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World Famous Honorary Colmciller, Niall Grimes wrote this article for High Mountain Magazine in 2003 Culdaff was my first ever crag. A stripping February wind whipped off the grey Atlantic, as I hung tautly, trying to understand what they meant by ‘Jam’. The day, and the crag, stuck in my mind. In some ways, many ways in fact, it is a slightly scruffy crag. Short and broken in many parts, long streams of ivy making their way up and down slabs. Yet, imbued with enough good features to make it loveable. Great rock, beautiful setting, and that ‘homeliness’ that your first crag will always have for you. It was small, however, and lacked scope, so as we progressed through the grades, visits did more for our nostalgia than our fitness. My best friend, and regular climbing partner, Alan, was a geologist on a local mapping exercise for his degree, and on his ramblings, had discovered a little crag nearby, just over the back from Culdaff, and he engaged us with the tales of steep and hard little routes he had found and cleaned up. ‘Cleaning up’ was not a wholly altruistic endeavour; more, it was a sign of possession, and while Alan did eventually let us see his babies, and indeed, allow us to top-rope them, they were, very much his projects. He would get round to it some day soon. But time passed. Alan had always been the better climber than I, but laziness on his part and increasing keenness on mine had steadily turned these tables. It began to seem unreasonable for him to baggsy the routes forever, so one evening, in a mock bravado legitimised by my increasing grade, I announced that I would soon try the routes myself. Alan was perturbed, but had to admit that his tenure on them had just about run out, and was forced to see my side of the case. Okay, he allowed, then we’ll both try them. Right, I agreed, that sounds fair. You’re on. Designs were made to try the first and obviously better of two lines that were on his crag, and a date was set. The day dawned, beautiful and sunny, on the midweek morning we had decided to go to try the routes. Alan called, late as was his habit and I, as was my habit, was not yet ready. Cups of tea eased the situation, and soon we were off. Despite the fact that the climbs were about thirty feet long, talking about them still managed to take up all our time on the forty-five journey to Culdaff crag. We drove through the little seaside village of Culdaff close to the rocks, where locals would go to spend a week in a caravan and drink cider, where children were lazing with balls and hoops and ice-creams. We bought crisps and Coke, then continued along our way, lazed slightly by the soft atmosphere of the little village. We were both excited and absorbed by the plan we were on, although it was good to notice a languid easiness to the day. At the usual parking-spot, all full of familiars, we packed bags and headed off over the quick headland to out little wall. At the base, we gradually unpacked our bags. Twisted ropes struggling out, careless racks lying at the bottoms of bags- a seized cam, quick-draws with wires still attached to them. I can remember the gear clearly. It belonged to that era before everything was shiny. Alan had ‘inherited’ all his rack from a Dublin University club, and it showed the signs of something for which responsibility was shared. Rust and white spots. Thick rainbow tape was the raw materiel for slings, knotted and greasy. Quick draws, known then as ‘tie-offs’ were just that, and many of his were literally short lengths of 9mm tied in a mean loop, hardly any spare poking out of the ends of double-fisherman’s. Oval snap-links that didn’t always snap and oval, grey screw gates with squeaking collars. Also, old style, proper Stitcht plate, again, the metal greyed with salt air and the backs of minibuses. The marking tape clinging to the gear was like the flags of all nations; no two the same, hinting at a very mixed-origin. Mine tended to be, while not shiny, at least a bit more fastidiously organised, and climbing with Alan often made me feel like a control freak. Anyway, we knew from past efforts exactly what gear we needed for the climb, and where it went. A Rock 5 and a Rock 6 were all that were needed, and these were placed by leaning in from a nearby slope, so, effectively by pre-placing the gear in this way, we left ourselves nothing but the climbing to do. We had set ourselves two rules for the day. One, was as we had both been on it on top-rope before, and as the route was fairly safe, we weren’t allowed to top-rope it any more on the day. Fair enough. Second, Alan went first. This, unsurprisingly, was his condition. But, due also to his condition, this was fine with me. I was definitely fitter than he, so felt happy about giving him first kick of the ball. As well as that, these were still very much his finds, his property. In a meritocracy, they would be anyone’s. But we were gentlemen. Alan tied on, threaded his ropes through the single ‘biners hanging from the route, squeaked his boots up, did a last full-handed chalking and rubbing, mumbled one last ‘Right ya besterd’ and grabbed rock. The back wall at Culdaff, or Finbarr Wall, as its discoverer had christened it (dating its find to that period when we first started reading Viz comic) is a short but steep sheet of fractured gritstone. Hopeful sharp edged cracks twined across its flatness, sometimes giving in-cuts, sometimes sealing into blankness. This left the climbing powerful and bouldery, often with dramatic snatches for jugs or sidepulls, always technical, fingery and tenuous. It was a great style of climbing, and contrasted well with the pensive smearing on the main face. Good on/off stuff. Alan, on belay, set off. Tensely, I held his ropes carefully, took in as he climbed towards the runners, then gently slackened off as he passed them. He snatched, scuffed his feet, reached and stretched to the crux. Sidepulls, no feet, where you have to smear upwards to allow enough height to get to a good hold, marking the end of the crux, above which the climbing eased off to a homewards cruise. I was tense, and, going by Alan’s staccato jerks, so was he. Just when I thought he had done it, he swung outwards from the rock, and kicked back in a few feet below the runner. He’d blown it! Yes! It’s a testament to my good character and loyalty as a friend, that when I consoled him and offered him a Hard Luck, some part of me almost meant it. I lowered him to the ground. That’s right. Rule number three. No dogging. Dammit Al, I thought you had it there, tough titty. My compassion was underscored by the fact that I had already taken him off, and while he was still stood there, dejected, I had put my boots on and was ready to start untying his knots. It was my go. I had played fair but now I felt sure of success. I did the same squeaking and deep chalking, shook myself and got ready. He put me on, and I was off. However, I found my nerves were in an agitated state, to my surprise. I got through the first few moves, despite myself, and at the crux, tried hopelessly to lunge upwards. My badly smeared feet gave out, and I came scittering down the wall. I detected in Alan’s comforting words the same senses of relief and petty joy that I had felt a few moments earlier, and we laughed knowingly about it. He laced up. Damn. But to my surprise and pleasure, he fell off again on his second try. To my surprise and disappointment, so did I. This wasn’t expected, as the last time we had been here we had both managed it on to-rope. Apparently, stage-fright, nerves and the day were getting to us both. We were both obviously trying hard, perhaps too hard, and emotions were high. ‘The greatest unclimbed line in the northern Inishowen Peninsula, Alan had said in self-mockery of our ridiculous obsession. But ours was a small world, and we knew it. But knowing that don’t make no difference. Yet, we were having fun. This was turning into a great day out. Two more goes each found neither of us still at the top. At the bottom now, we were resting longer, lazing in the grass at the bottom like bucolic philosophers, staring out to the Atlantic, discussing the route, the world in general, and our places in it. Girlfriends came up. My girl Ruth, who I had been seeing for a while, had sent me a letter a couple of days previously, noting how we weren’t getting on like we used to, and bringing up the subject of breaking up. A phone call after had sealed the deal, and I was by myself again. Alan talked too about his recent ex, coincidentally called Ruth too, Ruth Lithershaw, a Scouser. She would still phone him up and they would argue in the evenings. Ah, Life. In the fresh sea breezes, amid the shrill call of seabirds, a trawler chugging westwards not far below us and summer’s butterflies dappling by, we smiled at our situations, and felt happy with ourselves. We joked about the competition, and possible tactics for the route, tried to undermine each other’s confidence. Sporadic lashes at the wall in-between times meant that soon, we had had five goes each, and amazingly, had no success. We were tired. An ice cream was suggested. We left all the gear where it was, and drove into Culdaff village and both had a ninety-nine with red sauce. Magic. We wandered, enjoying conversations and philosophy, watched children play and dogs bark and men work. Rested and fed, in the latening evening, we roamed once more across the headland to the cliff. Ropes were tied on again. It was my go, and despite ice-creamsticky fingers, climbed smoothly to the top of the wall. I topped out nervously, but upon hearing Alan call me a bastard, I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was pleased. I whooped. I ran round, and without taking off my boots, put Alan right on belay. He too, cruised smoothly to the top. The ascent was complete. The competition, bubbling to the surface as it had in such an open , honest and friendly way, had made for a great day out, one of my favourite days on my local crags. We had fun talking about how we had both wished the other person success and failure in equal measures while we belayed. The sun was setting, milky in the west, as we laughed and slagged each other, the route now in the bag, and with the efforts we had put in, it could not have turned out a better day, well, at least not as far as I was concerned, although I’m sure Alan could have made one little improvement. Just the sweet labour now of thinking up a name for our climb. No options, really, Ruthless People it was to be. |