(Part I: Here)

We were both, still, tired. 

That morning we had dispatched The Black Thief. 

“Welcome to Fairhead” the guidebook said. There was some mischief in that. The route had swallowed one of our cams during the ascent. A welcome consistent with our experiences at the head so far.

Standing again at the base of The Prow, we began our next route. 

Contractions? Contortions? We’re not sure, but a quick look at the guidebook, a browse on UKC later, and the climbing began.

“Watch me on blue!” he shouted after clipping the green rope high in the next crack. I knew what he meant. He’d sussed out the next moves two or three times before deciding a piece, any piece, was going into the wall. 

“I got you!” I shouted back up the short few meters between us; calls we’ve made many times. Your friend’s on the end of the rope, and luck is all that remains in any room left by error. It’s possible that this was the 5a move, but neither of us knows.

The climbing started: a high left hand, followed by a heel hook to the right, a rockover into a right hand gaston then no!…wrong sequence. 

“TAKE!” he shouts as his hand slips from the crack before him. He falls for barely a moment before a cam, clipped high to the green rope, explodes out from the wall. He’s now hurtling down directly towards me, with the last gear on the blue rope a few meters up the route. The silhouette of a climber falling, a cam framed cartoonishly by fragments of dirt and rock in the air above them, is seared into my mind.  

“I can’t watch this” I think to myself, although everything is happening far too quickly for conscious thought. I drop to my knees, and my body slams into the wall in front of me. The rough Fairhead dolerite (the perfect rock) shreds my knuckles, and blood now trickles down my fingers. Both hands on the break strands, I close my eyes and look away.

I pause for a moment. 

I open my eyes.

And as I turn my head, I see him, hanging head first, six inches off the ground. 

That was close.

I was there man, holding onto this thing, like a fridge, thinking; “what the h*ll am I doing here?”

– JC, Midnight Cruiser, E1 5b

The next day we were back down the descent gully, trying the next route over. There were three of us now, and we’d already attempted the first pitch; but slowly worn from the weekend’s climbing (and harrowed by our near miss), we began to back off.

“Feeling good lads” he said earlier on, swallowing two Panadol with a swig of morning coffee. I said to come up anyway, “forget about your back“, there’ll be some fun at the campsite. After agreeing that seconding would probably be OK, I didn’t expect to hear what I heard next:

“Put me on lead”

“No, I’ll do it” I said.

“No, I’m serious, put me on, I’m feeling good”

I hesitated for a moment. What sort of madness is this? I thought, but that thought was soon forgotten. A climber develops a complex relationship with risk and fear: where we sometimes honor the ever present part of ourselves that’s screaming for us to stop, and sometimes ignore it completely.

Besides, what sort of madness is all this anyway?

Moments later, our highpoint was broken. A move, a move, then gear. A move, a move, then gear; then the first pitch itself was completely swallowed. He’d done it. Thought’s of lying down at the grassy top-out began to grow in my mind, and it came after a slow half-shuffle up a somehow technical series of jugs. 

Shattered physically, and emotionally spent, our climbing was done. “We’ll see how we’re feeling Monday” we joked in the car on our way up, but we didn’t even make it that far. From Ballycastle, later that evening, we saw a mist descend on the head; and arriving back at the campsite, the latter part of the meet began.

A charcuterie board of cheap wine, and packaged ham. Rain bearing down on our tent from outside, while we relaxed, and laughed by the soft red camp light. Talks of lighting the barbecue began and, eventually, brewed flames. The weather broke. We grilled under the stars. 

We burned down the last of the weekends’ fire in a pit outside the barn; the focal point of this peculiar festival. Music from inside, and laughter, and dancing, slowly drawing to a close.

We arrived at Fairhead intimidated, we left Fairhead humbled and awed; but also inspired.

This is no Dalkey: ferocious winds around The Prow, huge columns of basaltic dolerite rising steeply, hundreds of meters above the sea; climbers dancing impossibly up the Rathlin Wall, dwarfed by it’s almost featureless scale; beautiful views, stomach churning abseils, late nights dancing in the barn, and the moments in between. The north tip of the north coast has it all.

Thank you to the Dal Riada climbing club for organising the annual meet, the McBride family for ‘getting us’ (even if they don’t ‘get it’ themselves!), and to everyone at either end of the rope.

Someday we’ll be back. Climbing is ultimately pointless, but somehow more important than anything. “Core memories are being made” said a voice from around the campfire, and core memories they truly are.

Until then, don’t be an anecdote.

(Part II: Here)

“I just lead both pitches of Girona, I am ******* elated” I read out from WhatsApp. “They’re already having a good day”

“What’s Girona?”

“Two pitches, VS, 5a”

“Sounds good”

We were both tired, a long drive has a way of doing that. A field off the McBride family farm doubled as a campsite and car park for the weekend, vans and tents of various descriptions dotted throughout. A scene not unlike that of a music festival, but distinct.

We packed our gear: two ropes, a double set of cams, all the nuts and quickdraws we thought we needed, and we marched on.

“Is it down here?” 

“I have no idea” 

We started studying the guidebook atop a steep gully; one of the few natural descent points in an otherwise impenetrable cliff face. While trying to discern exactly where we were on the featureless guidebook map, a van appeared behind us. We’d met Ricky earlier while leaving the campsite, and enquiring about an abseil rope on The Prow.

Ricky welcomed us to Fairhead, and said he was on his way to set up the rope, before promising to follow us over, and dipping away to chat with two figures who’d come walking down the track. 

Bundled up in their jackets, hats, and gloves, you’d hardly believe it was practically June. We overheard talk of vicious winds on The Prow; then we were introduced to Calvin and Clare, who needed no introduction. Staple names in every Irish climbing guidebook since Irish climbing guidebooks (nearly) began, both smiled as they waved hello. We were in the palace of Irish climbing royalty, and the pressure was high.

“Ah ye’re doing Girona now?” said Ricky. “Aye it’s down that way, fantastic route lads, ye’ll have a great time”

And so we began our descent, gingerly picking our way down a jumble of loose rocks; wet from the stream water knitting them together. The walls towering beside us gave way to a breathtaking view along the north coast, and making our way down the steep escarpment below the eastern face of the gully, the Rathlin Wall first came into view.

There are moments in climbing when your blood turns cold. When the calm that you so tenderly try to foster, leaves your body with your breath entirely. The steep, featureless face of the Rathlin Wall, looming high above us, stole this calm away; briefly transporting us to a place of pure terror.

Little we know at the time, the Rathlin Wall was far from the only place in Fairhead with this power.

How could anybody climb that?

But they do, and shortly after that thought had occurred, somebody did.

We gathered ourselves, and meandered to the base of our route. It was my lead, and another party was already on the first pitch. 

We watched the climber above us make delicate moves through a bulging roof. Before slowly, impressively, working his way up a blank corner system on a series of improbable smears and laybacks. 

That looks tough, I thought; and he looks quite good.

Doubt began to build.

I racked up.

Pushing grades in the weeks before, I was meant to have the margin for this climb. My partner was unsure about the meet to begin with, but I’d cajoled him to come. I can do the leading, I thought, but Fairhead (as we would begin to understand) had different plans. 

The climbing started steady, and I eventually met with the roof. My first attempts at overcoming this were desperate. 

The climbing feels hard

I don’t know about this

****!

My last piece was a bit below me by the time I managed to mantle out onto the face; out onto a blank wall. 

Then the pump arrived.

My calves were shaking and simultaneously seized with fear. My hips were rigid, and my hands desperately flailed out left for something, anything, to grab onto.

This is not going to plan.

I struggled with what to do next, images of my own mangled body invading my mind’s eye, before deciding the weekend was long; and life would be longer still. Managing one last down climb, I retreated to safety beneath the roof. Today would not be my day.

Holding my breath, I surrendered my weight to the gear above me, then slowly lowered to the relatively safety of the ground; if the steep escarpment we were belaying from could be called that.

“Will I give it a go?”

Thank God, I thought. 

My partner racked up, and switching positions, I now watched him overcome the roof. Next was the face, then the laybacks, then, slowly, stealing meters from the route, he disappeared out of sight. 

“I’m safe!” he eventually called down.

Thank God, I thought.

We might get some climbing done here yet.