Ill Concieved Plans Poorly executed

EGCC Newsletter Thirty Eight

Bandit Country

It's a well-known fact that I don't get out much. It's not for lack of enthusiasm, you understand, just my condition in life. Wednesday evenings are reserved for the wall, which in itself is a pretty damning state of affairs, it being widely recognised for its debilitating atmosphere. So one Wednesday in the middle of May I called Mark and said, 'How about Buckmore Park?' 'Too far', said he, 'How about Stone Farm Rocks?'

'Oh hell! Bandit country!' I thought. 'Rain', I thought. 'Foot and Mouth', I thought. 'Good idea!' I said.

Now there is something you should know about Mark. Some people have a supermarket or a petrol station just down the road from where they live. Mark has Stone Farm Rocks. In consequence, nothing is just as it seems. Good holds are slopers. Sharp little incuts are slopers. Big jugs are slopers. Unless, of course, you know to hold it just so, with your foot like that, and your shoulders this way and not the other.

So I drove like a lunatic to get there (see paragraph 1, re condition in life and bath time for small people). The black clouds of Surrey gave way to the blue sky of Sussex and the lay-by was all but empty. So far so good: no red and white tape to say 'foot and mouth woz here' either. I walked up the path (no bicycle like at Harrisons, and so no danger of falling off into the nettles again either).

The cows looked concerned: gum inspector or climber? I had never been scrutinised and deemed harmless before by a herd of cows before. Put me in my place, that did.

Still, there was Mark. 23 years old and 8¾ stone, and looking strong, flexible and all that sort of discouraging stuff: double his age and take away the weight and you're not far off my age – that's my excuse and I'll stick to it until I think of a better one.

His route of choice (a warm up, you understand) had one of those useless-until-you've-fallen-off-it-five-times holds that slope in every direction except the least probable. 'You've been here before', I thought (I pick these things up quickly, you see). 'It was nice down here on Monday', he said. 'QED', I muttered to myself.

At this point the competitive urges began to stir. 'I'm taller than him, I've got a bigger reach, I was climbing when he was still wearing three-cornered trousers.'

Competitive urges or not, every other hold is still a sloper and every hold that isn't a sloper is damp, which sort of evened things out. So we came out about even (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). Which is to say that we had a blast, and got up some things and fell off others – well actually we fell off everything but got up some of them after the obligatory five manipulations of each hold. There were four other people at the crag, and it didn't rain and the view is nice and MAFF didn't shoot us or the cows, and so I might just go back again.

Adrian

BRYCS Competition

As Southern Climbers, wall climbing is something we are all familiar with. Some of us love it; the technicality of the moves, the formality of a fixed route. Some of us loathe it; a mere training aid to the larger picture. However this years BRYCS competition puts wall climbing into a league of its own.

Climbing events held at three London climbing wall test the skills of seven to fifteen year old up and coming Southern Climbers. Problems are divided into bouldering, top-roping and leading categories with the contestants themselves being organised into groups according to age and sex. Each contestant completes routes in each category gaining points for every successful move of each route. A grand total is reached allowing comparison from venue to venue and revealing winners of each category. The venue results are combined and the overall top three from each category go forward to UK finals being held at Sheffield.

Standards are high. Many of us would assume we would breeze a route designed for a seven year old but trust me, that may not be the case. And lead routes for thirteen to fifteen year olds? Well I think there'd be a few of us heading for the café before that rope got any near our harnesses! And if the standards are high, what about the pressures? Each route an on-sight, one try to get it right. Dealing with the pressures of competing in front of a hundred strong audience. Not too mention the fact that you've got your mum and dad scrutinising your every move – imagine that at Salfords!

Seriously though, the skill and tenacity of these young climbers is fantastic and to watch absolutely compelling. If you leave one of these competitions without having learnt something it can only be because you've never climbed. Too often we hear of the old passing knowledge down to the young. The BRYCS in many ways reverses this with the young showing an impressive determination, enthusiasm and above all, skill to their elders.

This is an annual event and I for one will be supporting it next year. If you would like more information then do speak to either myself or Louise. I strongly recommend you do…

Sarah

Fontainebleau Virgins

We where all Fontainebleau virgins. Sarah lost her cherry on the ferry but she quickly found it and put it back on her tart. None of us knew what to expect. After a long but easy journey we found the campsite and so had the others. They where sheltering from the rain that had rudely interfered with their climbing. It was time to erect Sarah's big one, she skilfully co-opted the entire gathering to pump life into the impending erection. We pulled two large canvas sausages out of the car and assembled without the aid of instructions a small country chateau complete with kitchen, entrance foyer, en suite facilities and well stocked boarders. After such a Herculean feat we needed sustenance in huge quantities served to us. All nine of us headed off to town to find that most French of food, Pizza. We filled the small restaurant and dazzled them with our command of the French language (Shane, speaking French is a little more that giving your order in an outrageous French accent).

We woke to rain but eating was our aim. We needed baguettes, pain au chocolate pain aux rasin, strong coffee and hot chocolate and we needed it now. It was time to dust off the long dormant French and take on the cake shops and cafes. It was here that the gathered crowd found that Pete's French may be bad but that he speaks fluent cake shop! By the time our energy levels where restored and we where getting dangerously pastry dependant the rain had slowed to make us more optimistic about climbing. Heading for the rocks in convoy took a little longer that anticipated as the convoy principle degenerated in to a car chase worthy of a keystone cops movie. Eventually we arrived at the car park, disembarked and armed only with a baguette, chalk bag and climbing shoes we headed for the boulders. The sun started to come out.

A few hundred yards up the track was our first circuit. A white circuit. For kids. This was about our level for a warm up an introduction. No need to change just do it in trainers. We could not have asked for a better introduction. It was fun. Hopping over boulders. Following the arrows. Looking for the next arrow. Looking for the next number in the sequence. This was what Fontainebleau was all about. Enjoying the rocks in the forest. By mid afternoon we had moved to another set of boulders and the sun had come out to give us perfect conditions. Unfortunately Mark, Shane, Donkey Boy and Bob had to leave for the ferry but the rest of us climbed until we where unable to lift our arms. It was just too good.

Back at the Chateau a small drama was about to unfold. Trevor claims that he did not do the stopper on the fuel bottle up because he was fatigued. Sarah thinks it may have been part of an assassination attempt by the old chairman on the new, but what ever the truth is we suddenly found the corner of the tent engulfed in flames. The bomb was hurled through the doors leaving a trail of flames, Sarah tried to stamp them out but managed to set her shoes alight. Laura cried and Angela gave rational advice as the flames and chaos subsided. The only thing to do was to drink heavily.

French rain is similar to English rain in that it's wet and cold and stops you from going climbing. Time to bring plan B into operation. Looking for a fountain in Fontainebleau. Given the amount of rain falling this was going to be a very hard task. We looked all around the huge chateau (which was almost as large as Sarah's tent). We hunted round various cafes and in the climbing shop until we eventually found one on the main street. Plan B exhausted we moved to plan C. A visit to the Cyclops. This was a huge kinetic sculpture in the forest outside Millet de Floret and was well worth seeking out. It was still damp but we needed an infusion of sandstone boulders. Plan D was to visit L'Elephant to see if this lump of sandstone really did look like and elephant. Of course in the tradition of elephant hunters we had to go armed with BIG guns. All right they where baguettes but with a little imagination they where our elephant guns. We hunted though fields of natural sandstone sculptures until we stumbled across l'elephant. Out of respect for nature we refrained from bagging it and bringing the kill back home, mainly because we had eaten our guns. We rounded off our last full day with a meal in a very strange restaurant. Where we laughing at them, where they laughing at us, where they laughing with us. We will never know, we may never forget.

It was still raining but unperturbed we skilfully hid the chateau in the car and headed to Bas Curvier via a cake shop, we where now all addicted to pastry and the thought of the impending "cold turkey" was playing tricks with our minds. The plan was to wander round the rocks and generally enjoy the forest. The rain had eased by the time we got there and one or two grimpers where braving the rocks. There was some very hard bouldering going on here. We where entertained for about half and hour by an English lad attempting a 7a problem called the Helicopter, why the Helicopter you ask. Well that's what you look like when you miss the crux move and come spinning down to earth face down. This lad managed the manoeuvre four times until the rain came back to stop play. We made our excuses and headed for the ferry.

Will I go again?, Yes.

Do I feel differently about bouldering?, Yes.

Did the rain spoil the trip?, No.

Have I suffered pastry withdrawal symptoms?, Yes.

Pete

Franglais!

It all started then I used a French expression to an Australian bloke, in a pub in Sydney, recently. I suppose that as an English - European, for that is what I consider myself to be. I didn't see that as odd at the time. As an Englishman, I have traveled around Europe a bit and have had the pleasure of living in countries where English isn't the first language, and managed to survived I might add. I must confess though, that during my travels around the world I've picked up one or two colourful words and phrases in other languages, that I find myself sometimes, you know, throwing into a sentence now and then.

I made a quick apology, realising that he'd not understood, and so started my explanation of what we in England call Franglais.

I started my explanation by trying to explain how Rhyming Slang worked. I thought that this might be a less stressful way to introduce this chap to the concept of complete slang languages. I realised straight away that he'd also never heard of Rhyming Slang. Cockneys were also a challenge to this guy, but I'm always up for a challenge. I was acutely aware, even at this early stage in the conversation that my listener's lights were on, so to speak, but no one was home. We talked on for a long time and I was almost sure that he'd got the gist of it, Rhyming Slang that is, so I started to developed the theory that Franglais was merely the natural twenty-first century extension of Franco/British rhyming slang.

Of course I'm vary aware that there have been a number of occasions during the past few hundred years that our Sovereign Nations have not exactly seen eye to eye. That's England and France, of course, not England and Australia. Although, Let's face it, relations between Mother England and Australia have also been a bit,.....difficult at times. We English, as have also the French of course, reached a extreme plateau of disdain for each other that transcends any football match, V sign, method of brewing beer or sandwich. It would probably not be inaccurate to say that the English and French have had an intense disliked for each other from very soon after the first crossing of the English Channel.

Anyway, I have digressed from my story of this intellectual debate with this bloke, in a pub in Sydney, about Franglais.

To be continued.............

Barney

Fear of Flying

Until the beginning of this year it was my proud boast that I had not taken a fall in my climbing career. By a fall I don't mean a small slip onto gear or a controlled slide onto a bolt. I mean a full bodied blood curdling launch into orbit with a real possibility of damage. Some have replied to my claim that I obviously don't climb hard enough whilst others have said that I need to take a few falls to gain confidence in the gear and technique. To both of these I have usually replied with a balanced and well thought out reply "Bollocks".

Well within the space of four months I have taken two falls.

The first was on the chalk. I was fully kitted up. Lots of spiky metal bits and sharp things. The rope had caught on a ledge 20 foot about the pebble beach and I thought it would be a good idea to solo up and free the rope rather than walking the half a mile along the beach up the cliff path and along the top to the anchor. At about 15 feet the folly of my ways became apparent so I started to down climb. I then broke the one and only rule of chalk climbing, never trust a hold coloured white. The hold snapped. I lost balance and tumbled to the ground. The fall seemed to take forever. I remember thinking about holding the axes out and preparing to roll when I hit the deck. Then THUMP the ground introduced its self. I was winded. I had a few small bruises and a mild ego deflation but apart from that everything else was normal. I made a mental note not solo on chalk again whilst the others went up the beach to start the long trek to the top of the rope.

The second was at Portland. I had convinced myself that I could do a route that was far harder that any route I have ever climbed before. The route looked nice and friendly. The first moves went well. They where physically hard but I was expecting that. I edged upto the arete. I perched my self on the corner. I was too far right. I was level with the next bolt but it was out of reach. I moved to the left. There was a nice but small finger hold. I reached over to see if the bolt was close. I felt a little uneasy, wobbly. Next thing I know I'm looking Angela in the eye as she is trying to extract her belay device from the first quickdraw. Then a wave of nausea flowed over me alluding to the fact that the pain in my ankle was going to get worst. Angela lowered herself and then me too the ground and we sat there watching my ankle swell. No more climbing for me today.

Both falls were caused by that heady mixture of overconfidence and stupidity, with different proportions in each case. Neither has made me a better climber and I still have this irrepressible urge to keep my self holding onto the rock rather than push myself into another downward arc. So to those of you who have told me that taking a few lobs does the power of good to your climbing I have revised and updated my well reasoned and considered reply in the light of personal experience it's now : "Complete Bollocks".

Pete