After months of working in Crete, I returned to the UK, greeted by the familiar sight of relentless rain. It mirrored my mood as I adjusted to reality once again. I was happy to be back with family and friends. Still, a powerful urge to climb tugged at me—strong enough to pull me back outdoors, despite the dismal British weather.
I had a plan: take a year off, travel, climb, and savour the freedom I might never have again. Nine months were left until I’d have to look for work, but I wasn’t ready yet. Instead, I signed on the dole, spent my time couch-surfing at friends’ houses, and occasionally lived at my parents’ place. I actively avoided any real job searching—I wanted to be one of those dirtbag* climbers you hear about, living off scraps and cheap meals, chasing rocks in the Peak District, North Wales, and beyond.
On climbing trips, we shunned campsites or youth hostels. We always managed to find some cost-effective, often questionable, shelter at the last minute—church porches, sports grounds, slate huts, even caves. One of our favourite “mega caves” was actually a quarry called Hodge Close. It was a popular spot for testing the nerve with sketchy climbs or newly bolted routes. The quarry is split into two sections by an impressive natural amphitheatre. One evening, after a visit to the local pubs, we decided this was the perfect place to sleep. The wet cracks above our heads should have been a warning, but after a few drinks, we settled in without a second thought.
The next morning, fuelled by Pot Noodles and an eagerness to climb, we set off to scratch our climbing itch. Months later, when I returned to Hodge Close, I was stunned to see the place where we had slept buried under car-sized boulders that had fallen from the roof. The newly bolted routes in the adjacent quarry were also reduced to rubble. The realisation that we’d narrowly escaped disaster hit me hard and I’ve always been a bit more careful as to where I choose to sleep.
The climbing continued throughout the year, with trips to North Wales providing plenty of excitement. One particularly memorable day began with a rainy morning in Llanberis Pass. We had slept in a dilapidated slate quarry hut, now long since collapsed (I guess I wasn’t careful enough!). Over a brew at Pete’s Eats, we decided there’d be no dry rock in the area, so we set our sights on Gogarth, the infamous sea cliffs on Anglesey. Why we thought an exposed sea cliff jutting out into the Irish Sea would offer better conditions, I’ll never know…
I convinced my mate, Steve Quinn that Wen Zawn could dry off quickly if the rain stopped, and we should at least take a look. He agreed reluctantly, though his surprise was clear when I grabbed my climbing sack. “I thought we were just taking a quick look?” he asked. I explained that if we didn’t take our gear, we’d have to walk all the way back if conditions improved. His eyes hinted that we were in for one of those epic days!
When we reached the top of the crag, the rain had subsided to a misty drizzle. I quickly unpacked my gear at the abseil station while Steve, looking perplexed, asked what I was doing. I told him there was a classic route, A Dream of White Horses, which could probably go in any weather—at least, that was my hope. It was mostly slabs with positive holds, and the overhangs might even be dry.
Before he could protest, I’d thrown the abseil rope down and geared up. In my rush, I hadn’t checked the tides, so I had no idea if the sea was coming in or going out. The situation was precarious enough, so I opted for a higher-than-usual belay stance to avoid being soaked by the massive waves crashing below.
I hung at the belay for what felt like forever, beginning to think Steve had seen sense and retreated to the car. But after a few tugs on the abseil rope, I knew he was on his way.
I skipped across the first pitch as the drizzle turned into sea spray, blown up by the wind. I dropped a few wires in for protection, knowing that if my second slipped, getting him back would be no easy task. I set up a belay in a quartz chimney and brought him across safely.
From the headland above, a small crowd had gathered, fully kitted in waterproofs and shaking their heads. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I imagined it was something along the lines of, “What are those idiots doing in this weather?” or “Should we call the coastguard?” Steve steadily led the second pitch without fuss, bringing me to the final crux.
Now the crowd had grown, some even holding cameras. We waved back at them as if this madness was all part of the plan. I’d done this route before, and the final pitch was no walk in the park, especially in damp conditions. Still, I reassured myself that I was a better climber now, and could handle it.
After a few moves, I reached the old iron peg (once a bomber piece of protection) now a rusty stump. I placed a tape around it, threw in a lousy wire nearby, and hoped for the best. As I shifted my weight for the awkward step left, my foot slipped. My body lunged sideways, but my hands held fast. I pulled myself back, took a few deep breaths, and tried again.
This time, I placed my foot better, reached across the void, and committed to the move. I knew that once I made this step, there was no turning back. Falling here would put us in serious trouble. The rock above overhung for more than 50 meters, making rescue impossible, and below us, the sea raged, waiting for any mistake. I made the move and exhaled in relief. But the crux* was still ahead…
How It All Began: Part Three Anyone???
*Dirtbags love climbing and will do anything to climb. They usually live on the road, at climbing areas, in caves or anywhere free and dryish. They usually live quite frugally. They go on lots of climbing road trips, and will even belay for food!
*Crux- Hardest part of the climb
