Scotland

We're going to fucking smash it this trip. Do all the classics. Talisker, Jura, Glenlivet, Old Pultney. The list is massive but we're all mega psyched. Months of hard training behind us. Also, there's a few bits of climbing gear chucked in the boot as well, but sod that for a game of soldiers. Scottish winter climbing is bloody miserable. I don't really like it. Cold, painful, and no one's bothered to put any bolts in the crags. But I guess we'll have to if we get bad whisky conditions one day...

Long drive overnight. Three ill-prepared southern pansies crammed into a Ford Focus with dozens of bags filled with gear, and enough pasta to feed Italy for a week. Staples and I drive, getting no sleep whatsoever. We arrive in Aviemore in the morning exhausted to the point of hallucination. The road up to the ski station is closed - thank fuck for that. Gives us the perfect excuse to sack the days climbing, catch up on sleep, and drink whisky instead.

Typical scene from one of our 'climbing' trips

Off to the pub. Just a couple though. Big day tomorrow. Much, much later we're all blind drunk and buying rounds for the local folk band. Slapping the table along to a load of old songs about what a bunch of cunts the English are. Eventually we stagger off into the freezing night to sleep in the car. Morning comes with a crippling hangover. Ice everywhere. There's a big pile of sick next to Cam's bivy. I've seen roadkill that looks healthier than he does right now. Slogging through drifts of powder and pine forests towards the crag. I can hear the wind howling through the mountains higher up. Every few steps Cam stops to throw up more of his internal organs. 

We lurch our way up the mountain like zombies. Has a team ever been less ready to go winter climbing? I move in crampons with all the grace of a drunk on a bouncy castle.

Sneachda in rare good weather

So we just about manage something in Coire Sneachda. A hurricane blasts across the Cairngorm plateau. Icicles form in my beard. So much suffering for a couple of pitches of climbing. However the weather forecast is looking good, so we decide to head over to Skye to have a play in the Cuillins. Pat arrives, having done the whole drive up on his tod. We immediately ask him to drive us to the nearest pub. Evening stroll towards Sgurr nan Gillean. It's a beautiful clear night so we decide to bivy beneath the mountain.

Looking up at the peak from near the bivy spot

This seems a great idea for about ten minutes, then we just lie there in the darkness freezing our tits off. It's so cold we get going before dawn, and wander up the initial slopes to a shoulder. From here we improvise a way up the peak, soloing up neve slopes with the occasional steep ice pitch. Soloing on shit ice with the massive drop snapping beneath our heels, what joy.

Sgurr nan Gillean on the left. I have no idea what we climbed

Eventually we top out on a ridge but it's blowing a hoolie, visibility is rubbish, and we have absolutely no idea where we are. So we make a series of abseils from the pinnacle until we can escape down an easy snow slope. It's not really a proper route, but a fun little adventure, and we name it Cucumber West - after the time honoured navigational tradition that if you throw a cucumber at a sheep it will always run to the west. That's a stonewall fucking fact that is.

The slopes we descended, ridge in the background. Still no idea what's going on

Back to the Cairngorms. We spend a day soloing gullies in Coire Sneachda. It takes us about 15 minutes to climb a route that would take hours if you were using ropes. The soloing bug that I picked up on my last Alps trip is worming deeper and deeper into my brain.

Soloing Spiral Gully

Digging snow pits in Sneachda

The next day Pat and I climb the mega classic Fingers Ridge. I've wanted to do this one for years, and it's fucking brilliant. Quick jolly up snow then three awesome mixed pitches, up steep blocky ground, chimneys, corners, there's even the odd bit of gear. I lead up the exposed ridge crest towards the famous finger pinnacles, utterly appalled when I realise you have to do a no hands bridge between the bastard things. I sort of fall onto the left one, sobbing hysterically as my axes skate ineffectively off brittle rime ice. This dumps me at the foot of a completely plastered slab, the crux of the whole route, and it's fucking desperate. I spent long minutes balancing on tiny edges on my front points, hacking away at the ice to find the next placements. A series of one hand one foot rock overs finally spits me out onto the top of the slab, bellyflopping onto a ledge like fat person struggling out of a swimming pool, and from there an easy wander leads to the top.

You can see the fingers poking up on the right skyline

We've got time for one more big one, so it's south towards Glencoe. But on the way we catch sight of the massive north face of Ben Nevis, looming above everything, perfect blue skies, and it's just irresistible. We stop in Fort Bill instead, arsehole of the north west, and get ready. There's a bad vibe about the Ben this year, climbers still missing somewhere on its flanks, and we're all shitting ourselves in the car park. Except Staples, who is sitting this one out with a bad ankle, and will instead spend the time wanking in the car and hopelessly chasing local girls on Tinder. Midnight comes, no sleep, and we begin the 2 hour trudge up to the CIC hut. Here we sort out our gear and jolly up a gully to the Douglas Gap. A fun pitch leads us onto the crest of the ridge, then we take the rope off again and solo off into the night. It's calm and clear and the snow conditions are perfect.

Tower Ridge is the obvious buttress in the Center of the face

Soloing up easy terrain

We briefly rope up for a tricky step on the Little Tower, soloing everything else by torchlight, climbing mixed ground and icy runnels between the rock. Soon enough we reach the Eastern Traverse. This is meant to be one of the cruxes of the route so we decide to pitch it. Unnecessarily, it turns out, as it's nothing more than an exposed shuffle along a boot-wide ledge of snow. Piss easy. We're across in minutes, and then I take over the lead, racing up the Great Tower to gain the crest once more. Now comes the final obstacle - Tower Gap. A notch cut into the ridge, guarding access to the easy finishing slopes. So Cam leads into it, brings me over, then I lead out the other side. Pat follows after and we're done. It's exposed and a bit precarious, but easy enough in the current conditions. A final glory romp up more perfect snow and we're on top. The whole route takes us maybe 5 hours. By doing Tower Ridge mostly at night we avoid the queues it is otherwise notorious for.

The belay at the top of the Great Tower

The sun rises over the summit of Ben Nevis

We plod over to the summit trig point, amazed by the lack of wind. Snow covered mountains lay before us for miles and miles in every direction. One of those rare perfect days that makes Scottish winter climbing so incredible. We decide to traverse the Carn Mor Dearg Arête to finish the day off in style, watching in smug satisfaction as climbers swarm over the ridge like ants, bottlenecks everywhere. Serves the lazy sods right. We're back at the car eleven and a half hours after leaving.

Arriving on top after my best route in Scotland yet

At the summit trig point

Back down in Fort Bill we catch up with Captain Pissytrousers and head over to Glencoe and the Clachaig Inn. Here we drink more fine whisky and celebrate an awesome Highlands road trip. Good times.

Tugger, the Glorious Leader, Captain Pissytrousers and Offwidth Dangle-Prussik outside the Clachaig, job done

Quick Jolly in the Dollies

Christ I'm shit at this. My feet skid around on polished limestone, the last peg is miles below me now. It's not even that steep and my arms are already shagged. It's bastard cold as well. With numb hands I haul my way up a series of flat holds to reach a ledge and a nice shiny bolted belay. I clip in and slump onto the ropes. The next pitch is the crux but that's Rich's bloody problem, not mine. Thank fuck for that...

Looking up to the Cinque Torri

Torre Grande - we climbed it via the sunlit face

We're climbing a pinnacle called Torre Grande, part of the Cinque Torri group in the Dolomites. Despite the sun it's absolutely freezing. Cold, in the mountains, in December - who knew? Rich reaches the belay. Have you given me the fucking crux pitch, he asks, and I smirk and hand him the rack. He traverses along a footrail to a weakness in the looming overhang, stuffs in some gear, grunts and struggles his way up shiny crap holds and disappears from view.

Rich tackling the crux pitch

The climbing is pretty much easy to the top now. We swing leads up blocky ground and slabs, one tricky move that I shamelessly dog on a rusty old peg. What happened to the guy who was jollying up E1s all summer, who's this fat tosser who can barely climb stairs without gasping for breath?

Nice easy pitch for me

Following slabby ground to the summit

Rich on the last bit

We soon reach the awesomely exposed summit, a small flat plateau surrounded by sheer drops on all sides. After taking some photos we begin the first of three abseils down the other side of the tower to reach the bottom again. It's still early in the day so we decide to tackle another pinnacle while we're here.

On top of Torre Grande

Rich carefully abseiling down chossy shite

We decide to have a go at Torre Lusy, one of the smaller pinnacles that we should be able to get up before the daylight runs out. We climb it in 3 long pitches, mostly following an arête with the odd detour across the adjacent face. Once again I find it nails. Not just physically but mentally, I've been out of the trad game too long, and I'm struggling to commit to moves above gear.

We climbed Torre Lusy via the obvious arête

Me leading pitch 2

Suffering horrendous rope drag higher up

We reach the summit as the light starts to go, and make a completely wild free hanging abseil down an  overhanging face. I lower myself over the edge, trying not to think about the ropes sawing and grinding against the sharp rock.

Summit of Torre Lusy, with an awesome looking peak looming in the distance

Back at the car we eat pasta then bed down for the night. I listen to Rich snore and contemplate smothering him with a pillow. The next day we go for the south face of the Lagazuoi Piccolo, aiming for a 9 or so pitch trad route that goes straight up the massive wall. The first pitch is the crux and this time it's my lead. I follow a long corner crack, steady with loads of gear, 'til I'm perched on tip-toes on top of a narrow spike and staring in horror at the bloody hard move between me and the belay. After several abortive goes I finally manage to grovel my way up a series of rubbish holds, slobbering with terror as I crank on a loose block that nearly detaches, almost sends me plummeting back down again. It feels UK 5a at least, but then I'm crap right now so fuck knows...

The south face of the Lagazuoi Piccolo

Easy cracks on pitch 2

The climbing is fairly sustained but fortunately never as hard as that one move. Rich leads a crack system to a funky cave belay then I get the best pitch of the route - traversing out of the cave to a corner crack, then following massive holds across a super exposed hanging slab, an exquisite sea of rock. I enjoy it so much I even forget to feel weak and scared.

Belay in the cave

Rich following the mega slab pitch

Piss easy bit before the second crux section

Two easy slab pitches brings us to a ledge system below the final headwall. Rich does a great job leading the second crux pitch, a grovelly wet chimney full of loose blocks and vegetation. He just about manages to squeeze through the final constriction, then it's my turn to struggle up the damn thing. Two more easy pitches and we're on top of the face. Still some way below the actual summit of the peak but this is where the route finishes, and in any case darkness is creeping in. We descend via a cool suspension bridge to more pasta and another night in the car.

The headwall of the south face

Bastard chimney crack thing

The view from the top of the route

On the descent

We're both feeling a bit more comfortable with the rock and climbing style now, so we decide to step up the difficulty a bit. There's a super classic route that climbs a jagged arête up a peak called Torre Piccola di Falzarego. Every pitch is brilliant. Rich leads up a sustained bridging corner then, after getting lost and fannying around for an hour, I climb a vague crack system that eventually leads into a good old chimney, which I wedge and curse my way up. The rock is so polished I can hardly look at it in sunlight, but the gear's good enough that I'm not too bothered.

The razor-like arête of Torre Piccola di Falzarego

Rich on the corner of pitch 1

A somewhat exposed hanging belay at the top of the second pitch

Rich leads another tough pitch, then the arête seems to lie back before us, leaving three fantastic easy pitches to the summit. We climb up juggy rock, fixed threads for gear, racing against the sun which is fast setting in the west. It's warm enough to climb in t-shirts today, but the moment the sun goes it will be freezing cold, time for down jackets and gloves.

The glorious final arête

Brilliant exposed climbing

We reach the summit just as the sun dips behind another mountain and the temperature rapidly drops. Two abseils take us into the descent gully, which we skid and scramble our way down by headtorch.

On the summit at sunset

Unfortunately the next day the universe decides to bugger us royally up the arse, and we have to cut the trip short and return home early. I can't be bothered to rant about it here, so I will instead just summarise the whole thing in two short words;

FUCK SHITALY.

Baggy Point

Last time I went to Baggy Point I dismissed it as 'the chossiest pile of wank I've ever seen'. Two years later I'm still haunted by nightmares of the second pitch of the route 'Kinkyboots', where I didn't just find myself thinking I'd die, I actually wished for it. Just to end the vegetated guillotine flake horror of the final slab. 

Against my better judgement I recently went back there to do a couple routes on the massive Long Rock Slab, and actually ended up having an awesome time. Here's a few photos of the day...

Sketchy approach 'path' to the Long Rock

The rope was just short enough to not quite reach past the really scary bit

More bloody slabs

The awesome Long Rock

45m abseil to the ledge

Funky ab in

Me leading Shangri-la

Looking back down the route from the belay

Pat seconding the fluffy but still brilliant upper crack

Posing on the finishing blocks

The mega crack line of Lost Horizon

Pat psyched for the big lead

Pat shitting himself

Pat shitting himself

Pat shitting himself

Finally at the top (but still probably shitting himself)

Long old pitch

Me seconding just before the sustained foot wedge section

Spike belay at the top

Looking back towards the promontory from Woolacombe