Flanders

Tim Josephy

We first saw it on one of those magical occasions that you never really believe unless you were there. Walking along the Black Ladders in freezing cloud late one winter afternoon, our white world slowly turned to one of orange fire and then the clouds sank below the high peaks to reveal a spectacular sunset over Holyhead Mountain. There in front of us, soaring out of the depths of Cwm Llafar and glowing in the evening light was a slender arrow of rock, boldly outlined against the snow. It was too much to hope for that it was unclimbed, and sure enough, perusal of the guidebook that evening confirmed our fears. Nevertheless, once seen, it had to be climbed.

We went up several times during the summer, but always the rock was streaming with water and we ran away. Finally, after the driest August in living memory we were there again, and this time we had a secret weapon. He was a youth, reared on the Llanberis slate, full of terms like “rockovers”, “dynos” and “6b moves”. We had told him he was there to learn about real climbing but in truth he was our insurance policy.

We reached the huge boulders under Llech Ddu to find the shadiest spot occupied by a Carneddau stallion. He eyed us malevolently, broke wind volcanically, and having thus ensured vacant possession of his shelter, wandered off to bully his harem. We stayed out in the sun and gazed up at the vastness of the Black Ladders, surely one of the finest mountain walls south of Scotland. The youth was appalled; he’d never had to walk so far before.

He was even more appalled at the foot of the crag as he watched Ray scooting up dripping ramps of vegetation. By the time we arrived at the foot of Western Gully he was peat stained, sweaty and shaking. When he found out he had been carrying both ropes in his sack he really knew the world was out to get him. He was distinctly unimpressed with the day so far.

Ray led off up steep grooves in the arete. After 70ft or so he ground to a halt and in no time was back at the start. “Here you are, youth,” he said “I’ve put the gear in, you should be OK now.” The youth climbed so fast we didn’t see how he did it; nor did we realise he’d left his sack behind. “We’ll have to split his load” I said, as I retired to take a photo. By the time I got back, Ray was on his way and the sack was still there. Muttering serious imprecations, I stuffed the sack into mine and followed. The initial grooves were reasonable until they ran out on the edge of the arete, whose sharp edge suckered you into an irreversible layback to nothing. A desperate lunge into a shallow corner and some frantic pedalling left me glad there was no one around to watch.

The second pitch crossed a steep wall to a corner with a big roof. Ray led off, showering the youth with mud and stones as he rooted for protection; the youth was deeply unimpressed. Eventually, Ray spreadeagled himself across the roof at full stretch, right leg shaking magnificently. “He’s going to fall” said the youth. “Never!” I replied, “He always climbs like that.” Seconds later, Ray was dangling, six feet out from the rock, upside down and revolving slowly. “Oh bother” he said, or something. With a violent effort he righted himself and rushed back to the fray.   This time it went easily and he disappeared from view. It was only when I reached the roof that I realised I still had the youth’s sack. Under the circumstances I think the tight rope was entirely justified.

I led the third pitch floating on air-without the extra weight. It was sheer delight, the inevitable overhang giving onto steep cat’s tongue slabs and ending on a splendid pulpit, just big enough for three. We stopped for lunch, only three pitches done, but already 700ft up the crag. Far below, our friend the stallion and his mares were the only signs of life in all the world. The youth unpacked his sack. Out came fresh rolls, filled with smoked ham and salad, a bag of peaches and a thermos of freshly squeezed orange juice. “No point in us all opening our sacks, there isn’t room” said Ray, helping himself to a roll. The youth looked mutinous but held his peace.

Lunch over we turned our attention to the rock once more. A cunning tunnel behind a vast flake brought us to a mighty groove running up the left wall of Western Gully. Ray led it in style, making light of a terrifyingly rounded layback at the top. So did the youth, so perhaps it’s just me. Airy ribs and steep walls, all on the very arete eventually landed us on a little turret, connected to the main crag by a rickety bridge of boulders. Across the gap a horrible V chimney leered down at us.

“You’re kidding!” said the youth, aghast. Secretly I agreed, but loss of face was unthinkable. Setting off across the bridge I could have wished to be almost anywhere else. The base of the chimney was filled with loose blocks, bound in place with spidersweb and pennywort. I levitated past the blocks, trying to push them into place as I went and threw myself into the holdless chimney. Pretty soon it was evident that my upward progress had a small but inexorable westward vector. Just as this vector was on the point of increasing exponentially, my hand fell into the most magnificent jug imaginable and I was saved. Somehow or other, sitting on the belay, my leg dangled over the edge, unintentionally concealing the crucial jug; the youth fell off three times and has held my climbing ability in awe ever since.

It was clear the serious climbing was over and we solo’d up a couple of easy ribs to arrive on top of the ridge. As we lay watching the setting sun even the youth had to admit he was impressed. “I’m impressed,” he said, “but I’m hungry too.” “Oh I never carry food on the hills ” said Ray. “But if you’re quick you can buy me a pint in the Dougie.” And with that he was off, bald head twinkling in the evening sun as he raced down to meet the rising tide of night.

Flanders 715ft HVS
Brown, Crew, Alcock and Lowe,1969