then round the High Level route. Ernest started in front, but neither Evelyn nor I could stand it behind such clumsiness and we soon went on, to have another rest by Robinson's cairn. Once more Ernest came on with us, but no further than the corner, for he wasn't interested in our proposed climb, and he wanted to make sure of joining up with the others (he had to set out in front of them for fear of being left behind on the slog). Evelyn and I roped up and started up the 'scramble' – finding it quite a climb. Eventually we were on easy ground, and Evelyn was putting on her rubbers for New West, and then I was starting up it, giving Evelyn a nerve racking time, I should imagine, with my loose tricounis rattling all the way up. We ran several pitches together most of the time; I think I found pitch 6, the groove, the most difficult, although my nails made most noise in pitch 8, the chimney. Evelyn had no trouble at all on the climb. She said that Black Hawk Traverse on Stanage had helped her with the traverse, and soon we were resting on the tope, wondering who would appear first.
Before we set out, I had wondered whether we would have 'warmed up' on 'New West' for 'Rib and Slab', but I got the impression that Evelyn felt she had finished her day's work.
One of the first to appear was the 'outward bound' instructor, who told us that he couldn't bear to watch Ernest on the first pitch of 'Rib and Slab' – Ernest had subsequently got cramp on the first stance, and had had to retreat. Alan and Pat came up it, Pat apparently having to lead what, for Alan was the crux.
Bob and John finished up 'Rib and Slab'. They had got away from Ernest, apparently by starting up New West.
Bob thought the summit a good place to picnic, and someone went down for some food, and a pleasant hour or so was spent, but eventually consciences pricked, and we thought we ought to do another climb. Evelyn wasn't keen, so that left me with the "Southwest" party and we rappelled into Jordan Gap. I was the first down and changing into rubbers, and remembering that this was one of the climbs I had wanted to lead. When we all gathered at the foot, we had some difficulty sorting out parties, for 4 people wanted to lead, and only Pat declared herself willing to second.
Before anything was decided, I scrambled up the first pitch, staking my claim as a leader and it was Alan who tied onto my rope and kindly agreed to second me. I'm afraid I let him down. I recognised the slab in front as the place where Bernard had used his knees, in the recess, and I had thought how silly, when it was possible simply to walk up such an easy slab. I managed to get up to the recess, and a couple of feet above it, but then my courage failed me, or should I say common sense prevailed, and I argued with myself that if I found this difficult, however was I going to manage further up, when I had found it interesting before, so I retreated while the going was good. Alan also retreated, so it was lucky we had John to lead us all up, Alan and Pat and me, then finally Bob.
This time, following up, I found the second pitch the crux, although once more the fifth pitch needed care. Bob's opinion was that the climb was too hard to enjoy even on a rope – and he led it the Easter before last!
I descended Slab and Notch to get my sack up from the foot of Southwest. The other side of Pisgah I met Ernest who had failed to find Ledge and Groove, so I gave him a talking to, for spoiling Geoff and Keith's day, but not taking them up New West. I put down a rope, went down for the sac, and came up again before the rest had left the top of Pillar, then half way down they realised they were a rope short, and I said I hadn't got it, so Bob went back on top. Much later I remembered the one I had put down before talking to Ernest – I had to be very nice to Bob after that!
We ended the day properly over Pillar Mountain. At the top the party divided, some going to the east and Bob and me down to Windy Gap. Later we were joined by Alan, who had gone in the wrong direction by mistake, and so down the screes to Mosedale, joining up with the other party. I went straight back to camp for tea quenches my thirst better than beer.
Once more the 7 o'clock reveille, but this time I felt I was talking to myself. Everyone seemed loath to get up (we'd had quite a long day on the Sunday) and it was well after 9 o'clock before we got away. Alan, Ernest and I were in the van. Ernest was determined not to miss the 'tigers' this time, and Keith and Geoff were determined to miss Ernest – they went back to Pillar to do New West.
The usual crowd collected at Hollow Stones and tried to decide on a climb. I wondered whether John would have retained his yesterday's form, but he didn't say so. Then someone suggested Esk Buttress. I immediately realised what a good idea it was, something different, and something interesting and reasonably difficult, the only snag was that, as I had to leave that evening, there wouldn't be time for me to climb there, but I didn't want to keep all the others back, and they obviously all wanted to climb together, so I suggested that if one of them did a short climb with me on Scafell, he'd still have time to go down to the foot of Esk Buttress and tie onto the end of the rope the others would have left hanging from their last man! Alan immediately volunteered to climb with me, and we set off up for Woodheads which was Alan's suggestion.
We spent a little while getting up Deep Ghyll – I began to suspect our form! – but the start of the climb was quite obvious, and I was sent up the first pitch. What a mess I made of it. Alan told me afterwards that my foot was trembling, but I didn't realise it at the time. I only knew that it was smooth rock, without incut holds, only sideways pull. Southwest the day before certainly had spoilt us. I tried to go up, and realised that I was cutting off my retreat, so looked down and saw a traverse to the left, to a corner and runner, and then back to the right to the end of the pitch.
It was a little satisfaction to find that Alan didn't exactly run up it, but he had the excuse of vibrams and a sac. I was glad to think it was Alan's turn on the next pitch, for it looked steep, but Alan didn't like it, so I had a try. I put my foot onto the high ledge and pulled myself up on it (whatever Young may say about not making one step when it is possible to make two). Fortunately the difficulty gradually diminished after this and I reached the second belay with no nasty moments. I was so amused when Alan came up and he said he hadn't been able to use my high foothold!
Next I started on the traverse, but at the sight of the overhang I brought Alan round to be belayed as near as possible. I was in rather a panic, and Alan couldn't understand why, for he could see the excellent holds ahead, but I panic at the mere thought of an overhang, and was frantically taking off my camera, and emptying my pockets before trying it. Of course, with such excellent holds it proved of no trouble and I went on up to the top of High Man.
I expected Alan to be impatient to be off and down and join the other party, but he was as keen to sit as I was, and some time later we lazily made our way down and down Broad Stand to Micheldore. Here we met the Outward Bound instructor, and heard that our party had been known as "the gang".
Eventually Alan set off down to the top of the crag, hoping to watch the others climb up, while I started down to my boots.
I was soon seeing people I knew on Scafell, first Ron and K. descending Keswick Brothers, and then Stan and Pete on C.B. I had a lot to say to them; I organised a lift for Joy with Stan etc. Then I started talking to strangers, telling them that the C.B. party had walked over from Buttermere – how disappointed I was to learn later that they'd come round by car!
Then down and back to camp, much too early, but I made tea and chatted with Barbara, and later to Mrs. King as she came past. It was after 6 o'clock before Mike Turner's party were ready, but I didn't mind, I was so grateful for a lift back. I had expected to have to go back by train, but the rail strike gave me the excuse to ask for a lift, and Mike was very helpful, said he didn't mind if his passengers didn't – of course they didn't so there I was in the back of the van.
We went over the moors, Alpha way. I remembered going that way with Ron Naylor and his remark at the bottom. "The notice meant what it said, I should have changed into bottom". For some time there had been talk of a drink, but I was astonished when I found that the drink was to be tea. Mike stopped at a pub – I thought it looked too self conscious with its smart black and white work, and told Mike they'd be too busy serving dinners, but how glad I was to be wrong, a pot of tea for 8 and 8 cakes cost 4/-.
Mike was as bad as Alan for getting past cars somehow. Sometimes by keeping on their tail and worrying them, and at other times, such as the hill into Settle, by making use of his greater speed downhill. Despite all this it was 2 o'clock before I got in, but so much better than by rail.
Alan was waiting at Cranmer Street to collect my projector and we had tea and then Alan ran me to the rendezvous with Arthur in Sherwood Street. Stan Coates was already there, and the newcomer, Jim Flemington, soon appeared and fitted into the party very well. We had the usual run and the usual stops. No-one else was at the crypt, but just as we were leaving the Webster family arrived, and then at the chip shop at Llangollen, they were still as lively as could be.
I had hoped we'd be camping in the usual spot, but Arthur told me that John had fixed it by Llyn Idwal. I remembered the last (and first) time I had taken my tent in that direction, but hoped for more of the Whit weather. At about 1 o'clock we started up and found John and Barbara already installed. Most people put up tents, but I just got in my bag on a flat piece of ground and had a good night.
Unlike Whit, when I had ambitions, I saw no reason to get up early, and it was well after 8 o'clock before I stirred. I put up my tent (with the entrance away from the llyn) and then cooked my solitary breakfast.
My greatest ambition in Nant Ffrancon is Pinnacle Wall, but I decided to wait until Sunday before mentioning it. Arthur started saying to me "Shall we do this, or shall we do that", so I toned down my ambitions considerably.
We all made our way along to the Slabs, meeting Geoff where we joined the path. He told me that Ernest was camping at Gwern-y-Gorff, and told me their experiences the night before. They changed a wheel, went into Newcastle to have it repaired – they tried to find it and realised that it was lost! The garage man drove off to recover it, but was unable to find it, so Ernest bought a new tyre and inner tube, and tyre levers and drove away.
He went back to the place where they had changed it, in case the garage man had misunderstood where it was, but no, it wasn't there. Then, just as they were driving away, they had another burst, but apparently Ernest was most impressed with Bob's changing of the tyres.
Their only other excitement was at midnight when the decided they hadn't enough petrol, but Ernest knows his way about the garages of Llangollen and was able to knock one up.
At the Slabs, Geoff went off with his friend John; Stan went with John and Barbara, and I suggested Tennis Shoe to Arthur, Alf and Jim – I consider it the only enjoyable one on the Lower Slabs – and I started up the first pitch (the crux I consider), leaving the others to sort themselves out. In the end I found only Arthur on my rope. Alf and Jim were on the Slabs proper.
I tried to do the second pitch properly, but soon thought better of it, and retreated, and went round to the right. I could hardly believe that last time I had reached the top hold – I could quite understand John Drury saying he couldn't make it. Arthur came up properly. The top pitch went O.K. – the handhold materialised at the crucial point. Next we thought we ought to try something on Holly Tree Wall, and Lazarus as the easiest seemed appropriate, and went O.K. Arthur seemed to think we should retreat to our sacs and lunch by this time (it was the middle of the afternoon, but I was keen to do a fresh climb and looked up 'Piton Route'. The trouble was that the book recommended the direct start of Holly Tree Wall, so I hardly tried the proper start of Piton. Then I felt the holds for the direct start of Holly Tree Wall and, although I enjoyed it last time I did it, I couldn't bring myself to make the effort. This day somehow this climbing business was something done out of habit, and not something done out of exhilaration – which is the only real mood in which to tackle it, I think.
The next thing to try was the ordinary start to Holly Tree Wall, and this went so easily that I missed the first belay, and went up to the holly tree. Fortunately Bob arrived at this point, having led Ernest and Keith up Tennis Shoe, and he went up and belayed at the tope of the first pitch and took in Arthur's rope (it was at too much of an angle to give moral support from my stance).
I thought for a change I'd go up the crack behind the holly tree, for isn't that my type of a pitch? I soon retreated for a rest, and when Bob reached that stance, I tried using his shoulder (to his great astonishment), but I still couldn't do it, so I had to take the outside route. Arthur found this the crux, not this move, but a little traverse lower down which no-one else had noticed.
Then we retreated to the sacs, and so back to the tents before the worst of the rain. Unfortunately I had Bob, Ernest, Keith and Joy in mine and the walls were touched and they had no opportunity to dry out. Joy had walked over the tops with a girl who had given her a lift from the Y.H.A. at Capel.
After my visitors had gone, I had supper, and then started visiting, had quite a long chat in John Goldsworthy's tent. This was a joint meet with the Wayfarers, and there was a better turn out than usual. After about a couple of hours I looked out and found that Evelyn had pitched her tent, so I next went in there and then we both came out to visit Eddie's tent, with most of the Polaris. Jim gave me quite a shock, we had already found that we both knew John Wilkinson, and then I found that he knew Denis Moore, who I knew by name only. Jim was able to tell me that I had probably seen him on Tower Ridge that Easter – I've never before felt such a notorious character – I thought I was as much a stranger to Jim as he was to me, and then I discovered he knew all about me!
Eventually we decided to turn in for the night, although I was very pessimistic. In fact I had packed everything, even taken my primus to pieces. I decided to keep Evelyn company and undid my sleeping bag and took that and my groundsheet into her tent, and we kept quiet (I won't say slept) for an hour or so. I sat up suddenly when I felt something cold on my back and the torch showed that the water was flowing over my groundsheet. I hoped that we'd be able to stick it out a little longer, but discovered that Evelyn's groundsheet was worse, so Evelyn evacuated to Ed's tent and I went into my own, the ground was a little drier, but the tent itself leaked (it hadn't had time to dry out). It was withstanding the wind, to my intense surprise. I wasn't sleeping. The wind made too much noise, and at intervals I'd put on my torch to see how wet my bag was. Finally there was a last gust of wind – the "storm before the calm" and I gathered a tent was down, and wrongly concluded it was John and Barbara, and stayed put myself, too late to help. I found it was the Websters, but I was about the only one not helping. I saw Linda being carried to Ed's tent, "Now you're coming into my tent" he said, and Alf and Pat salvaged what they could.
The storm abated, but I still couldn't sleep, for the whispers coming from Ed's tent, so I eventually made my way there – rather selfish I am afraid, for they were crowded enough without me and the ground was flooded. It was only on the lilo that it was dry.
Eddie spent the rest of the night, making tea or porridge for all the inmates; it was very pleasant, but eventually I went back to my own tent, for a bit more room, and then at about 5 o'clock I got out my primus and cooked my breakfast, so that I should be all ready for the evacuation which I knew would be coming. I carried most of my own stuff down to the cars, and then returned and brought down some of the Websters. Pat amazed me so. She was walking in extreme discomfort, as Alf had taken down her socks; the family only had the clothes they had on dry, and they had had practically no sleep for two nights, yet she seemed perfectly exhilarated. I enjoyed my three trips down to the car. It was quite a gentle morning, if still wet, and the hills looked at their most mysterious, through the rain, with a little mist higher up. I realised that it would be a good day for a walk, but knew that the drivers couldn't spend the day in Wales and then drive back afterwards, so I reconciled myself to spending the day getting home. I walked along to Gwern-y-Gorff. I had some message to give Bob and then, still in my wet clothes, went on (in the car) to Capel to the hostel to offer Joy a lift back in Eddie's car. It was fine by this time and Joy had no intention of returning so soon, so I changed into my dry clothes and joined Ed and Evelyn.
We were the same three as at Easter, and once more we had the greatest trouble in persuading Eddie that, as Evelyn put it, the romance of picnicking had worn a little thin. At Corwen we had coffee (black for the drivers), but the milk bar was cold, so we went on to Llangollen for our second cup.
The two cars kept in convoy, Ed in front and, as it was rather a slow procession, we went the Whitchurch, Audlem route. I assumed then that there was no café after Whitchurch, but how glad I was to be wrong, and we were able to get ham and egg beyond Stone. Eddie stopped suddenly just round a corner and I went back to Arthur who said, "I'm not round the bend" – I congratulated him on not letting the previous night get him down.
Later Evelyn had a nap and then she drove the last lap from Derby, where I got my head down and arrived back at 5.30, in nice time to unpack my soaking tent etc.
I caught the 7.10 – far too many holiday makers aboard; I had a cup of tea at Crewe, in case we should be late at Chester, but there was plenty of time for more tea there.
I managed to wake up and get out at 1.30 at Bangor, ate the last of my cherries and settled myself in the ladies waiting room. I had a very happy night, no porters to disturb me and try to get me onto a train. The only snag was the trains which would come rushing through at intervals. At 6 o'clock I woke up and looked at my watch and told myself to have another half hour's sleep, but I didn't want to sleep again and at 6.15 I collected my things together and strolled out of the station.
At the road junction I was looking at a bus timetable when a Llanberis bus came along and stopped for me. I was in Llanberis by about 7 o'clock and was told the next bus to Nant Peris was at 9.30, so I started to walk, telling myself that it would tire me too much to do it with a pack before climbing on Cloggy – for what else to climb on such a day.
Before very long a lorry came along and gave me a lift to Blaen Nant and I had my tent up and tea made before the others woke up.
I was so surprised to see Joy and she told me of the infuriating motor cyclist who would keep flashing his lights at James' car – she thought that we were in Langdale, for it was only a last minute decision to come to Wales.
We didn't hurry, but eventually set out for Cloggy, the others insisting that we walked over, instead of doing it the easy way from Llanberis. I was dreading this slog, but somehow, despite the heat, it went so easily. Over the ridge, the others waited for me and then we popped down to the crag, without bothering to call at Mrs. Williams.
The Crag and Cave, Trevor Jones, Stan and Bryan, also Pete and John, who had come up the usual way, all stopped at the foot of Curving Crack – I told Bob that we might as well try something else first and we went along to Sunset Crack - our conversation went something like this:
Bob: "Do you want to lead?"
Eileen (looking up at the 150 ft of verticality): "Not particularly".
Bob: "All right, I'll start, but you may have to take over higher up".
Eileen (confidentially): Yes, before I came I was longing to lead it, but things are so different now".
Bob: "Well you might as well start".
Bob went up to the first belay. Then I faffed about trying to make out which traverse the book meant, did a traverse and found it easy and so into the crack itself "Just my type".
I went slowly, each move carefully thought out, and found that there wasn't a difficult move to make. I never passed a place where I could get on a runner. In fact on the 40 ft pitch, I had on 4, and the words of the book on Pedestal Crack came into my mind "In fact it is possible to stitch oneself all the way up".
There was one move which reminded me of Subsidiary Chimney on Laddow, but this seemed far less exposed. All went well until I made the traverse to the left, where I couldn't find the belay at first, but eventually I saw the thread – high up. When Bob joined us, we both agreed that it had been about 'vd' in technique so far, but we were a little doubtful about the look of the last pitch. I looked down the grassy rake ("a way of descent if the sandwiches had been inadvertently left at the bottom"), but didn't like the look of it, so we reminded each other that we had made no sandwiches!
When Bob was belayed I traversed round to the chimney and felt the holds, facing west, I saw that it wouldn't be easy and the book had said face the second, so I came down again. I left my camera, my woolly, took my over-socks out of my pockets, took off my watch, in fact got rid of all my excuses for a second retreat, and then tried it again, this time facing Bob. All the holds were there, it was just a case of thrutching up on them. I'd have said that it wasn't too bad, but I found that each time I gained a few inches of height, I'd have to wait about 5 minutes to get my breath back, so I suppose it was rather strenuous.
I put on a runner at the top of the narrow part and then up the rest, and then some way back for a belay through a karabiner, and down again to watch the fun.
Bob put all my belongings around him and started up, but he was soon down again saying that I'd have to hand them up.
The runner prevented Bob tying them on the middle of the rope, and I didn't want Bob to untie as there might have been some difficulty in getting the rope back to him when he was in the safe position, so I untied and threw the other end down, leaving it through the belay at the top.
Bob still didn't like it, without my odds and ends. I soon got my instructions to pull. I was well placed, I had the rope round my waist and moved backwards, but I felt that really I did no more than take the stretch out of the rope. Soon Bob was up, having done the part above the runner more directly than I had, and then we were exploring along the Green Gully, getting onto Eastern Terrace, and so to the top, where Bob insisted on a nap. Afterwards he said I wouldn't let him sleep, but he had an hour and a half. He didn't know about that, he only remembered the time when I was talking.
We descended Eastern Terrace, the Curving Crack party having gone down before us, and we sat for a chat, to decide on our next climb. We recommended Sunset Crack, and Trevor, Stan and Bryan went along to that, while Bob and I went up to Curving. Unfortunately, Wrangham's party, who had just done Pedestal were also at the foot, collecting their things; Bob and I just sat, and then had a whispered conversation.
Bob: "I wish they'd get on with it"
Eileen: "They're not going to do it. They've finished for the day, but they'll sit there to watch you up it".
Then Bob asked them if they were going to climb it and they assured him tht the climb was all his. The conversation even continued to ask us what we'd done. I left Bob to answer, for Wrangham never seems to know me.
Bob did the lay-back beautifully, but I was anxious the whole time; at first in case he didn't make it, I was all ready to give a shoulder down, and then, when I realised that he'd do it, I found that I'd been banking on him not doing it, for the last thing I wanted was to have to go up it, especially not with the audience. Once in a lifetime is quite enough for that. At the top we thought we heard Bob say "desperate" and, as one of the others said, he couldn't imagine anything less desperate than Bob's lead, and he didn't have to rest on the knob.
I expect they felt sorry for Bob when I started telling him what I thought of him and Wrangham said very seriously that I had better do the direct start, and I agreed. Half way up this I asked him which groove I should be in, and he admitted that he had no idea how it should be climbed. The right groove led to the right place, but to me, only the left hand groove seemed climbable, so I started up this, hoping to traverse in, higher up, but the higher I got, the less possible did this traverse seem, the further away from my feet did the wall seem to get. I started asking Bob for an incut hold, which he couldn't find me. Then I found I could get up another foot and this time demanded my incut hold – for surely if this was a climb I was on, the hold must be there …. I think I must have been on a very tight rope, for my memory of the next part is of pirouetting on my left foot, just put on the roughness of the left wall. I started by putting the foot up behind me, reminding myself that it wasn't on a hold, so I mustn't depend on it. I had no handholds and yet I was able to swing round and get my right foot on the other wall – bridging, and quite soon afterwards I was able to reach the finishing holds in the right groove and was hauling myself up on them with the last of my strength, and so I swam over the top, as exhausted as I had been on the ordinary start last time.
As soon as I had recovered enough to take hold of the rope, Bob was off and up the next pitch, but going so slowly.
When nearly all the rope had gone, it was my turn, and I had a shock. I had remembered it as just a walk, but now it was a most impressive 100 ft crack and it seemed to demand many knee jams to get up, and I began to think I must have climbed the whole of Sunset Crack on my knees, they were so sore.
Eventually I joined Bob on his stance, but the next pitch definitely wasn't his type, and I began to get a little anxious; there was a vertical 60 ft ahead and I thought I didn't want to lead it, we were on my 93 ft rope so there wasn't enough for rappelling off, and I certainly wouldn't want to be last man down. Surely, I thought the others must have finished Sunset Crack by now, and will look over and see our plight, or Pete and John will have finished Longlands. Nothing happened except that Bob came back to the belay and said that I'd have to try it! It seemed such an emergency that I made myself ignore the soreness of my knees, jammed them in the crack, was over the difficulty, putting on a runner and finding the rest much easier than I had feared. I found a belay with a sitting stance at the top and settled myself down, but when I found that Bob was expecting strong moral support, I descended to a standing stance and tried to pull the rope by having it over my shoulder and straightening my back, but this time I hardly seemed to get the slack out of the rope; however, Bob was soon up and leading the last pitch. I felt I had scarcely ever known such exposure; I suppose it was after the two enclosed climbs we had done; the holds were small too, I thought, but there were so many, the chief difficulty was to decide which to use.
Back at the bottom, we found that Pete and John had made good time on Longlands, and found that Stan and co. had also found their second climb far harder than their first. "Didn't you have a shoulder on the second pitch?" they asked, and apparently Trevor had ascended to the left and traversed in on the last pitch.
I took my time down to Mrs. Williams, taking several photos of the evening light on "my Cloggy" and then drank tea and asked Don Whillans about the new climb he had put up, and also about Joe's trip.
We were nearly ready to go when, as someone said, "There's a fool of a motor-cyclist coming up" and then Bob said "It's Watson"; we shouted as he approached and then all went outside and shouted after him, but he didn't see us, and continued up. Bob decided to go down to Llanberis, relying on John giving him a lift back. Pete and John, of course, had their bike, so I walked over the ridge and down to the camp. I found Joy all alone, the rest of the camp had gone to the Pen-y-Gwryd.
I made myself tea (I wasn't hungry) and waited, and then, after about half an hour, who should appear but John, without his bike, and from the same direction as I had come. He hadn't got far beyond Mrs. Williams' when the track became too difficult, and then, as he started down, his front wheel fell out. Mr. Williams helped him to get the bike down to the Half Way House and there he had left it.
It was too bad, it meant that he had to have the lift back on Bob's bike on Sunday night which I had promised myself (I couldn't blame Bob, for I had refused to travel out with him?)
Eventually Bob came back, having been relayed by Pete and, after supper, we all made our way up to Pete's tent for coffee.
Bob had a lot to discuss with his Alpine party and didn't seem in a hurry to get away, so John and I made our way to Dinas Mot, hoping to do the Nose direct. I am rather keen to work through the list in the front of the guide, recommended for stronger parties.
We stopped to put on rubbers and rope up, and found half a dozen others, coming up rapidly, as though to overtake us. When I recognised Lou and his friend, who had been with Don on his first ascent the previous day; I found myself asking them if they were for our climb, and if they wanted to go ahead. Lou immediately said yes, and one of the others started to lead up. Another party made for the cracks, and the rest of us waited and waited, while the first rope started up the Nose. Eventually he was up, as also were Lou and his friend, and John was following, but on the second pitch, Lou was finding it very heavy going, and John, only just behind, also seemed to find it difficult, although it seemed a delicate pitch, so I suggested we might do the cracks instead. This seemed to suit John and he came down and made the traverse to the left. I watched the first leader retreat again and again from the hard traverse, and felt that we had done the wisest thing; also I think 3 would be a better number than 2 for the Nose.
We continued up the cracks, but once more I didn't enjoy it. It reminded me more of Idwal climbing than of Llanberis, and I found the cracks themselves difficult and I couldn't do the final Mantelshelf again. The morning had had its amusing moments though, I had been listening to Lou's and co's description of Satin Slab, "Ought to be called spider wall, for the rope manoeuvres on it".
John and I arrived back at camp at about 1 o'clock, to find it deserted. We made tea, and sat and then I strolled down to the bus stop, where the bus arrived at 2.45, on time for a change.
Walking through Bangor I fancied an ice-cream sundae and waited until the station refreshment room opened, for my tea. I waited in vain; however, I dozed to Chester and had tea there, more at Chester, and at Crewe (where I was mistaken for a porter) and at Derby. At midnight I had a taxi home, a good 2/- worth.
I was having tea, wondering which train to catch early the next morning (I had already weakened from my resolve to go to Marsden that evening), when Bob rang. He said that John hadn't received his spare parts and asked me if I wasn't fed up with walking in Derbyshire. I explained that I had spent the whole week longing for something to turn up, so that I could be whisked away to Wales for more rock-climbing. Bob said, "Let's go". "Tonight?", I asked and Bob said yes, that we'd stay at Glan Dena to save taking camping things.
At 7.40 we left, and went via Derby, Uttoxeter, Whitchurch etc. I didn't think much of Bob's cornering at first, but as the light began to fade, he sobered down a little. We stopped in the café at Llangollen and arrived at Glan Dena at 2.15.
Remembering how hot I had been all the week, I put only one quilt on my bed, with the result that I was too cold to sleep soundly.
We were away at 9 o'clock on a morning second to none. We rode round to Pen-y-Pass and then started up Crib Goch. My one idea in coming to Wales was to climb, so I was disappointed to find that Bob was expecting to walk; however, we compromised by walking over to Cloggy. We forced ourselves in the heat to continue along the ridge, at times discussing which climb to do. "We haven't enough rope for Bow-shaped", said Bob the faint heart. We decided to go on, as we said the problem would solve itself before we got to the crag. Bob had the best idea, that we should leave our boots at the top of the climb and go down in rubbers and do it, but I demanded tea at Mrs. Williams, partly because I was so thirsty, and partly for a chat. It was a long way down, but at about 1 o'clock we left the Half Way House and started up to the foot of Longlands – it was the only suitable climb. It wasn't the weather for an East Buttress thrutch, and we hadn't the enthusiasm to try anything more difficult – in fact, I had to force myself up Longlands and lost none of my respect for the climb. We discussed leadership and when I said I'd like to try to lead the last pitch, as I had never led it, Bob said I could do the whole thing.
The bottom pitch was alright, just about 'vd' and demanded no effort, but I was quite impressed by the pitch above. I found it definitely severe technically, and I was a little lost because I remembered last time I had had a second near for the awkward step, but we had no large chock to jam in the crack, and Bob had to stay below; however, I had a little runner on a place which had been made by a hammer I believe.
This time I used two knees for the step, and then decided to avoid faith and friction to the right, but eventually got a runner on and so up to the belay, this time delightfully dry. Bob did it in much better style, but admitted it was hard, and then he came straight up.
Last time, the next part had seemed just a walk, but now the moves definitely need looking out, but certainly the difficulties only reappeared in a milder form, and then after admiring the clumps of bladder campions, I was up to the Quartz Ledge.
I belayed Bob with a thread, giving him enough rope to be able to give me a shoulder, if necessary – "so that we both go over the edge" was Bob's comment, and then I felt the holds. I made the first pull up, but then my courage failed and I came down again. Bob suggested a snooze, but I knew I couldn't relax until I was up the pitch, also the heat didn't help. I never imagined myself sweating from the heat, in the shade of Cloggy.
This time I made the top pitch. I put one runner on before I started and put a second one on after I'd moved up, so if I hadn't made it, it should have been only my pride which would have been hurt. Once up, I decided that I wouldn't lead it again, because I hadn't enough in hand, for my hands only just stood the strain, but afterwards it seemed to me that on a cooler day …..
Bob couldn't understand why I kept swinging over to the left. He wouldn't realise that I cannot hang on with only one bent arm, and so I'd swing to the left and straighten my arms, and hang like that for a moment, with one straight arm, until I reached up with my other hand for the next handhold.
At the top I had no wish to do the direct finish and we made our way to the top of the ridge. We were in the sun, but it was quite pleasant for there was a bit of a breeze. I enjoyed a sit, while Bob, the perfect gentleman, went down for the boots. He had his reward, he saw the great Joe complete with Kangerjunge anorak, but didn't speak to him!
And so we slowly made our way to the top of Snowdon, where I enjoyed two more cups of tea. The heat, the railway and the café all reminded me of the Alps – then down and over Lliwedd. "Shall we run down?", said Bob. I admired his energy. I took my usual slow time. Back at the bike at 8 o'clock we rode down to the Pen-y-Gwryd for more refreshment. Peering in the bar at the well dressed people inside, I thought for a moment there were two Indian women, then I realised that they'd be the two Sherpas, brought back by Evans. I stared at the man with them "so that is Evans; he looks rather like a miniature Hunt" I thought, and continued to stare until we were served. Only later did I hear that it was Hunt who had brought them!
Back at Glan Dena for a salad supper, and gooseberries and cream – we'd had strawberries and cream for breakfast – afraid they wouldn't keep. Then I was relaxing in a well earned bath, when there was a knock on the door and I was informed that Watson had come. He had received his spares that morning, and so had come by train. I said at first that it was good, that he could go on Bob's long walk and leave me to laze, but when they started talking of climbing on Cloggy, he became interested in the expedition, and tried to direct it round to Fallen Block Cracks on Crib-y-Ddysgl – another in the list at the beginning of the book.
I hadn't slept well; on Friday night I had been too cold and this night I was too cold, and then, at 7.40 John woke me! Again we were away at about 9 o'clock. I walked along the road while Bob took John and then came back for me. Soon after Pen-y-Pass we caught up John, and all three went down to Blaen-Nant. "Now all lean together" – how Bob enjoyed himself.
We walked up Cwm Glas, had two longish rests on the way – the day was hot, and we were tired – and finally reached Fallen Block Cracks. John retreated once, I could see what the book meant, more difficult in boots, for they got stuck in the crack, Then he had another try and wasn't getting very far, so I suggested Black Gates next door. John was disappointed, but time was getting on. I had my sack hauled up a couple of pitches, and yet I found them far too difficult. At the Black Gates I announced that I couldn't do it – I suppose it was the tight rope made me realise that I could! and the next pitch had a chimney I found very strenuous.
At last we were up the climb, and walking to the top of the hill, where the others left me to go up Snowdon, while I strolled down to Mrs. Williams. Here I found Nat and Ray Handley, who had done part of the Narrow. Nat said that the Sherpas had visited their tents that night, and he couldn't get over what wonderful fellows they were. When Bob and John arrived, I started down to Blaen-Nant, leaving John to put the spare on his bike, and then give Bob a lift round. I had quite a while to wait – picked myself a bunch of thyme ("That smells like dawn in paradise") and then had a hair-raising ride back to Glan Dena, with Bob and John racing, so I gave them a serious talking to about the return to Nottingham.
They were an hour or so getting ready, and eating – I wasn't very hungry, but had an interesting hour talking to Cyril Machin, apparently he is in harness again for the right cause, has a working party putting in pipes for the hut. I hadn't seen him earlier, because he goes to bed about 7 o'clock and up about 9 o'clock, and can hardly walk without a stick.
Back via Shrewsbury – John kept his place behind Bob, so it wasn't as bad as I'd feared. He went back once to try and find his rope, which had dropped out from the top of his sac. And so home about midnight.
Pat, John and I caught the 3 o'clock train, well seen off by Anne. We couldn't get seats, so later on we went along for tea, as a means of sitting down! At St. Pancras I took the wrong turn on the underground and we missed the Inner Circle, and changed at South Kensington to get to Victoria. We had appointed no meeting place, but both Alan and Keith met us in the refreshment room, and then we made our way to our reserved seats. I felt it such a come-down to have to go through the Newhaven customs with the ordinary boat train crowds. The boat was the "Arramanches" and, after a meal, we settled down in the first class. I got on the ground for greater comfort (don't tell Bob!).
Far too soon we had to disembark and try to continue our sleep in the Paris train.
In Paris we lost the inter-station bus as Keith's reservation was for a later train, but we found a taxi to take the five of us and all our luggage and it only cost 500 fr.
At the Gare du Lyon we had croissants and appalling coffee, before finding our reservations on the train. The journey was cheered by a visit to the restaurant car, for a meal on the blue W.L. china.
By the afternoon, the journey had become very tedious, and then it was time to re-arrange our luggage, to send our larger sacs to Zermatt, and take our smaller ones to Les Haudère. We also had the shopping list, to which, on my advice, they all agreed.
Eventually Sion, to be met by Diane, as brown as though she'd had a week in Switzerland. We soon had our sacs all weighed together and labelled. The counterfoil was handed to me and I thought I had better keep it, rather than trust one of the others! Then we went out with our shopping list and gave a shop an order of a few pounds, bringing it away in a box.
Rather late the bus turned up, with its little trailer, into which our sacs went for nothing, and then we were off. In the train I had felt that it wasn't worth it, nothing was worth putting up with all this travelling, but how different life was in the bus; I stood up (the hood was down), I didn't want to miss anything, the hairpin bends were so exciting. Then there were Gilles Ivory Castles (the earth pyramids of Euseigne), with large stones on top of each spire. Eventually we found that the road tunnelled under a tower; I could only presume that the rocks on top protected the "spires" from erosion. Then through Evoliène, and so to Les Haudère, where the bus stopped just near the Hotel des Haudère. I was a little disappointed in the proprietress and had some difficulty in understanding that Pat, Diane and I were all in the hotel, while the boys were sleeping out. I had brought no soap, so it didn't take long to prepare for the excellent dinner provided. "Dole" seemed the vin rouge ordinaire. The flags were out in the village; they seemed to be preparing for something, but we didn't find out what – a little while was spent looking around, but soon I was in bed and fast asleep.
I had asked for breakfast at 7 o'clock and the jeep at 8 o'clock and was glad to wake up at 6.30. I was glad also that the boys were down by 7 o'clock, for I didn't know where they were staying, to call them.
We settled up. I left a note for Anthea, who was coming a day later, and we boarded the jeep and were away. We got our money's worth from the jeep (30 fr.). Apparently it has two gear levers, and then, just as a final climax, it took us up to the highest hotel in Arolla. I was very pleased to think that we hadn't had to walk this distance before starting up for the Bertol hut.
We still had our provisions in the box from Sion, so I sorted them out into piles and stood back while the others chose their pile; unfortunately they didn't recognise the separate piles and there was nothing left for me, so I had to go round begging. We patronised a curio shop for sunglasses, glacier cream and another pound of cheese. We had bought our bread ( 3 kilos) in Les Haudère, three lovely big rounds of brown bread.
At about 9.30, photos had been taken, all was ready, and we started out for the hut, firstly descending and crossing the river, which we followed for a little while before the path started to mount.
We were rather curious about the various works going on in the valley and eventually our path took us to some wooden buildings stuck to the steep hillside, and we got rather lost amongst them.
When we regained the path it started to zigzag steeply up the hillside, and at the top of this part we stopped for lunch. We had been taking things very gently, stopping every hour at least, and it wasn't as though we were going fast. Alan, Keith and John were in front, and originally Pat and Diane were behind, but soon Diane thought that perhaps she was being more of a nuisance than a help, so came on with me.
After lunch we were soon on the glacier and the clouds started to come over. I had been dreading this as a steep slog, but with the gentle pace I hardly noticed it. On the final part I followed the old steps, zigzagging up, but all but Diane preferred to cut straight up, and then there was the chain to facilitate the final rocks.
The guardian told us that we'd have to wait until he'd lit the fire before we could have our tea, not the sort of welcome I'd expected, but 4 o'clock was a little early to arrive, and we were soon to appreciate the guardian. We started to scatter our belongings about the first room and he must have summed us up pretty well, for he told us to go through into the other room, where we found that we could be untidy without getting in other people's way.
It was a perfect morning when we got up at 4 o'clock and an hour or so later we set out for the Tsa. The steps were made in the snow along the first slope – as this steepened a little and went down to some rocks, I looked behind to see whether, on the first morning, anyone would prefer to rope up, but everyone looked most competent, so we continued, mounted the rocks, and then continued down the glacier and on up towards the Tsa. Never has there been a more disorganised party, we weren't roped, for the tracks were made and the glacier was still frozen, so we went at our own paces and every few yards, so it seemed on this lovely morning, someone would stop for a photo (there were 6 cameras in the party!).
Eventually we all congregated at the foot of the rocks and continued up unroped, until Alan struck trouble. He then roped with Pat and Diane, and I roped with Keith. Keith tried to lead, but, unused to vibrams, thought better of it, so I'm afraid I jumped at the chance of a little leading, instead of giving it to John. The latter preferred to solo. We made the route more interesting by keeping straight up the right hand ridge, instead of traversing over to the left and following that arête. The climbing was of a typical alpine strenuous nature (although easy enough) and I found myself a little breathless.
There were various treats for the summit, Pat had her box of Meltis fruits, wrapped and labelled for the peak. I had some crystallised apricots - it was so right that the weather should have played fair for this peak. I had saved some bread from breakfast, and made a cheese sandwich, but I couldn't eat it; however, it wasn't wasted. Eventually we started down, choosing the voie normale. Keith went first, I was in the middle, and John on the end of my rope. It was a pleasant way down, first down chimneys and then across the slab, but very short. We wanted to show Keith what vibrams would do, so we got him to walk down a slab. I wanted him to see that they'd slip if he leaned back, but he got into a nearly horizontal position, leaning backwards, but still they wouldn't slip!
The snow had softened considerably, so we kept on the rope for the return, making one detour to examine a crevasse.
Back on the snow, below the hut, a figure above waved to us. Anthea had made very good time. She had stayed at Les Haudère and caught the 6.30 workmen's jeep to Arolla, and walked up by herself. With her fairly fluent French she soon had things organised.
This was the day we'd hoped to do the Bouquetins. Alan had waited to do the North Ridge, and at one time I had said that he and John had better do it, while the rest of us did the voie normale, but when I came to think of it, I realised that there was no-one left whom I'd trust to lead a second rope, so I vetoed it, and also the suggestion that four of them should do it. I felt that whoever led it would want the other boy as his second – so eventually we all decided on the ordinary way.
The guardian called us at 4 o'clock and had me out to see the weather. It was cloudy and he explained that the Bouquetins got the first of the bad weather, which kept coming over from Italy this year. He said that while he couldn't forbid us to start, he'd strongly advise us against it, so we went back to bed.
We got up at a civilised hour, and at 10 o'clock or so, the time when a fast party might have reached the summit, it cleared for a moment, and I was rather regretful that I wasn't with a party with whom I'd have the will to force things. The fine spell wasn't altogether wasted, we climbed the Clocher behind the hut, Anthea and I, John and Keith, and then Alan with Pat and Diane. A Swiss party at the top let us use their rappel rope, it was hemp and rather thin; they warned us of the danger of using a lifeline on a free rappel, but we thought we'd rather risk the entanglement, than be without it. I went down first and was a little ashamed that I twisted two or three times, but as I watched the others, I realised that that was less than average.
We had a difficult problem. We were short of food. We'd taken it so gently that no-one had lost their appetite, as I'd expected. I think the rations were enough for most people, except John and Keith who had enormous appetites, and no conscience.
Tuesday was the third day, and the last for which we'd planned food, we'd hoped to be well on the way to Zermatt by the evening. While it would have been possible to cross to Zermatt, I was in favour of waiting another day and hoping for the Bouquetin (I'd rather fallen for the peak) and the others agreed.
Keith volunteered to go down to Arolla for more food and Anthea agreed to go with him. As soon as they'd started, the weather deteriorated. We sat in 'our room' and broke the monotony by having a brew of tea, soup etc. periodically, while we mostly played battleships.
In the afternoon Phil arrived with his two friends and gave us details of their evening in Paris with Chunky. Latish, our two heroes returned, and the stores were replenished.
The Bouquetin was out of the question with the new snow which had fallen, and it almost seemed that we should be trapped in Arolla, for the guardian said that we couldn't find our way over the Col d'Herens, unless visibility improved.
We looked up guidebooks to try to find a way to Zermatt via Zinal, but distances were too great. We joked with the guardian about the igloo in which we'd spend the night, if we tried the col, but eventually at about mid-day the weather showed some signs of clearing and we found that a guided party was also going our way. We had a hasty snack and then started, Alan, John and Diane on the first rope, a strong one for the step kicking, followed by Pat, Keith, Anthea and myself. We soon overtook the guided rope and continued to the Col des Bouquetins where we had an argument about the peaks. Then the guided party overtook us and continued down the col. This puzzled us, but we turned left and the guided party returned and followed us. How ghastly to be ascending soft snow at 2 p.m. on an airless afternoon. We made our way up to the Tête Blanche, with its superb views of the Dent d'Herens and the Matterhorn, both looking immaculate with their coating of new snow.
We retraced our steps down the col, and watched the antics of the other party; they seemed to be going round in circles and, remembering their false trail down the Col de Bouquetins, when Anthea said that the Col d'Herens was to the left, we went that way. All the time, snow showers would blow over, making the visibility nil, but would always clear again, when we needed to see. I feel we were very lucky with the weather and also that our crossing of the col wasn't altogether justifiable under those conditions. We had a little fun, prodding for snow bridges, on our way to the rocks, and then the two ropes took different times down the horribly loose rocks, to the steep snow. The other rope descended very, very cautiously, making for what we hoped was a snow bridge, but it turned out to be a double bergschrund, so they retreated a little to the left, where it was an easy jump. Before I found out it was only a little jump, I'd suggested that Pat might have to change places with Keith, but this didn't please her. I was rather horrified when she slipped on the take-off, went in up to her waist, but then, as it was narrow, she was able to dive out head first. Even I had no trouble with the jump.
This had taken a long time – before we'd started the awkward descent we'd seen the guided party low down, and they were soon out of sight. They'd come down the Col de Tête Blanche instead. I was so cold by the time I had made the jump, that I set off to join the tracks, while the other rope were sorting themselves out. At first there was some nasty snow, icy beneath, and the new snow not adhering to it, but it wasn't in a dangerous position, so I mostly kicked over it, anything to move a little quicker, and I was rewarded by hot aches when we joined the tracks, so I'd saved myself at least from frost bite! Then the ropes resumed their old order and, thinking that perhaps the guided party knew a thing or two after all, we followed their tracks. We continued to follow them when they reached the Stockji, but this time they were wrong again, and retreated after making straight for the ice-fall. There was a vague path on the southern side of the ridge and Anthea promised us little chimneys etc. later on, but before we reached that part we reached a col and found that a previous party had cut down a snow slope at this point and we realised it was the quickest way down to the glacier. There was a little traverse on ice and Pat, Anthea and I roped up for this – actually for some way after this there was ice beneath the snow, but all went well and we were soon down – to the 'dry ice' of the glacier.
It was raining by this time and the 'dry glacier' streaming with water. John and Keith went on, Alan and Diane waited, but we found no path. We went some way down and then had to ascend the overhanging loose moraine, and so up to the Wandfluke track, and then very easily down to the Schönbiel hut, which I was surprised to see that they were rebuilding.
The guardian had changed since 1949, but they were a pleasant couple and didn't mind our disorganised party. Soon we had our wet clothes hanging up and were settling down for supper. I asked the guardian if 5 o'clock was a suitable hour for getting up for the Pointe de Zinal. He thought it a little early until I mentioned the South Ridge and thought we'd better get up at 5! I only wish I'd pursued the subject further.
We set out about 6 o'clock, on a doubtful morning, and started up the way I had gone to the Ober-gabelhorn in 1949 – there was the steepish rise into the 'rocky cwm' and then the way was over snow, instead of scree, and we were soon up to the col, and then dropping down to the Hohwäng Glacier and then up to the col to the South Ridge.
The ridge was just a walk, sometimes over rocks and sometimes up snow. The trouble was that the weather was deteriorating and there was snow falling at intervals. We sat and ate sardines and discussed retreat, but then a break in the weather set us up again, towards the false summit. We were practically on a level with the true summit, but were separated from it by quite a stretch of rock. The actual false summit was an imposing granite tower, which was bypassed by a traverse on the right, beginning with an assez-difficile chimney. The snow was still falling, the rocks on the east side were covered with snow, and we were a large party. Everyone favoured retreat, although had we been only two or three, I'm sure we'd have pressed on until we were forced back.
And so back the way we'd come, down to the hut for a third breakfast, eating up everything we had, and then down to Zermatt.
What a delightful way it would have been for a photographer, had the weather played its part. I was just able to photograph a pansy and then in disgust I took one of the path in the rain – just to show what sort of weather we had. We stopped for milk at the half way chalet, and spoke to an Englishman and his guide; we'd seen them earlier going down to Hohwäng Glacier, as we cut over to the Schönbiel. They'd had a week of crossing passes and I could see that we'd have to do the same.
It was a better way to approach Zermatt, down through the village street, calling at the dairy on the way. We made straight for the Pension Bahnhoff, the Zermatt 'Biolay' but much, much more respectable, and also more expensive. The four of us had a room with proper beds, but no sheets and paid 4.50 each for it. The others had to share a room.
I had lost the ticket for the luggage. I'd asked for that, being so conceited as to think that I could look after it better than one of the others. But I was ashamed of myself, and soon went across to the station to see what could be done. They took it very calmly, simply asked me to sign a form and that was that – they tried to give us Phil's luggage as well!
We made tea and ate a little. The idea was to stave off the worst pangs, but not spoil the appetite for the dinner we were promising ourselves. Later we went to the hotel Pollux, where I did justice to the meal, but Keith, after eating us out of house and home in the huts, lost his appetite completely.
We made a tour of Zermatt afterwards, on this wet and dismal evening and then called in the Alpina for the traditional Melba, otherwise the town just seemed dead, although Alan and Keith crashed a party in the station Buffet later.
Another wet day, but they told us they wanted our beds, which gave us another reason for getting to a hut, besides the question of expense. We couldn't really decide between the Täsch hut or the Rothorn hut, as a suitable base for our glacier tour through the soft snow, but we bought three days' food, and hoped inspiration would come. It did in the shape of Bob – or should I say Stan Moore's party. We'd already seen Trevor Jones and Ken Clarke, they had done the one peak in the Oberland and had made up their minds to go to the Italian lakes, but presently the other four arrived from the Rotengrat on the Alphabet – Stan and Bob, Frank and Terry. The latter two decided to go home, and the two former to join our party and Bob insisted that this was just the occasion for retreating to the Salbytchyn and, to my great delight, the others agreed. I hadn't had the courage to suggest another district – I hadn't wanted to go to Zermatt in the first place, but the others were so keen to go that I assumed they'd rather hang about there hopefully rather than go to a new district and climb.
We cooked a mid-day meal, and caught the 3.50 or so from Zermatt – all but Anthea that is, who went back to look for her watch and promised to catch the next train.
I was amazed at the banks of snow in the valley, miles down the valley below Zermatt – no views of the Weisshorn and then I lost interest in the journey, until we reached Brig. Some of the party went into the town in search of rooms, while the rest of us drank wine at the station buffet and then we all took our gear to the hotel Simplon. Diane and I had a room in the hotel proper. It had running hot and cold – apparently the others were in a sort of annexe without this luxury. I used it to wash my hair and was only just restrained from washing my dress. I had had a shower at Zermatt the day before and for a moment I thought that I wouldn't need to wash myself in Brig!
We decided to go out to dinner and were looking at the menu outside a restaurant when the lady came out to explain it to us – and we went in, although it wasn't quite the ideal place.
We ate, and drank wine, and then had coffee and cheap brandy and finally went out to paint the town red. We wandered around, and then into the castle courtyard. There were some old coaches in this and I followed Diane as she climbed into them, at times fancying herself the lady being driven and at other times the person in charge of the horses – we felt rather guilty and slipped out to explore the town further, slipping along in the shadows. After a visit to the skittle alley (deserted), we returned to the 'Simplon'. Anthea, Stan and Keith went out, saying they'd fetch the rest of us, if they found a café open. We waited a little while, and then (a little thankfully on my part) went to bed. Diane and I had no idea that Anthea had the key to the other bedroom and Pat couldn't get in.
I enjoyed breakfast at the Simplon, they put two tables together, and seemed to understand about our appetites – we were sorry that Pat got up too late to enjoy it. We caught the train at about 9 o'clock through Fiesch to Andermatt. Unfortunately before Andermatt we had to change trains. A bridge was down and we had to walk over a temporary bridge to the second train. This was quite an undertaking with all our gear. The second train seemed in no hurry to start, so I went out to photograph the old train across the unbridged ravine. What a dreadful moment when I thought the train was going without me; it started, I was running by the side of it, and I could have jumped on, had my hands been free, but they were holding my camera etc. Fortunately the train was stopped in time and I got on, much to the amusement of the ticket collector.
At Andermatt the connection was waiting, and soon we found ourselves at Göschenen where our chief concern was to buy an S.A.C. guidebook; unfortunately no-one had heard of such a thing. There was a lot of re-arranging to do, but eventually the extra sacs were put in the station, and we walked out of the village, buying ices en route.
Just outside, we had a prolonged picnic; Bob brewed up on his Bordet, and we ate, and then finally started on up towards the hut, first along the road and a much better highway than I'd expected, and then up the steep path, until we reached a chalet. We hoped for milk, but only beer was available and, on the people's word that there was milk higher up, John, Diane and I set off up straight away. At first we thought we were on a wild goose chase, but then we saw traces of cows; however, we reached the Salbit hut before coming across any milk. The lady was outside and Diane and I gradually realised that John had gone on to the shed about 5 minutes walk further on, and the three of us had our milk, besides saving enough for the others' tea.
The lady seemed to speak only German, but that wasn't all. I soon realised that we weren't really meant to understand each other; however, I asked her if there was a guidebook, and she said no, it had been lost from the hut, also she said there were no other climbers there, so things looked a little bad.
The others arrived with a few sarcastic remarks about our milk – they were surprised when they realised that we'd had it! I suggested that Alan would be useful to talk German to the lady, but he informed me that he was drunk and incapable of doing so – on half a glass of beer too.
We soon had our food out and a usual meal of soup, spaghetti and the minced meat Bob had bought. Then other climbers started to arrive, brandishing their guidebooks. We found that one young bespectacled lad spoke English, and his English was certainly put to the test that evening. The English party split into two halves – one sat at the other table, and the others sat with the Swiss. As soon as we arrived at the hut, from the photos about the place, we realised that there was only one climb to do – the Sudgrat, and that there was no reason why Bob and Stan shouldn't try it, but John also thought he ought to be in on it and that made me not want to be cut out. We asked the Swiss about the standard and learned that there was one 90 ft pitch of grade V and the rest was pretty continuously of IV. I asked how it compared with the East Face of the Grépon and was told it was harder. It honestly didn't seem the place for all the party, but what could be done; the old Bouquetin argument came in if the four of us went off and did it. We wanted to find an easier climb for a first day, to try out the party and the East Ridge seemed suitable, consisting of IIIs and IVs, but the Swiss said they'd be descending it after climbing the Sudgrat, and would send down stones on us, so we couldn't do it (it was quite obvious that they had a low opinion of us!).
I tried out a little German occasionally – in fact it bought me a guidebook. They were priced at 12.50, but he wouldn't take more than 10.50. I was so ashamed that my German only enabled me to ask directly, that it wasn't good enough for me to lead up to the subject tactfully.
At times, we'd find ourselves discussing the rest of the party, for instances when someone asked about Alan's ambitions, I said "Alan's been very quiet today" and I was horrified to find that one of the other table relayed that to Alan. I felt that Alan and Pat (on that day's form) were too tired for it, Keith lacked the experience. It was Diane for whom I had most sympathy. We had walked up to the hut together, and I could feel that she was simply brimming over with energy, enthusiasm and everything else which is useful on a mountain. Unfortunately she wasn't experienced on rock of that standard, and the boys seemed to think Pat a better bet.
We discussed for three hours, and got nowhere, something had to be done, and eventually I salved my own conscience. I said that at this rate none of us would do the Sudgrat. There was only one way of doing it, and that was if whoever led the V would promise to take the others up it the day after – it would be tedious for them, but otherwise none of us would get it in at all.
It was 9.30 by now and bed time and everyone agreed, as though they thought it a good idea. We went to bed, but not to sleep, despite the solution. The problem we'd been discussing for the last three hours was going round and round in my mind and on top of that my cold (caught at the Bartol hut) had got steadily worse, and I was kept awake by my cough and had difficulty in breathing.
We were called at 4 o'clock and I and the Swiss got up. I cut, and buttered the bread and got things ready, but there was still no sign of the rest of my party, so I called them; they told me afterwards that I shouted up "Come on you English….." Eventually Bob, Stan, John and Anthea came down and we breakfasted, the latter to say goodbye, for she had to return that day. The Swiss had started, and most of the English slipped away in front. I had intended to give myself a start – and then as we made our way to the foot of the South Ridge I got further and further behind. We passed below the East Ridge and then made fo the South Ridge and as I looked up at it, it looked more and more intimidating, until I made up my mind that the ridge we had passed (East Ridge) must be the South Ridge and the one "they" were making for must be Three Day West Ridge. There was nothing for me to do but follow, occasionally catching glimpses of the others right ahead and then I came to the gully leading up to the crest of the ridge. What a miserable place, snow in it in places, otherwise so slimy and with vibrams too, and I began to realise what a nuisance my cold was going to be. It was making me more breathless than ever, and after the slightest exertion I'd have to stop and get my breath back. Eventually I reached the top and found the others sitting down for quite a long wait, while all the Swiss started on the climb.
At last even Bob and Stan started and then it was John's turn. When I began I was surprised at the strenuous nature of the climbing right from the start, although the first pitches were easy enough, they were of typical granite climbing and I began to realise what we were in for. I considered that the standard hardly dropped below III. There was one awkward move up, to a handhold on the edge above and I found that the camera stuffed down the front of my anorak made balance awkward, so I put it in my sac, and only got it out on two occasions. Fairly low down, there was an easy pitch, a jamming chimney at an easy angle; it was far less difficult than previous pitches and I was horrified when John started to give me a very tight rope for it. "You can't do this, you must save yourself for the strenuous parts ahead", I said; the rope slackened off, for John must have seen that this was the one pitch on the climb which was my 'type' – although afterwards he was apt to call it the pitch he found the most difficult.
We went steadily upwards, and I imagined the Swiss nearly at the top and was surprised to find that there was another hold-up ahead, I glanced up as I was climbing and was horrified to see one of the Swiss falling. He was pulled up by a runner on a peg, after he had gone about 6 ft, and then calmly went on as though nothing had happened. The night before, the Swiss had sounded so knowledgeable and so confident, and obviously had such a poor opinion of us, that I thought if they were finding it so difficult, there wasn't much hope for us, but still if that was the crux so early, we'd know that the worst was behind us. The two younger Swiss brothers were the last behind Bob, so I called up to know if this was the grade V (and they replied (rather off-hand), that this was nothing at all, that the crux was right up at the top of the tower and was far, far more difficult.
Next there was a little rappel into a brêche and then we really had time to see this horror in front; they were vertical cracks, of use for the hands, and it was necessary to lay-back up with the feet flat on the slabs. Then it was necessary to traverse to the right, still with only the lay-back holds for the hands, and then the way was out of sight, but the climbers still took their time, even on this next part. It was Stan's turn to lead, on the rope ahead, but he soon retreated, saying that lay-backing wasn't his strong point and Bob took over again, and made it look very easy. There were two pegs to safeguard the ascent and then a peg above the traverse to safeguard it, and a rope sling (ssh!) to assist it; then, obviously a peg just around the corner. When Bob was up he said that he'd send a rope down to John after he'd got Stan up. It was an awkward situation. I could tell as soon as John started on the rock, that it was a good day for him, and I was confident after watching Bob that John also could lead it, but what if we refused help and then wanted it afterwards. Always cautious myself, I advised John to accept the offer and was glad when he did so. I delayed the party. John didn't put the rope to me into the peg above the traverse, and as I pointed out to him if I came off on the lower part I'd swing round onto unclimbable rock, so John waited on the corner and brought me up, before finishing the pitch on the top rope, thus delaying Bob and Stan. The pitch went far better than I expected, for I was in good form as far as arm strength was concerned. It was just that I'd have to stop every yard or so to get my breath back! Fortunately, even on this pitch, there were resting places – at least for someone with a well held rope above them – sometimes a peg, sometimes a flattening of the edge used by the hands, and then I was up to the corner, and found that the way ahead was easier instead of more difficult as I had feared.
No more signs of the Swiss. We wended our way upwards, always with the sideways pull technique, but of an easier standard, and somehow with more confidence, for, despite the words of the Swiss, I knew that we had overcome a difficult pitch, with ease.
Then the top of the tower began to come into view, with the Swiss still on it. When I saw the two young lads on it, one of the men in green waited just above the most difficult move, but the lad was soon over it, and in no need of help, and soon we seemed to have the ridge to ourselves.
Then we were at the crux. There was a preliminary pitch leading up to the stance. It looked hold-less, and I saw Bob start to explore the rocks with his hands, so I said "You'll have to have a shoulder for it, you mustn't wear yourself out on this, save yourself for the crux 100 ft up", To my great relief, Bob agreed and accepted a shoulder and then it was Stan's turn and I was a little horrified when he also expected a shoulder, for I was beginning to wonder how the last man fared. John and I stayed where we were and watched Bob on the 90 ft pitch; there were plenty of pegs to clip into – also to use as holds and Bob moved up deliberately until he reached the wire stirrup, standing in which he was able to put a sling into the next peg around the corner, and then to stand on the edge. Then apparently the pegs gave out and there were no aids, the rock had to be climbed, the edge must be grasped and lay-back moves made up it. There came an exclamation from Bob, apparently at the crucial moment the pull of the ropes through the pegs nearly dragged him back, but he just had sufficient strength to finish the move, and the rope was up the crux.
While Stan moved on, John looked at the 'shoulder' pitch; I said I'd come down to provide the shoulder, but John said he'd try it without and was up in a moment after a lovely, neat piece of climbing. I was still afraid it would prove not of my type, but when I descended, I found it not nearly as vertical as I had feared, and with plenty of little holds and I enjoyed it thoroughly. I tied on the belay and watched John lead the crux – no trouble at all, and then it was my turn. I took out the crabs, and pulled up on the pegs, but it was all easy and then I reached the wire loop. Again it was easy to stand in it, and then the nylon sling which I had to remove! There was an hold hemp loop here, and I warned John (not very far above me by now) that I was going to use it. I did so, and it held, and then I was at the crux – I could see no neat way of doing it, it was just a case of a heave. To save my hands the strain of a lay-back position, I tried a knee. That was my mistake. I was getting up slowly and badly when it suddenly dawned on me that I had only two seconds strength left in my hands, something had to be done quickly, so I risked all on a quick lay-back move – put my feet boldly on, heaved, and was up before my hands gave out (I honestly don't know whether John pulled or not). Another pitch and we were sitting on top of the tower, where someone found a gipfel-buch. Ours was about the 550th ascent and about the 5th British one. There were more great towers ahead, one had some cracks on it which looked most exciting, and Bob was all for going straight up, but I pointed out that there were no pegs and no signs of previous parties going over the top, so we went round the side (still interesting). Then there was one little gendarme Bob went up (optional I felt). Near the top the holds gave out so he put in a peg to safeguard his traverse round. This was the fourth peg I'd had to remove. I'd rather fancied myself carrying the peg hammer up the climb! Each time I was told to remove a peg I was reassured that it was only put in for a runner, not for climbing and each time I had taken it out I found that it had been put in a lay-back edge, where the crack got a little thin for the fingers. The first one took quite a lot of getting out, and I began to wonder how much of my meagre store of finger strength it would use up, but the others were easier to get out. Was it that I was getting better at it, or that Bob was taking less care in getting them in!
We were in the mist by now, we'd heard familiar voices above us, but they'd gone by now, but there was still a Keith-like whistling ahead. We found a cave for another bite, and I put some snow water into my water bottle (I seemed the only one to have taken a water bottle, I didn't have much myself!) and then we made up the last tier of rocks. John chose a lay-back crack, I followed up a jamming one, and then we were meeting Keith, below the final gendarme. This was obviously a V and the rocks were wet with the falling snow. No-one suggested climbing it, and Keith kindly showed us the way down. A few easy rocks and then a couple of thousand feet of glissading. Stan had the axe he'd carried up and Bob didn't need one; I grasped the little peg-hammer firmly in my hand and we set off down. I suppose I'd rather have had an axe, and I also suppose I was tired after the climb, but the chief trouble seemed to me was my cold, and thought why should I make myself so out of breath by hurrying down, when breathing is so difficult and so I took my time, Keith and Bob waiting at times, I am afraid.
Really there couldn't have been an easier way down, the snow continued right down below the couloir, a tongue reaching down almost to the level of the hut and then a quick walk back before the rain started in earnest.
Supper was ready after tea, but I wasn't particularly hungry. We were teased by Diane and co. who assured us that they'd been practicing lay-backs all day for their turn and the Sudgrat the next day. We didn't need to tell them really that they'd get no turn. One on a holiday was enough for anyone to lead that climb, besides of the others, those who had the stamina and speed lacked the technique and vice versa. We were getting short of food so I went to bed, leaving the others to make out a shopping list. I knew I ought not to trust "them" to do it, but I was having trouble keeping my eyes open and also I was tired of fighting with Bob. "I'm not going to be a name on a list". I slept well, didn't even hear the little boy letting off his fireworks. His mother had gone down to the valley and he had a fine time. The cowherd came in and they soon had their cigarettes alight and he proved himself a competent cook.
It was a lovely day, we should have been away on a climb; we got up, breakfasted and packed slowly, and then down to the valley, this time having milk in the chalet half way.
Then down in the valley we stopped, and separated, Bob and Alan to Göschenen for more stores, and the rest of us up to the Voralp hut. We went firstly along the road and then turned off to the right before the works – we never found out why they were developing the valley – up by rather delightful cascades, to the more level part, with its flowers, and its delightful photographic opportunities. I was easily in the rear this day – couldn't keep up, but what did I care. I'd had my climb, it was enough for one holiday. Eventually I reached the others, picnicking near the water. I had one slice of bread and butter and paté and then went back to retake a photo I had over-exposed when I had first taken it. Eventually we continued up. By now the little box of a hut was visible, on a spur in the mid-distance. Again I brought up the rear, but this time John kept me company. I felt we had the best of it. On the way we passed a hawf, in which a young man and boy were seated. John and I were some time discussing whether to ask them for milk, supposing they were only tourists. We were rewarded with two cups of milk. Unfortunately I hadn't washed out my water bottle, to fill it with the ice and onto the snow. The weather had taken a turn for the better, which amazed me, for it had looked so green and threatening half an hour before, but the improvement wasn't for long, and soon it started to snow in earnest; however, the intrepid English continued up with only one faint heart in the party. We kept on the snow close under the rocks, and then came to a bergschrund or so. By the time it was John's turn, the steps had worn a little thin so he made a sensible diversion to another crossing place to the right and I followed him. Alan behind bashed straight up the old route and he and John arrived at the same time at the place where the routes joined; John stood aside for Alan to go forward, and Alan accepted this and he and Pat overtook us which was wrong of them, as they were a slower rope. Just after this those ahead had taken to the rocks; Keith asked permission to throw down a loose rock and was told to leave it where it was. Alan was the next one along that way and he sent the rock down. It was coming straight for me, as I stood in steps on the steep snow. It was difficult to jump out of the way and instinctively my left hand went up to field it from my head. I was successful and although I felt a bruise in the palm of my hand, thought that no real damage had been done, until I saw my wrist. There was a cut about 1½ inches long and it seemed to have gone through several layers of skin. It never hurt, but I was annoyed. I could only think of the scar it would leave, and I've begun to think that I have my share of scars! Pat put a large elastoplast dressing on it and a bandage on top and then we were ready to proceed. I found I had a reluctance to use that hand; I felt nothing of the cut, but the palm was painful, and each time that hurt I felt that I was doing harm to the wrist, pulling the cut apart. Eventually it was my turn to mount the rocks and join the others, who were having a council of war. Bob and Keith ahead talked of dreadful overhangs and I think that Stan was having second thoughts with this party, and my cut was the final straw. The order was given to retreat. It was rather awkward that on the ice the traverses were to the left, and my left hand was useless, but we were down sooner than I expected and then I wondered about the time and realised that my watch strap must have been cut by the stone. I immediately gave up the watch as lost. A lot of snow had fallen, if the watch had landed on the glacier, and it had probably gone down between the rocks and the glacier.
And so back to the hut for hot drinks and bed.
The day in was disastrous for our meagre food supplies and in the afternoon John was prevailed upon to go down to the cowherds' hut from where he returned with a kilo loaf, besides milk. The 'little man' was also able to let us have some packets of Ryvita type of biscuit.
That evening the little man departed, leaving Bob in charge of cooking, and wasn't Bob in his element! As Stan said, we were short of food, and out of nothing Bob produced a delicious 3-course meal. Of course, I did nothing but criticise – too much pepper in the soup, but I enjoyed the spaghetti and meat and certainly the macaroni milk pudding and stewed dried fruit was a change.
'They' looked out in the small hours, but the verdict was that the weather wasn't good enough. How relieved I was, for it seemed crazy to me to start on such a long traverse without food. We got up at a civilised hour, breakfasted and cleared up, and then set off separately to take photos on the way down. What wonderful opportunities there were, with the Sastenhorn occasionally coming out of the clouds, and then all the flowers, chocolate coloured gentians, globe flowers – how was I to know that I'd over-expose all these, and then the yellow anemones, but the sun had gone by this time, although I waited some time before giving up. I was last by this time, had gone on for about a quarter of an hour before I realised that I had lost my supplementary lens, for which I returned to the anemones and found it. I was hurrying down, but caught Pat up relatively quickly. I had been thinking of my shame if, through me 'they' lost their train at Göschenen!
Pat and I hadn't been long on the road before a jeep came along. There was hardly time to thumb it, but it stopped and gave us a lift to the village; as we passed the others I tried to give a dignified wave. I didn't want to gloat, but I didn't want to ignore them just because I was sitting in a jeep and they were walking.
There was so much I wanted to know. What was going on up the valley, the significance of the piece of rock the passenger put in his K.L.M. bag etc., but I didn't dare say a word, for I was quite deaf – a combination of loss of altitude and my cold, I think. The only thing I understood was when the man said in English "Are you Dutch?".
Pat and I had ices in the usual place and soon the others came along and we made our way to the station. There were a couple of hours to wait for the train, so we went in the buffet; the 3rd class was a little crowded, so we went in the 1st and had a pleasant meal. As usual I had all the courses which were going.
During the meal we made out a shopping list and passed it round for everyone's approval. "Ridiculous", said Bob. We asked him to make constructive criticisms and all he could say was that there was too much bread and too much cheese, so we ignored him and Diane and I went to the shops to buy. I seemed to be getting on particularly well with my German in the second shop. Afterwards I found out why, the woman spoke English and could understand all my asides! Dried milk was the only thing which seemed unobtainable, and we bought 6 kilos of bread!
We got ourselves and our luggage on the train to Andermatt, changed trains there, and again had to cross the river to the second train, where the bridge was down. Arrived at Gletch where we were disappointed to find that there was no bus over the Grimsel Pass, but the others seemed to think that we could easily walk it. Stan wanted to get to the Dollfus hut, about 4 hours from the Grimselsee, and it seemed too far to me, so I made enquiries about staying at the Grimsel and the man at the station told us to go to the second hotel.
At last all our luggage was labelled and sent to Brig, and we were ready to set off up the pass – 1½ hours the man had said up the pass. I was dreading it, and started well back in the party, but once we'd started and it became a challenge, I went as fast I could without discomfort. We took the footpath up – much quicker than the road and after 40 minutes we arrived at the top with, on my part, a feeling of intense satisfaction. It was rather dreary up there, just as I'd imagined, a few places with souvenirs and a low mist, but a rather lovely effect with the sun coming through the mist and shining onto the green lake.
We went round the side of the lake and then left the road, continuing along the north side of the lake. Fortunately, a Swiss called us back, for we hadn't reached the Grimselsee, were only at the Totesee. He was doubtful of our chances of reaching the hut that night, even offered us blankets on the floor of his hut, but the others weren't tempted, were all for pushing on. We took short cuts down to the real Grimselsee – a ghastly green colour, with a modern dam at the end. Then we came to the road leading up to the Hospice. There was a notice about it and it mentioned lager accommodation for 1.80 fr. It was spitting with rain by this time, and some of the party were very tired, had been lagging, and it was obvious that some would be staying there, so we all decided to do so – although I still had the feeling that I had energy to burn.
We went in much too respectable an entrance, to a desk where obviously English would be spoken and the receptionist agreed that we could have cheap accommodation (actually we had separate beds and we paid 4 fr each with odds and ends). This settled, the receptionist listened to our wrangling over time of departure. "Three o'clock" said Stan; "7 o'clock ", I countered, to which Stan replied that it might as well be 11 o'clock as 7 o'clock, for there wouldn't be time for a peak that day. When the receptionist heard that we were for the Dollfus hut, he said that we must take the boat along the lake, but had second thoughts when he heard about the 3 o'clock start. He rang up the boatman who didn't think that at all out of the way. Why was everything going Stan's way? – then he had to ring off while we made up our minds, but eventually we all agreed to be called at 3 o'clock and take the boat at 4 o'clock. The poor receptionist was a little doubtful about his ability to wake us at 3 o'clock and also more than a little doubtful about our obtaining breakfast at that hour, but the one thing he was certain of was that the boatman wouldn't let us down.
And so up to our bedroom (with hot and cold) and our normal wrangling over food. I was all for buying a meal, for I never have got an appetite for this hut food, and eventually all but Diane and Pat came down to the dining room where we mostly had ham and egg, with suitable liquid refreshment.
Hearing that the radiators were hot, I washed my hair, socks and shirt, but I was expecting a little too much of the radiators. Bob used them to better purpose; he filled the metal water bottles with ovosport and put them to get hot.
We woke at 3 a.m. and the ovosport was delicious, and helped down the bread and butter and jam. Half way through breakfast, the poor little Swiss, looking rather doped, came along to wake us. We were at the boat house at 3.55 and no sign of the man, so I started banging on the metal doors and shutters, but punctually at 4 o'clock he appeared and we boarded the little boat, and were taken in the dim light to the eastern end of the lake.
It was a steep way up from where we landed, but eventually we reached the path, and I took off my duvet and we started for the hut. Soon the path led onto the moraine and, after a long time we reached the left bank (true) of the glacier and started up to the hut. What a slog it was. No-one said a word, we were all in the same mood – definitely not the time of day for getting to a hut. I remember how my sac infuriated me, how mean I thought the others. I didn't eat a third of my share of the food we bought, yet not only did I pay my share, but I carried it up on my back, besides my rope etc.
Round about 7 o'clock we reached the hut, unguarded, and quite pleasant. There were a couple in residence and we took a dislike to them when we found that they wanted all the water the fire could heat, before we could make some tea. Our party relaxed over breakfast, and I'd quite forgotten about the peak we were supposed to be climbing. How glad I was that Stan reminded us – all but Pat, Alan and Bob, who wanted to finish their night's sleep. We set out, traversing in an easterly direction, for patches of boiler plate slabs prevented our going straight up. A little path led to a glacier, and we started to ascend this, and the weather deteriorated, and it was soon raining. Soon the obvious way bore to the left, but not Stan, who was in front; he went straight up, looking at the rocks, glacier smooth and quite impossible under those conditions – crazy I thought, until he stepped over the snow into shelter beneath it. "I'm in the dingy" he said, and so I was introduced to that expression. I quickly followed him, I'm a born member of that club!
We were rewarded and soon the weather brightened, and we continued up the snow until we got onto the west ridge of the Hühnerstoch (I didn't learn the name until I got back!). It was obvious that the worst difficulties were avoidable on the N side, but the look of the ridge direct rather terrified me, for I imagined myself climbing one handed. When I set out I found that even the weight of my ice axe in my left hand made it hurt, but once on the rock, which I found difficult, I put my left hand on the holds (just in case) and then found myself using it and by the time I got down, it was heaps better, although it was nearly a month before I got my full power back in it.
The rocks were very wet and this made the lichen on them slippery for vibrams. After the first we were able to get onto the edge and, after a delightful varappe, arrived at the summit. Between showers the mist would come and go and we could see a second summit further west. I was delighted with my peak and thought of conserving my energies for the next day, but not so Stan, to whom it never occurred not to go up the second peak. I enjoyed this next part; it reminded me a little of the Nonne, but there was more technical interest here. First one side, then the other, a move or so a cheval, and so down to the col and up to the next summit, where we skirted a quite impossible gendarme.
We signed the gipfel book on one of the summits, not noticing any other English names, and then continued down in the same direction. At the next little col I was relieved to see snow down about 50 ft of easy rocks to the left, so there was a quick way down to the glacier after all, but not for Stan; he pointed to snow on the right and said that would be a more sporting way, and so I said nothing. Soon he and Diane were out of sight, and we followed, John in front and Keith bringing up the rear. I was the slow one, I'm afraid. The ridge was everything which is bad, loose rock, and that which was sound was made slimy with wet lichen, and good belays few and far between. We seemed to go down for hours and I imagined Stan and Diane home by this time, and then we saw them, not far below us, and made down to a belay above the steep part. I suggested that we reversed the order, and Keith went first – John said afterwards that he spent 2 hours on that stance!
I joined Keith at a lower stance, and then Keith went on – I was left with a belay, but had to stand straddled with my feet about 4 ft apart, and I think I stayed in this position about 1½ hours. I was quite wet, and at times shivering violently. Keith started down, but seemed unable to move without sending down stones, so he had to wait until the other two were out of the line of fire. Diane eventually got down, but Stan wasn't happy on it, without a top rope, so he put a peg in and eventually rappelled. Nobly he left his rope behind for us, and he and Diane went down the last pitch unroped. Eventually Keith could start again, but seemed unable to make any progress, so I got him to come up and change places with me on the rope. I was so cold and stiff I could hardly move, but I went down slowly but surely and untied for the others to join me. A quick descent of the rappel and then I waited for a top rope for the last pitch. It was quite easy, but the holds weren't incut and water was streaming down one part.
Very soon we were on the snow and coiling the ropes – next stop 'home'! John was soon way and out of sight. Keith stayed with me, and I found his chatter about 'trough' as bad as his whistling during the 2 hour wait; however, I was glad of company for the way was by no means as easy as we'd hoped. We wandered along the grass patches between the boiler plates, but sometimes had to go up to get round the rocks. The trouble was we had no idea how far to the east we needed to go. We wandered this way and that and then, in a clearing in the weather, Keith saw the hut below, and soon we got onto the line of the water pipe and followed that down – we were by no means the first people to have gone that way.
What a funny reception back at the hut. Certainly a cup of tea was thrust into my hands as soon as I appeared – what more could I ask – but before I'd had a chance to drink it, soup was served. It was practically solid and far too salty for me, so I asked if it was the main course – I know this because it was quoted against me afterwards! I didn't make much progress with this, let alone the rather dried corned beef and spaghetti which followed. They had misunderstood the rations and didn't realise that there was a loaf for the evening. Alan seemed determined to pick a quarrel with me. I remember going into the dormitory where Stan and Diane had already taken their places and asking what had happened to the hut party, so Stan reminded me how tedious a day in a hut was. I could only think thank heavens for the Hühnerstoch, one of the most pleasant surprises I have ever had. We'd never heard of it, just went vaguely up in the mist and then found that delightful ridge. We were wet, but somehow felt exhilarated because of minor discomforts. If only Stan hadn't spoiled it, by wanting too much!
We were up at about 4 o'clock and away in about an hour and a half. What a different sort of morning. It was colder – good sign, and not a cloud in the sky. We descended to the glacier, photographed the alpine dawn on the Lauteraar horn and then started the long plod up the Thierberg glacier – putting crampons on before we started on the snow. What a wonderful morning, with verglas on the rocks where rivulets had crossed them – all the same it needed a steady alpine pace to get us up – nearly 3,000 ft of plodding. The party divided into two, Stan, Diane, Bob and John in front and Keith, Pat and Alan behind. I was in the middle trying my hardest to catch up the front party, but of the first four, only Bob had a rope, so I knew they couldn't manage without mine!
Originally it had been suggested that we made for the col over to the Oberaar Glacier, and then possibly up the ridge to the peak, but those ahead turned west before the col, obviously making for the North Ridge of the Schenchzerhorn. The sun was hot by this time – were we early enough to negotiate the cornice? We all actually gathered together, to apply face cream etc. and I was able to take a photo or so of that glorious view to the east – with some early morning mist in the valleys, everything I wished – if only I could have named a few peaks.
Stan and Diane went first, followed by Bob, myself and John. The steps up were alright at first, but near a rock outcrop it became icy and impossible to belay. Then Stan traversed north until the cornice petered out, and moved swiftly up, but not so Bob; he went straight up from the rocks, and had fun flogging his way through the cornice, and all those behind followed him.
What a wonderful moment, the view over the ridge. Firstly the fluted snow leading up to the summit of our Schenchzerhorn took an age, but soon I was looking across to the Finsteraarhorn and Lauteraarhorn, but the plodding wasn't all behind us. We continued on, firstly in a southerly direction and then followed Stan's very crooked steps southwest to the true summit, arriving round about 10 o'clock, I expect. There were more wonders in the view from here. A long way away (so I thought) was the Oberaarhorn, with its steep South Ridge going up from the pack with our next hut, and then right in the distance to the left of it, were the Valaisian peaks – where else are there peaks of such character. There is never any mistaking the Weisshorn, Matterhorn etc. and this time we could also pick out the Mischabel and Alphubel, as well as the Monterosa Group.
We sat and ate our bread ration (we were well ahead) and opened a couple of tins of sardines, and then we began to realise that we hadn't the mountain to ourselves. Rope after rope approached from the Oberaar Glacier. Sometimes there'd be an interval and we'd think they must all have arrived, and then there'd still be several more ropes to come – a party of 31! - of all nationalities. One guide turned round and noticed that his client was axeless and asked him what he'd done with it. It was an American voice which replied that he thought it would be in the way, so he left it below! We guessed rightly that they were from the Alpine school at Rosenlaine.
Eventually we also thought of moving down. Stan pointed out the ridge to the Oberaarhorn as our way. Ridiculous I thought, it would take several days. I was wrong, we heard afterwards that it is a 10 hour traverse. People are supposed to belittle distances in the alps. I find I magnify them.
After the first snow – offering cornice photos, came the rock – not altogether sound, but I enjoyed it. It seemed predictable, and of course I was between Bob and John, so very well placed. We moved mostly two and one. Down and then up to the first rocky peak – this tried to sport a gipfel book, but it only consisted of loose sheets of paper, so even I couldn't be bothered to look through the names.
Alan's party went down before the summit and we had fun watching them cross the bergschrund, at one time it seemed to us that all three were standing together on the bridge.
The rest of us continued on down. I had seen that it was possible to descend after the next snow peak, but when Bob suggested going down before the snow peak I was surprised, but didn't oppose it; better that than to follow Stan too far. There was some rotten rock, then some glacier ranunculae to photograph, and then the crossing of the Bergschrund. "Go on, you can walk across it's firm" was Bob's advice from the rear, fortunately John had more sense, a few slashes from his axe exposed a hole – Bob wasn't the least apologetic. John jumped as far as he could and then slid until he was (theoretically) on safe ground and then I followed, and lastly Bob.
The plod down and then up to the hut didn't take as long as I expected and we arrived at about 2 o'clock. I noticed a few flowers on the rocks and was gong to give myself an afternoon of photography, but we went in for tea and soup first. I think it is the dirtiest alpine hut I've ever seen, but he was quite a kindly guardian and spoke a little English. The others went upstairs to bed and I was lingering, looking at the map on the wall, when the guardian gave me an opening to tell him of our adventuring, and I broached my secret ambition, to ascend the Oberaarhorn, before descending the next day. The guardian didn't think this at all daring, he said it was only 1½ hours up and we could do it now! – so much for that incredibly steep ridge! I went up and told the others and, without a murmur they got up and put on their boots to come. Actually it took 40 minutes up. It wasn't a pleasant way, firstly up loose rock, and then up very soft snow – but I wasn't kicking the steps! On the top we posed for silly group photographs, but we also took them of the gorgeous peaks all around, particularly of the Finsteraarhorn, which became my next ambition, if only I could find a suitable party. I thought John would be interested; I doubted if Pat and Alan would be, and Bob was asleep in the hut, and seemed to be "proper poorly".
I waited until Stan and Diane came back before getting information, and by then it was too late.
Down again we took to the dormitory and a jolly party of young French speaking Swiss arrived back; they were laughing and joking, some I heard telling tall tales of grand surploads. We must have seemed a very dull party to them, subdued and talking in whispers. It wasn't until the next breakfast with Stan and Diane back that we could also laugh and joke, but our tall tales were of rotten ridges and icy gullies.
We went down for supper, but found that the other two had the spaghetti, and there was no sign of them. Eventually we found a little rice, and the hut keeper added to it, and we made our meal of that.
The funniest thing was about 9 o'clock when Bob came in and announced that Stan and Diane had arrived. All the Swiss got as excited as could be and trouped out to see, while the phlegmatic English sat on and continued their supper, only bothering to see that there was some tea ready for the late-comers. And so to bed, with no time for arrangements for the Finsteraarhorn.
I got up at about 7 o'clock and cut the bread and butter and jam (the jam was short, so it had to be rationed). Eventually the others got up and we heard again the tale of the Long Ridge, and the decision to turn back at the foot of the Oberaarhorn, as they didn't know whether the last part would go – the attempted descent of the icy gully, the retreat, and then the re-traversing along the horrid rotten ridge until they reached an easy snow way down.
The guardian told us that we couldn't go down the Fischer Glacier, that we'd have to go over the Galmilüche, but when he said that the pass to the south of that was a little quicker, we decided on that; unfortunately we found ourselves on the Galmilüche! It was a pleasant snow plod up, not too long, and then there was the usual problem of roping. Bob seemed in a hurry, and he eventually bullied Diane, Keith and me onto his rope. A short descent over rock and we were above the Bergschrund. I belayed Bob over and then we had our usual argument as he expected me to follow him before Keith or Diane were belayed. On the glacier I suggested that Diane set the pace which she did very well, but Stan said that it looked as though the two ends of our rope weren't on speaking terms; there was Keith on top of Diane, then a long length of rope before me and then Bob on top of me. It might have been an easy glacier, but I don't approve of coils being carried on any glacier.
At the end of the glacier the two ropes got together, the map gave us no help of the way off, but on the outside of the bend an easy snow slope led down to the grass and, as Bob cut down, I thought it a good idea, although I couldn't see where the grass led. Stan took the other rope to the other side of the glacier, muttering about whoever heard of taking the outside of a bend in a glacier.
I followed, slowly and doubtingly, but the way 'went' – then it steepened. It was necessary to use the hands and seemed to get steeper, so Diane and I roped. I couldn't understand why Diane called me down after such a short pitch, but when I joined her I found that Bob had fixed a rappel. From the number of slings, we were by no means the first party down this way. The boys went down the spare rope hand over hand, but we preferred to rappel properly. Another two pitches of scrambling and we were down and coiling the rope. While we were rappelling, we were disappointed to see a figure glissading down a tongue of snow on the other side of the valley. He was followed by another figure, and then at an interval by two more. Apparently they'd had to put on crampons to get down the ice, but then they'd found this snow instead of our rappel, and had the laugh on us.
There was one rather nasty stream crossing, but Bob was kindly waiting to direct us – camera poised, of course!
Further down there were patches of snow on which the sheep congregated and I thought they'd make a foreground for a photo looking back over our route. Unfortunately each time that horrid bearded man was before me and frightened the sheep away.
An so, through lovely flower meadows to Münster, where the party split into the milk and beer drinkers, until it was time to catch the train to Brig.
At Brig at 5.30, Bob, Keith and I hurried out to a watch shop, for this was my last opportunity of buying a watch in Switzerland. Unfortunately the two shops I had remembered were shut, but we went in a smaller one kept by a woman and her daughter, and we got on famously with our mixture of languages. I eventually chose a Consul for 760 fr. Automatic, not self winding is the word in Switzerland. She kept asking me how much I wanted to pay – it was difficult to say that price was a minor consideration.
Then back to the station, to join the party by the luggage, and soon the return of those who had done the booking. The Simplon was full, but we were in the hotel Müller; the three of us had a room together with hot and cold, so we were in the dingy, never mind those in the single rooms with no running water!
We got our luggage to the hotel – much too posh, and then a lift to take us up and then our bedroom, a room to sort out our things, wash all over, and put on clean clothes. Diane even had a bath. Then we were ready for a meal, our first meal since breakfast, and also the last meal the whole party would have together; we wanted to go somewhere special, and we hadn't been too impressed with the place we'd been to last time. We soon decided on the Simplon. We'd had a good breakfast there, they seemed to understand us, and we were regretting not staying there.
There was no menu outside, but we decided to chance it. We could choose whether we had beef, pork, veal etc. and it was a good meal and very reasonable. We didn't neglect the liquid side either. I started with a Martini, and it went straight to my head, but as I began the unusual occupation of eating, my head got no worse however much I drank. For the meal the majority decided on a red wine, but Diane preferred white. She assured us that the Johannesburgh was a red wine and we ordered it, of course it was white, but we enjoyed it nevertheless. Then to finish I had a kirsch. A few local people came in, and there was music. Someone even asked Diane to dance but she refused. The boys were drinking beer, and as I sat on I began to feel thirsty, at first I filled my liqueur glass with beer, but soon got on to larger glasses, but I knew what I was doing when the bill came. I could split it up according to the amount of drink everyone had had – no mean feat! Pat, Alan and John had slipped away early, but the rest of us felt like celebrating; however, at about midnight we began to feel we were no longer wanted at the Simplon, and we wandered out in the direction of the skittle alley. Most of the town was asleep, so Stan said we'd better go to the place they'd visited with Anthea, and the four of us crept in, to be followed by Keith a few minutes later. We sat round a table, Diane next to the wall and Stan between her and the Swiss – a necessary barrier, but the other side it was Bob who sat next to the wall and I was left among the Swiss. "You'll have to lean on Bob", Stan whispered, but Bob made it obvious he'd give no support; they asked who he was and I'd say "my friend", trying to put a lot of meaning into that word. I don't know whether he'd heard the Swiss say "I'd kill him if necessary", but he immediately said that he was my brother!
There were many strange characters, there was the one who tried to show his party piece of putting his leg behind his head – unfortunately he fell over! Then there was Bob's friend in the white cap who came from Disentis, who repeatedly said goodbye and shook hands all round and, in a few minutes, would be back. He and Bob had singing matches, but he didn't hide the fact that he wasn't impressed by Bob's efforts. There was quite a sane man next to me. He soon had the other two christened 'Gypsy' and 'Christ'.
The boys had beer, Stan produced two bottles for Diane and me. I had the best of it, a liqueur Crème de Banane, Diane had a longer drink of Gentiane. Again, I took to beer to quench my thirst and then when the Swiss gave us wine, there were most urgent entreaties from Keith for me not to drink it, but nothing seemed to affect me as much as the first martini this night. At 3 o'clock we again began to feel we weren't wanted, and they refused to serve us with more wine, so we went. How lucky the boys were, that they had Diane and me to support them. The hotel was locked and we had to ring for the night porter, who asked us to be quiet – what a hope with those two, but in the bedroom Diane and I crept in the dark, so as not to wake Pat – until I tripped over the waste paper basket left in the middle of the floor.
Diane was up at 6.30, but couldn't wake the boys and didn't try for long, as the day was overcast. Her original plan was to bathe at Lausanne. We all had breakfast – they didn't understand our appetites, and then caught the train about 9.30 to Martigny, where in a slight drizzle the two parties separated, John, Pat, Alan and I to go on for a last week at Chamonix. We decided not to go to a hut that day and to catch a later train, having a meal in Martigny first.
What a disappointment, the tops were in mist for those superb views on the run into Chamonix, but I've know conditions to be worse.
There weren't any familiar faces at the Biolay, but we met Roger Chorley on his way there after the Peuterey.
There had been a violent storm in the night – it had even woken me up at times, but the morning looked like clearing up. We shopped, arranged our luggage, cooked a meal and, much later than we intended, we caught the train to Monenvers and made our way to the Couvercle. I think Alan realised that there was more scope there, than at the Requin hut. It only took a couple of hours to get there and the views were superb, unfortunately the mist came down before we got the evening light on the Grand Jorasses. The guardian was talking to Jimmy Marshall and Archy, but he soon saw me and asked me what we were doing; he said that if we wanted a snow peak, we could do the Triolet, or for a rock peak the Nonne. We agreed on the Triolet. Derek's friend Peter was there; I told him that the Nonne traverse was worth doing. As soon as I'd heard Pat and Alan were going to Chamonix I'd started to tell them about the Nonne – "Even in a snow storm it'll still go", I'd said and I could see it coming nearer. in fact in the valley I'd told people I was going to the hut to make my fourth traverse of the Nonne!
Jimmy Marshall was ahead making steps – no mean feat in the soft snow; we were following slowly, seeming to get further and further behind. Then the steps traversed to the left and we saw the two Scots only just ahead, flogging up the very deep snow among the rocks to the side, for the rimage seemed to go across the glacier. We followed slowly, a jump down, and then up, having occasional belays at first, but then we came to a traverse across bare ice, and then gradually we reached a part where snow covered the ice, but it was quite a while before it was thick enough to be of much use, and longer still before it provided adequate belays. We were all four on one rope – 120 ft. Next we traversed back to the (true) left of the glacier and up onto the snow ridge which we followed up to above the icefall. Again the snow wasn't in the best conditions, belays often being unobtainable; there was a patch half way up with rocks coming through the snow and, although the snow beneath the new stuff was quite icy, at least rock belays were usually obtainable. We moved one at a time up this part, and then went all together, although the way steepened considerably, higher up. Then the steep part was over, quite a gentle slope in front of us, oh joy. We crossed the snow field but began to realise what was in front of us. It had been very cold all day. The guardian had said that we ought to have started an hour earlier, but that he wouldn't call us because it would be too cold; I hadn't found it too bad, but Alan had stopped on the way up to rub one of his feet and he said afterwards that he got a touch of frostbite in the one he didn't rub. As we got near the col, there was a bitingly cold wind, which was whipping up the new snow and stinging our faces. Even I put up my hood. We hurried down a small bank of snow and then round the rocks where we got a little shelter from the wind. Here we got several surprises, firstly that the Scotsmen were only just ahead, and then by the distance and apparent difficulty of the way to the summit. Next we were surprised to see Jimmy turn back and try a different line – he repeated this three times, and as Alan said, they were perfect Scottish winter conditions and if Scotland's best mountaineer was finding it so difficult ….. Then we saw that they were turning back altogether, so we finished our bite to eat, and did the same. How sorry I was that the film in my camera had come out of the cassette. I took one with John's camera (borrowed from Bob) and then he took four more for me.
We were very slow getting down the steep part. Alan went first, belayed by Pat, and then I'd belay Pat down, usually as John was coming down as last man, i.e. we moved two at a time. It was hot on this side, sheltered from the wind, and the snow was starting to soften, but eventually we were down the rocks and all moving together then across the glacier to the icy part. I had been rather disconcerted to see the others two rappelling down; how sorry I was that we hadn't climbed on the spare rope, for then we'd have had enough for the rappel. We had to descend the way we'd come up. John belayed and let us down one at a time, and then he came, moving beautifully, enlarging the steps where necessary. Then I was the first to go down the next part (another long run-out got us into the rimage and then I was making a high step up onto the lower part of the glacier and finding a pleasant spot to sit and await the others. I was in the dingy, for the snow was rapidly coming off the overhanging rocks, and occasionally it brought down stones with it. Our route wasn't yet in the line of fire, but I was glad to be out of the danger zone.
Back to the hut for food, more food and early to bed, resolved to try our fortunes on the Nonne the next day.
I got up at 7 o'clock. We had decided to have our sleep out, but I hadn't bargained for the capacity the others had for sleep. It was nearly 9 o'clock before we set out; we knew that the Nonne would have many parties on it, and had decided it would be better to be well behind, but I thought this rather too much of a good thing, especially as we had to wait at the foot for a party descending, and I wondered how many more there'd be.
We seemed to have trouble getting started; Alan dropped something down a hole in the rimage, and tried to go down – he disappeared from sight on a rope, but couldn't see whatever it was. Next Alan retreated from the first pitch, both as leader and second, but Pat and I followed John up, and then Alan got up round to the left. I tied onto John's rope, and we started up, moving one at a time, and then we started having fun, John deliberately choosing strenuous cracks, but we had no trouble on them, being Salbitschyn trained, our motto was, when in doubt lay-back, and it worked very well. Pat and Alan were leading through and were left behind. After we'd crossed the couloir, we passed another party on their way down, and they got very excited, seeing the way John was going, when the route obviously went at a lower level. "He likes difficult rocks" was the nearest I could get to explaining in French the reason for our choice of route. Then we rejoined the proper way as it began to get a little more interesting near the top, first a chimney to the right, then back to the left for another chimney and then the final pitch. I still found it awkward, despite the fact that I've led it a couple of times, but we were soon on the top and getting out the food and dividing it up, and awaiting Pat and Alan, taking good old English belays.
At one time it clouded over and a very fine sprinkling of snow fell, but soon the sun was out again, and a pleasant picnic was had before we arranged the rope for the rappel. John had collected a sling at the bottom, and here there were several yards of ¾ weight nylon which he also pocketed, using an old hemp sling through the peg. I was first down and felt that, as the rope was through a peg, I ought to start it properly, but my courage soon failed me and I lowered myself over the edge before starting. Pat was next and went over 'properly'; unfortunately she hadn't realised the difficulties and went down for 6 ft like a sack of potatoes. John was poised for a photograph of her, but hadn't time for it. Pat finished the rappel as calmly as though nothing had happened.
We again roped up in twos, and set out along the traverse. I had forgotten quite how easy it was technically, but the exposure doesn't get any less, and then we were walking along easy ledges, occasionally getting too low, and so to the Eveque-Nonne couloir, and so down to the glacier, and a quick run back to the hut to get on the primus.
I found that I was an object of interest when I announced at the hut that I'd made my fourth traverse of the Nonne! – but I had enjoyed the day, we'd been very slow on it, which showed that it wasn't too easy for all the party, and I'm always pleased to show people 'my' Nonne.
On the way down I'd mentioned to John a few of my ambitions and plans, so he knew what I was getting at during our discussion over supper. Originally I had intended to climb guided at Chamonix, as Alan was only doing things I'd done before, but with the weather I knew good things would be out of the question, so I'd filled in time at the Couvercle.
On Wednesday morning I knew quite well that I ought to go down and fix up with a guide, but I was beginning to suspect that Pat and Alan were losing their enthusiasm and I thought if they decided to go to Paris that would leave me with John for whom I had high hopes.
I suggested that the next peak for the others could be the Requin, but sure enough Pat and Alan weren't interested, so then I suggested to John the Frontier Ridge of Mont Maudit, thinking that if we were slow we could turn back after Mont Maudit. Alan was a little shocked at this, but we went to bed determined to descend the next morning to Chamonix, shop and take the teleferique up to the Midi.
Despite an early night, we didn't get up until about 8 o'clock, and were later than I'd expected getting away. John and I went on and walked all the way to Chamonix – the walk from Montenvers was a mistake I think! Then we drank milk in the Biolay and looked at the guidebook. I was rather horrified to find that even Mont Maudit was 9-13 hours from the Torino hut and that perhaps the Brenva would be an easier alternative. We went into town, changed money, looked at the posters affirming that the teleferique really ran, shopped for the great expedition, 2 ice pegs! and also for a meal there and then. Looking back at the Biolay, Pat and Alan arrived and also Jimmy Marshall called in. He was in a very chatty mood and started telling tales in the best Biolay tradition. I haven't heard the like since Mac was last there! I don't know why, but when he was talking of accidents he was looking straight at me! Had he heard of my reckless suggestions to John? – for I was beginning to have second thoughts!
Jimmy went into great detail of the English losing their way on the Plan and going up the snow of the Pain de Sucre and coming off and being helped down by the two Scots. Then he started with tales against himself, how with one of those same Scots he'd come off on snow, while making for the Crocodile; fortunately his leader had a good rock belay. Then he gave a most amusing account of rappelling on thin nylon on the Grépon. They'd knotted the nylon and Jimmy had mistaken the end of the rope for another knot, and had rappelled off the end of it; fortunately again he had a lifeline above him. He said that, although there was so much snow, the rimages were in bad condition, so I asked him about the condition of snow higher up, and he admitted it ought to be perfect (the Couvercle guardian had said the same) so we still decided to carry out our plan.
Much too late we walked down to Les Pelerins and took the Teleferique up to Plan de l'Aiguille. We were the only mountaineers in the car. At the top I made my way over to the booking office and asked for two more tickets for the second stage, only to be told that the teleferique 'ne marche pas'. I felt such a fool, I felt that I must have been the only persons in Chamonix not knowing that it didn't run and here we were stuck; they said it might be going again in a week! We sat down and looked at maps, it wasn't very cheering. I had had as a second string the Southeast on the Blaitière, but after Jimmy's tales I had thought that a little foolish – oh why couldn't the weather break as Jimmy had said it would!
We decided to go to Montenvers, then see if we went on to the next hut or stayed there for the NNE on the 'M'.
I was rather thrilled to walk that path again, and point out the sights to John and at about 5 o'clock we reached Montenvers. We put coins in the telescope and John examined the snow of the Spencer Couloir, to report no steps in it. That decided us against the Blaitière. The rocks were absolutely plastered, and if no-one had been up the couloir it looked as though that was in bad condition, in other words there'd be no easy way down, if we arrived late on the summit. We made our way to the hotel and registered for the dortoir, being shown into a filthy room. There was a sink in one corner and near this we proceeded to cook our supper. Soon a Swiss party were shown in. They also cooked, but they brought wine from Montenvers, also glasses and plates.
They were quite interesting. They had been up the Roc that day. I had fun with them, I said we were for the l'M that we'd already been turned on the Triolet and had done the Nonne. They nodded understandably, and then one of them showed me his guidebook saying that that was my peak. I couldn't resist pointing out our route. Obviously he didn't know that it has the reputation for being over-rated, and was rather shocked to see two Vs and looked a little unbelieving. So soon I started talking Salbitchyn-Sudgrat to him. He consoled me about the Teleferique. He'd hardly believe me that it wasn't running, said that it had run in July – so I wasn't the only fool not to know.
The next two people shown in included Wrangham and there was some fuss as to whether there was room for them, but eventually things sorted themselves out. After about half an hour, he said to us, "Are you English too"! and so to bed.
I looked out about 6 o'clock, but there seemed no reason for calling John,. There had been a thunderstorm in the night, everything was soaking and the showers continued. About 8.30, I was hungry and enjoyed about 4 slices of bread and butter and honey (normally I have to force even one down). Then I made tea and woke John who had just about slept the clock round.
It was still showery so we trained down to Chamonix and did some shopping – John bought a sac, I bought new grey pantalon, then we bought food for a meal back at the Biolay. Back at Snells in the afternoon to collect the pantalon, I met first Ray Handley and party, had left the Dolomites to find better weather at Chamonix, and then Alan Blackshaw; he said he was travelling back that evening and would see us on the train.
We caught the 8.20, Alan having called at the Biolay – the weather was certainly weeping for our departure. The train was crowded, but John and I got on a carriage attached to the end of the train.
At St. Gervais the Paris train was waiting and practically all the seats were reserved. Alan got me a seat in an unreserved compartment and then found that his compartment was completely reserved; fortunately a lady in my compartment said that there were three other empty seats, so we all got together.
Although I wasn't hearing Alan's tales at the Biolay, they were in the best of Biolay traditions. After much talk of bivouacs I'd ask him how much his bivouac equipment weighed and he replied that, as a matter of fact, he didn't have any equipment, made do with a cycle cap and spare pair of socks. His last climb had been the North Face of the Triolet – 5½ hours – record time; they had the use of the steps of the party the day before – took 19½ hours! It led to my jokes – no wonder he didn't look suntanned, doing all his climbing at night and on north faces! His 13½ hour on the Northeast Face of the Badile sounded a first-rate do – apparently it was very wet in patches. Geoff had to sacrifice a pair of socks to lead the crux.
They looked like getting benighted on the way down, but by tying all their ropes together they were able to do a 500 ft rappel onto the glacier, returning for their rope the next day.
He'd done 12 climbs in all, starting on easier things in the Dauphiné, being turned on the West Ridge of the Pichond de Cavales. I tried to show how shocked I was when he showed me the few dozen pegs he was bringing back. "Not for British rock?" I said. He exclaimed that when he got back, he'd be instructing Marines in cliff assault in Cornwall, and was hoping to practice his artificial technique on that granite. I had to admit that it sounded a good idea.
Soon we settled down to try to sleep, but how restless I became sitting up. I'd look around at the 'ordinary' people in the carriage, and they'd have their eyes closed and happy expressions on their faces and occasionally they might snore. Then I, despite all my courses in putting up with hardship, fidgeted one way and the other, and simply couldn't get comfortable. I often wonder how ordinary people would make out if they took up this mountaineering. I'm sure they have far more of the natural advantages required than I have. At about 3 o'clock the carriage emptied pretty well, Alan got on the floor and I was able to stretch out on a seat. What Bliss!
At Paris we had rather a lot of luggage so Alan suggested a taxi – it suited me; unfortunately we had a new one, the driver wouldn't even let me put my ice axe inside, and he would lift everything onto the roof himself (as far as he was able) and it cost about £1 instead of the 10/- we'd paid on the outward journey.
Alan knew his way about at St. Lazarre. He didn't make for the Station Buffet, but for a café where we had a long sit and three cups in all of that lovely milky coffee, besides croissants. It was rather unfortunate that at about 8 o'clock Alan's friend, Bob, realised that he had to cross from the Nord, and got a taxi, but I doubt if he was in time for the 8.15.
The journey to Dieppe went without incident and on the boat we met Bob Pettigrew. He'd had a week at Zermatt and got in the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa. I was enjoying him doing 'real' Alpine peaks, so Alan told me not to belittle the Salbitchyn. He said that from the tales Dave Thomas told about it, it must be pretty fierce. An uninspired English meal on the boat, a sit downstairs in the first class, before joining the gang of climbers on the deck.
For once we were waiting just right for the disembarkation, and I was soon through the customs (watch in pocket) and catching the train just before 5 o'clock to Brighton.