When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste …
Shakespeare Sonnet 30
Back in the day ..........
Guiding was as yet confined to few
within the Glen and these few mostly in the employ of the old fox or his 2ic
Ian Nicholson. Many were on an ad hoc basis recruited when business was brisk.
Notables being the likes of Fyffe or Spence or maybe Dave Knowles when he was
about.
At that time I was a mere youth as
yet not tempered by attempting hard men’s climbs and harder drinking in the wee
snug after hours. One climb above all
was revered by us fresh youths, both from behind and in front of the bar. This
was partly out of convenience. Like the hindquarters of an elephant as eloquently
described by Bill Murray, it started only 10 minutes from the bar door. “The
Gully” could be accomplished either solo before twelve thirty Sunday opening,
or roped between two thirty and six thirty, usually by a mixed company of
barman/maid and customer. It is fair to say “the gully” was well known to us.
Walking down the village one
Saturday a passing car stopped and wound down its window with the driver asking
if I knew of a local guide for hire. A
couple of names were passed to him and the chosen route asked. When the reply came that it was none other
than “the gully” I felt compelled to offer my services – for a reasonable fee
of course.
So it was that I was hired, but not
before my clients revealed that they were a professional couple, betrothed, and
in addition they belonged to a “socialist mountaineering club” (The Red Rope)
and as such were happy to support the local proletariat but not at excessive
cost. We settled on a less than princely sum, perhaps due to my obvious youth
and assumed lack of experience. I went home to collect my climbing gear.
My kit at that time was by modern
standards very meagre, but at 17 years old, dances, Ceilidhs and girls took
priority. So it was that I as a junior bergfuhrer assembled my rack at the foot
of the gully. 200’ No 2 Viking nylon
donated by Robin Turner after an abseil lesson of his cottage roof, a pair of
new Lionel Terray boots from Hamish, as the originals had been stolen from
Kingshouse after a rescue in Ravens Gully that winter when I took them off to
go in the lounge bar (under the watchful eye of the proprietor Jim Lee), and
the most modern harness of its age – the ubiquitous Whillans. This along with a
set of nuts made by clog attached to wire hawser, a selection of pegs and
several slings in bright pink tape concluded the ironmongery for the ascent.
It had not rained for a month but
never the less it would not have occurred to me to wear rock boots, even though
I had a pair of EB’s donated to me by Sandy Whillans a local policeman. The gully is a boot climb. That’s how Bill Murray did it and you always
follow in the footsteps of the master, don’t you?
We started the gully at its root via
a pitch shown to me only the Sunday before by one of the barmen. This pitch is walked
passed by most but I thought that as I was getting paid for the job in hand
then a refund might be requested should all available rock not be included in
the ascent. It went very well, with the pair climbing very fast and alarmingly
competently in parallel on the twin No 2 weight Nylon ropes. During conversation it became apparent that
proper guides were hired on a regular basis by the couple – indeed the previous
weekend a “proper” guide had been secured in the Llanberis pass for the same
rate as I, and three of the classics of the pass, including the renowned
“Wrinkle” had been successfully ascended.
By now the haze of morning had
becoming a black menacing shroud of afternoon, and soon the occasional very
large plop of rain fell. By this time we
had passed the lower greenery and were in the more austere surroundings of the
crux slab above the “Great
Cave
The pressure was on, but could the
aspirant bergfurher pull it out the bag without needing the services of the
rescue team? Absolutely - afterburners
on it was all go with each subsequent pitch dispatched at full speed with a
full blown thunderstorm breaking around us.
With drowning and falling as a combined incentive the pair climbed well
despite being visibly terrified, so all credit to them as I was feeling a burden
of responsibility beyond my years. We
topped out after a 5 hour ascent, 30 odd pitches, over 1,700 feet of climbing
and in a reasonable time for a roped
party of three. Some parties have taken
upwards of 14 hours and in one case 2 full days. For us all that
remained was the knee wrecker down to the pub and a beer by the fire.
Two hours later as a bedraggled crew we
arrived at the pub. They reluctantly
bought me a beer as I was underage but complemented
me on a fine though short day. As the
day was shorter than they had in the famous Llanberis pass, and the climbing
deemed inferior they had discussed the fee and felt that it should be
halved. So it was that barely enough
cash for an evening “session” was handed over to the naive bergfurher, who
there and then decided that the peoples flag was brightest pink and not as red
as he might think. Guiding might not be for him after
all.
