This story doesn’t involve any heroics or near disaster events…
It’s a pleasant and interesting drive from Huntingdon up to Hathersage. A good portion is on dual carriage motorways such as the M1 but there is a fair bit through medium and then smaller sized towns and villages with narrow country roads as you get into the Peak District proper. Narrow roads shared by lorries, sheep, and horses. Fortunately I had good directions and a semi-functioning SatNav. I traded breakfast for an early start. But even so it took about 3 hours to get to my destination. I got turned around a few times but eventually got it sorted out. I was looking for a small pull-out on the A6187, just west of the Fox House Inn. I found the spot and was chuffed to see that there was only one other car there. The parking was very limited, to maybe 4 or 5 vehicles at most.
It was overcast and grey, with a chill mist in the air; a typical English spring day, but there was a greenness that cut through that seemed to warm me somehow. This was a pilgrimage of sorts; to a place of legend as enthralling as that of any Arthurian tale. I didn’t have a sword, or a lance, or armor; but only a pair of 5.10 Anasazi’s, and a chalk bag. This was Burbage. This was Gritstone. This was bouldering pared down to its very essence. Even more so, as I had no pad, or no spotter, real old school, and for the time being only sheep as any company.
Over the years many of the greats climbed here; Johnny Dawes, John Dunn, Ben Moon, Ron Fawcett, Jerry Moffatt, to name just a few. This really was the stuff of legend. One of the really neat things about climbing that I think about from time to time is this: In virtually any other endeavor you cannot compete in world class venues, alongside world class athletes. I don’t care how much you like to play tennis, the chances that you can square off against Andre Agassi at Arthur Ashe in Flushing Meadows is between zero and less than zero. Likewise you will never get to fight against GSP at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, nor will you ever play hockey in Madison Square Gardens. But you (yes I mean you), or I, can at any time we want to, lace up our boots, and attempt to climb the best, or indeed virtually any climb in the world, that were put up by, or have been climbed by the very best in the game.
Gritstone however is something that must be experienced. You can read all about it, but until you actually touch it with your own hands and attempt to put boot rubber to it, you have no idea. It is truly amazing rock, and totally confounding at the same time. Thuggery will only avail you so far on Gritstone, and that isn’t very far at all. This is a thinking man’s rock, and requires precision, a calm heart and nerves of steel.
There were boulders everywhere, and for the time being I had this little universe to myself. I was like a kid in a candy store. There were so many problems, some looking plainly obvious, many others that were not obvious at all. I thought I would warm up on a 5+ which roughly translated to a V2. Huh? This can’t be right. Let me check the guidebook again. Nope it was right. Okay let’s try this other 5+. Crap, I can’t start this one either. 5? No. 4+? Finally something I can figure out. I am now especially appreciating the solitude, so there are no witnesses to me having my ass handed to me by a V0. After an hour or more, I finally start to perceive some of the nuances required here; some of the various keys and combinations that are required to open a few of the doors. Balance and footwork are not only rewarded but in most cases mandatory. Any given problem may involve blending with little pebbles and nubbins, small divots, and sloping rounded edges. Palming and plain old smearing are tried and true techniques here.
Once some of this comes together for me I start to actually feel the climbs and move from problem to problem with an increasing grin on my face. Too soon my solitude is broken as other climbers begin to show up. There is a lot of area here and so it doesn’t get crowded today. I talk for a bit with a couple of lads from Sheffield who share their coffee with me, and we take turns on a very tricky slab problem. Eventually we solve it, and then drift apart. This is a great day. I am back by myself wandering from problem to problem. Some I figure out easily, some take a bit longer, more I can’t understand at all, and most I don’t even think about trying. But it’s all good.
Eventually though fatigue sets in, my tips are trashed, and my toes hurt like hell, and then it’s over. But just as well as the mist has turned to a very light drizzle. This would have sent the folks back home scurrying, but here nobody missed a beat, and kept on climbing. The friction really is that good. I started my way leisurely back to the car when I noticed two roped climbers on the crag behind the boulders. Holy smokes… the leader was way out past his gear. I saunter up to the belayer and ask about the climb. It is called Masters of the Universe and rated E7 6c (5.13a/b). This guy is doing it in the rain. I can see the leader is really sweating bullets up there at what must be the crux. It takes him a long time to sack up and commit to the move. But he does and he’s on top in a flash.
I say goodbye and make my way to the car. It’s a three hour drive back to Cambridgeshire in the rain, but there is a warm pub waiting and a few pints of real ale in the bargain.