Extreme Narrowboating

From Bristol to Bath and back in flood conditions

Captain: Mathias
Crew: Henriette, Theresa and Frederik
Waterlevel: High, very high
Area: The River Avon, South West England

Our sister Henriette had decided to pay a visit for an extended weekend in late May 2000. The plan was some of the usual caving, climbing and sightseeing in the Bristol area. Also Henriette had not seen the boat on which I live, and was keen to see what this was all about. She got more than her moneys worth of boat activity and the end of that weekend.

The weather had turned for the worse so climbing was unfortunately out of the question. We gave caving a quick shot Friday afternoon, but Henriette - like many others - quickly decided that this wasn't for her.

So Saturday morning Fred, Theresa, Henriette and myself was sitting at Fred's place at 2 Pro Cathedral Cave wondering what our options were. It looked like the weather was going to be really bad all weekend, so it seemed a bit pointless to head of to places like Cornwall which is 4-5 hours drive only to be sitting in a tent/pub with rain pouring down outside. In retrospect this would have been a great way of spending the weekend.

Spontaneously I suggested: "Hey! We could go to Bath in the boat", and -plim- this sounded pretty good at the time to all of us, so we decided to give it a go. It sounded nice: staying in Bath for the night and returning back to Bristol next morning. We quickly sorted out the few logistics and "set sail" towards Bath at 15h00. It was raining.



On the way up towards Bath

It was constantly pissing down with rain


I had been on the river once before in serious flood conditions and I was not going to repeat that experience. So at the end of the safety of Bristol Floating Harbour, we looked at the conditions, compared it to the last flood and decided "Hey that looks alright". It did look alright. Honest. Nothing like the last time.

Although we were going upstream we made fairly steady progress and the team mood was high and everybody was excited about this spontaneous expedition to Bath.

Around 21h00 - 6 hours after departure - we were getting within reach of Bath. It had been raining increasingly but it didn't seem to have too much of an effect on the waterflow which was still strong and steady but okay. At 21h30 we went through the last lock and the tick was more or less in the bag. Now we "just" needed to get into the centre, moor up and get to the pub. Half an hour later and struggling against a now increasing current and a serious rainy weather we managed to get to the centre. The mooring spots looked fine and was clear of any water and we tied onto the bollards on the ground. Yoor! We made it to Bath and we made it to the pub.

Night fell and the Captain and Crew went to bed.

At 03h00 I woke up with a hunch that something was not quite how it should be. I stood up and to my horror the boat was leaning inwards to the shore. This puzzled me for a moment because I thought that if the waterlevel had dropped and we somehow was stuck on the side we would be tilting the other way. 2 seconds after I realized - "Holy F*ck" the waterlevel is rising and we are tied to the ground pulling us down. No time to waste - out in underpants and wellingtons and indeed - all the ropes were tight and was pulling the side of the boat down. The whole place was flooded. I managed to loosen all the ropes and our chain. (This would not always be easy). Pfeww, a near catastrophe avoided. I loosened the ropes a lot and went to bed again. Zzz...


In the morning the water was high.


At 08h00 Fred woke up and so did I. Now instead of tilting, there was a bang'ing noise - the waterlevel had dropped again now so much that Lancer was about to rest on the side of the pavement on the shore. We quickly got up and reviewed the situation. Luckily she hadn't yet rested herself on the nasty Bath pavement and we spotted a better place to moor a bit further up, started the engines and tied her up 30 meters further upstream, right behind the big lock outlet thingy next to the big weir in Bath. We then went for breakfast and some sightseeing.

Eventually we returned to the boat and to my concern the river had now risen a bit more, but spirits was still high and we decided that we should give it a go and head down stream towards Bristol. So we prepared for departure: started the engines and released the front ropes and let the tip of the boat catch the current, keeping the back tied on. I have learned that this is the only way to turn a narrowboat in strong current so this is what we were aiming for. The problem with this approach is that it is well and truly scary when the boat hits the current on the 90 degree angle - will the boat tip? Also it is scary because if the boat gets too much force in the swing down stream, still tied on, it could smack into the pier again with unknown results. Come to think about it there are a great number of unknowns in "extreme narrowboating".


A very worried Captain checks on his crew.

Water rising rapidly in the centre of Bath


So as Lancer (the name of the boat) was catching the current and going beyond the 90 degress I let go of the back rope and fired up on all engines to try and get into the middle of the river. This is the way you would "ferry" a canoe but the problem with narrowboats are their 15 tonnes of complete inmanuverability. I quickly realized that she wouldn't make the full circle turn and we were now heading sideways down the river picking up speed going towards an old Roman bridge too narrow for the 50ft boat to pass through sideways. Absolutely no time to waste (there was maybe 20 meters (60ft) to the bridge) I went in highest gear and heading straight for the opposite shore. We hit the grassy bank with the front and Fred jumped a shore quickly securing the front rope with a metal spear (again - a critical maneuver which is not easy - if you miss, the boat pulls so hard that all things are soon over).

Lancer swung back into an upstream position now moored on the other shore, a good bit closer to the bridge. A side note: the beginning of this maritime spectacle was viewed by hundreds of spectators from the surrounding amphitheatre (River Avon is in the middle of the centre of Bath) - this made things even more palmsweating but also made me fired up to do this manuveur and to leave triumphiantly out of the old Roman Village. You could almost hear all the visiting tourists: "Look there dear, they are doing a longboat show down in that pond down there, let's take some photographs". If I had known what was waiting for us I would have declared defeat there and then. If all this had been happening in the years of youtube and instagram then I am sure we could have enjoyed various viral photage of the "nutter in a narrowboat" for years ahead. Back to Lancer, moored on the grassy banks in a unstainable position:

Fired up by an overdose of "yoor" I decided to try the same maneuvear but this time let Lancer swing all the way round before letting go of the back rope. The thing this time around was that if we swung all the way full force, we'd hit the grassy bank and not the concreted pier which gave a somewhat reassuring feeling. Had I only known. The crew got back on board and prepared for another take off.

"1 ... 2 .... 3 ... GO!", Theresa cut the front rope and we started the slowly accelerating swinging into the frothy current."Don't let go, don't let go" I was keeping repeating to myself as the forces of water started to work on the 30m2 hull of Lancer. Don't let go, keep her swinging. Please don't tip over. Nearly there. It seemed to work. We were now past the 90 degrees and Lancer was finally pointing down stream. A couple of more seconds and I'll run this baby out of here pole position and we are off! ... GO!!! ... FULL STEAM AHEAD!!! ALL ENGINES GO! ... F*ck this was looking bad - we needed more acceleration. We were going slowly but surely angled 30 degress down stream towards that bloody bridge. The bridge was a big stone arched bridge - one of the many Roman attractions in Bath. We were heading straight towards the lower side of the monument desperately trying to get Lancer into the middle of the river where the bridge was high enough to get safely through. The tourist crowds were cheering. Fred, Theresa and Henriette was shouting from the front looking at the bridge and back at me "GET HER LINED UP - WE ARE GONNA HIT!". I still needed to get her a bit further out in the river and then I was gonna swing the back agreesively to the left to make the mother of all line ups.


Front of the barge and a bit of the bridge.


The impact gave a shiver through the hull. Old limestone cut in shape by Roman slaves exploded at the impact with the solid steel roof of the fine boat Lancer. As soon as we hit I had lined her up. Come on baby, do the best you've learned - don't give up now. She lined up nicely and what could have been a complete disaster (getting the boat wedged and scraped on the arch) was avoided. As we came out on the other side of the bridge I was totally fired up with mixture of adrenaline and desperation and looked back at the row of stunned spectators on the bridge giving them the "surfs up" sign and shouting "YOOOOOR"! We were on our way and we'd won the battle with what seemed only a minor injury. Had the boat been of a wooden make, the bridge would most definitely have won and the roof would have peeled off like a wodden tin can.

We were now heading out of Bath practically surfing the waves going very fast. You have to have speed on the boat relative to the waterflow if you want to have any chance of stearing. It is a dilemma - one of many in extreme narrowboating. But still - spirits were now increasingly high after the successful victory 50 meters upstream . . . . "we willl be okay - worst must be over" . . . After what must have been around 8 seconds of peace - it comes: From one of the boats on the shore a young lad shouts: "THE BRIDGE IS TOO LOW!". Tsk, we just passed that bridge you local farmer boy. He shaked his head in dispear as we zoomed past him continuing down the river. What we did not know was that the lad was refering to the newer model railway bridge some 100 meters further down the stream around a bend or two.


After the bridge hit, going way to fast towards a low bridge.

Low bridge. VERY low bridge. We are talking inches from complete disaster.


The Captain steering Lancer under the low bridge

That's it - we are stopping until the water goes down.

The bridges in Bath changes from the centre - in the old centre it is old Roman stuff, big arches, masterpieces of a long gong era. Further out in the suberbs the bridge architecture changes to some more industrial constructions created for road and railway effeciency and not for an aestetich addition to the riverscape. Most of them are wide, steel reinforced concrete animals spanning as low as possible. It was one of those monsters we were now getting into our focus after rounding another bend full speed.

The farmer boy had spoken the truth it seemed - we were indeed approaching what appeared to be the lowest duck I had ever approached with Lancer. I had approximately 5 seconds to take a decision - should we go for it or should we try some desperate maneuver to stop the boat and get to shore. There was at that point only one real option - go for it and hope for the gods mercy on this doorstep to Valhalla. At least this would take me up there - if you go down you go down with style and you go down all the way. 2 seconds left of thinking time and I compared the bridge to the one that I had passed numerous times in Bristol harbour where the chimney needs to be taken of and it only just goes. Looked like approximately that sort of height. "WE ARE GOING FOR IT!" I shouted to Theresa to get the chimney fast and although the crew mood seemed extremely worried she obeyed instantly, got the thing off and headed down front deck. I had to aim for the slight arched middle of the ugly obstruction. This required some fairly nailbiting precision work, but if there is one thing that Lancer has, then it's a good stearing, as well as a responsive hydraulic drive shaft with minimal loss of power. A few extremely tense seconds and we were heading under. It was gonna go! We literaly had 1 inch to spare - the plant on top of the roof bend and by pure luck the rudder pin which is the last bit of the ship passed under - just. Earlier that day the water had been at least 10 inches higher. We were very lucky.

YEEEEEAAAAH!!! Excited but with no time to celebrate and a few shouting conversations with the crew which had had enough long time ago we decided to try and pull the handle. This was way way to marginal. How on earth were we going to negotiate the locks and smaller bridges further down in this white water madness. We had now gained a lot of momentum and stopping the boat and tying her up would prove another desperate bit of boat handling. But it went.

The story continues - notes of the further events
Stopped the return attempt and stayed in Bath
River still rising (it was p*ssing down)
Escaped into a side canal for the night together with some fellow boaters who unfortunately had lost all control over their senses and was in true panic.
Next morning headed down river for a second attempt. River more calm but still in serious flood.
Back rope goes into screw and stops engine on critical weir stop.
Was *this* close to going over a weir (going over a weir means the end of everything). Only due to marginal luck and true crewmanship we got the middlerope on a bollard with seconds to spare.
Had to negotiate some whitewater conditions (whitewater & narrowboats are not very compatible).
Finally Monday evening made it into the safety of the Bristol Floating Harbour with absolutely frayed nerves. I am staying on my mooring spot for a while now. That weekend trip was a bit more that I would like to have bargained for. Whitewater etc is fun when in a little kayak of raft, but when it is your houseboat with all your belongings plus your office then the consequences of tipping over is just a bit to extreme.


Crew mood at night. A bit tense.

Next day, checking fuel. Spirits are high (until we met the first lock)



The Saltford lock - completely flooded. Sickening.

1. Desperate turn 
2. Bridge hit 
3. Passing low bridge 
4. Desperate stop 
5. Desperate return and mooring - water constantly rising 
6. Escape into the canal system with panicing boaters 
7. Close to the end of it all - rope in screw, almost over a weir, Captain blows the whistle.

Goodess of Gloom

Written by Martin Beale, Bristol

I was back. Fred was there for the first time. The Great Cave of Berry Head swung before us, the roofs leaned out behind us. We started with a dainty little skip between the boulders, progressed to a worrying belly traverse and finished with a powerful traverse above the sea on great barnacle encrusted jugs. I had to hang around on the jugs for some time as a father and son team rearranged themselves on the Moonraker belay. Eventually, we were both there at the base of Moonraker. Moonraker looked really good, the queue for it looked really bad.

I have never seen anyone at Berry Head before. It seemed like a forgotten crag - away from it all. That day it was heaving. There were two parties on Moonraker and the father and son team were slowly uncoiling their ropes at the base. There was a guy hanging from a chockstone in the Moonraker crack as his leader took serial lobs from the traverse of Dreadnought. Every now and again, a party would come down into the Great Cave and traverse across the Mystery Tour or Rainbow Bridge. The father and son team on Moonraker were taking such an eternity uncoiling their ropes that we decided to partake of other fayre : Goddess of Gloom...

The tide was really low and we were able to uncoil our ropes at a friendly little ledge at sea level. We had one last look at the father and son team. Dad was pulling on gear on the initial traverse of the 'raker. It was evident that they would be some time. Fred wanted to get up in decent time so that we could go to Chudleigh and do some climbing with Theresa.

After a few stiff pulls on massive jugs, I was on the route. I bridged up the corner and placed some gear under an unfriendly roof. The roof forces you out right. This would normally be fine at Berry Head. However, the usual jugs aren't there on this section of Goddess. I pulled rightwards on jams. It was pretty strenuous - the wall beneath overhangs. By virtue of a horizontal finger jam, I was able to stretch right to a crack around the right hand end of the overhang. I reached to what was neither a hand jam, nor a jug. It didn't feel quite right. I backed down somewhat pumped to a resting position before the roof. When I summoned the courage, I launched out again. I knew it would go - I had done it before. I reached the crack beyond the overhang - half jamming, half jugging. I shuffled my feet along and then contemplated the corner above. I didn't have long. I saw a jug above and pulled on it. It hadn't looked that stout, but it did the business. I was in the corner. The corner was pretty easy. I stuffed in a load of gear and then launched rightwards out of the corner. This looks worse than it is. There are massive jugs / ledges on the right arete. It looks daunting to reach those ledges, but once you are there, everything eases. I stuffed a friend into a horizontal break and continued to the belay. By now, the father and son team were already on the 'raker belay - maybe we weren't that fast after all.
There was a good ledge and a load of horizontal breaks to belay on. The problem with the breaks were that they were slightly flaring and not particularly deep. I decided that safety in numbers would be the solution to this problem. Out came the rack and in went the friends. I was pretty pleased with two friends side by side - friends 1.5 and 2. This would be the basis of my belay. I then got a reasonable friend 3 out to the right and a reasonable quadcam 0 to the left. A rock 2 in a horizontal crack and a poor friend 2.5 and I was all set : "safe, take in". Well, I wasn't exactly sure about the safe bit. I wasn't too happy with the belay, but I felt that everything would be alright on the night.
I thought Fred followed the pitch in fine style. He took a while, but I thought that he was faster than I was. There didn't seem to be any strife as he made that daunting pull out of the corner and onto the juggy arete. Before I knew it, we were both at the belay. "I'm pumped stupid", said Fred. I thought he was exaggerating - he looked OK. We swapped gear and Fred prepared for the lead of the next pitch. "A bit of factor 2 avoidance gear would be good up there, Fred", I said (this was in retrospect something of an understatement).

Fred moved up and got some excellent looking gear in before a bulging section. A few moves later and he was on the gentle bulge. He clipped something. "in situ", he shouted. I assumed there must have been an in-situ wire. A high step and he was established around the bulge. I thought he had done the crux of the pitch. I could just see his feet over the top of the bulge.

"The holds are pretty muddy", said Fred.
"Yeah, but they're OK aren't they?", I replied.
"The holds are pretty bad".
"You'll be alright."
"I'm pumped stupid."
"Just go for it, you're nearly there".
"I'm going to come off", said Fred (he never yelled or seemed too terrified).

I was petrified - there was no way that Fred could fall off there - he was above the in situ gear and I was pretty unhappy about the belay. The shaly band of Berry Head is not the best place for woo-li - not by a long way.

"You can't fall off now".
"I'm coming off".
"Fred, don't fall now", I pleaded. I held the dead end of the rope tight. I now knew that Fred was coming off. It was unstoppable - inevitable.

He seemed to jump off. I watched him fall. In a second the rope would go tight and I would hold him. The rope went tight, I held him. I was pulled up from the belay. As the Viking was plummeting to the briny, I ascended to the heavens. I waited for the tug of the belay, but the tug never came, I was still rising. I sensed the friends ripping from the belay and could then feel them smacking against my legs. Surely, some part of the belay must have held.

We came to a stop. I didn't know what was happening. I hadn't known whether we'd come to a halt or not, but we did. I was trying to make sense of the situation.

"y-o-u-r b-e-l-a-y-'-s r-i-p-p-e-d" came a shout from the Moonraker stance (it seemed like everything was happening in slow motion). I surveyed the scene. Fred was 10 feet below me hanging on the rope, looking somewhat bemused. We were hanging off the in situ gear and a couple of nuts (though our weight was clearly on the in situ piece). I was in an unfamiliar part of the crag, the back of my hand was bleeding from a laceration caused by my belay hand scraping against the crag. It was clear : the belay had ripped.

"We've got to get back on the rock". I belayed Fred as he got onto the rock. I slammed in a couple of Friends (we know how good they are in these situations!). The friends were easy to find - they were dangling around my ankles. Fred sorted out a belay on the gear that had held. We were both somewhat shaken. I couldn't believe that the belay had failed. I knew it hadn't been the best belay, but I didn't think it was as bad as it had been - Fred hadn't taken a factor 2 onto the belay after all. I really couldn't believe what had happened.

The Moonraker team asked us whether we were alright. I knew we were. As a matter of good style, we had to finish Goddess. I assumed Fred didn't want another go (he really was pumped stupid now and was presumably in something of a nervous state). I led the pitch in nervous style. Wherever there was a piece that Fred was belaying on, I placed an extra piece (just to be sure). I got to the in-situ piece. It was a Peck peg. I clipped it. Just to be sure, I gave it a pull. The peg moved. Oh dear - that peg that we had been dangling from was actually not really attached to the crag at all. "You might as well pull this one out as a souvenir", I said to Fred. I moved to where Fred had lobbed. He was right - the holds were muddy and pretty poor. I gnarled in a friend 1 and then set to work with my nut remover. On excavating the mud, I was able to find a little finger jug. From the finger jug, a nervous move led me into the juggy vegetated crack above. It had been a worrying little lead, but I was at last on easier ground, above the moves that Fred had lobbed from.

At the second belay (shared with Moonraker), I had the chance to practice the art of belay creation once more. This time there was a good thread and peg to belay from. I also used a couple of friends in horizontal breaks. This time it was a good belay! I took the ropes in and then waited for Fred to come up. I watched him pretty carefully, especially at the point where he had lobbed before. He was fine on the blunt end. I think he was a little peeved with himself because he realised that he had fallen with his hands about two inches away from a good jug in the vegetated crack.

He showed me his trophy - the Peck peg. He had pulled it straight out. Having a 30 degree bend in it, it was in a sorry little state. It had probably been there for years waiting patiently for it's role in life to be fulfilled. Now it could retire in peace knowing that it's existence had been worthwhile. That bit of steel could have been made into some can - thrown into a dustbin once the baked beans had been eaten. Now it was the hero of the hour and had earned it's place on the mantlepiece for eternity.
The father and son team had long gone. They were presumably at the top, feeling pretty pleased with themselves and wondering how that party on Goddess could have been so slow and moose-like. A couple of south Devon activists had followed the father and son team up Moonraker. They were telling us tales of other belay ripping experiences on Berry Head - of the time that Pat Littlejohn had ended up dangling off a single peg when the Dreadnought stance had collapsed. We were clearly climbing in good company (styling our way up almost).

I was in charge of the third pitch. The adrenaline was flowing, but I knew that the third pitch was more normal climbing - we'd be alright. I pulled over the starting bulge (the pump was pleasing) and bridged upwards to the cave (what a cave - it is deep enough for a one man bivvy. It would be the perfect place for a falcon to nest - all that seabird food flying around too). There was a tricky section above the cave. I pulled rightwards to an exposed little ledge and then struggled back left on small holds to a knobbly crack that led to the top. It is all pretty exposed up here, though the holds are good and it is eventually possible to get some gear in. Theresa was peering over the top of the crag as I was climbing. "Did you see the lob?" I asked. She hadn't (maybe this was a good thing - it could be a little troubling to see your newly-wed husband take a 30 foot whipper off a south Devon sea cliff). I concentrated on executing the final few moves up the steep grassy corner, the pump pressing nicely by this stage. Eventually I was there - at the top. I shouted "YES". I was well pleased to have ticked Goddess of Gloom. I was pleased that we hadn't quiched onto Moonraker after our misfortune, I was pleased that I had led the whole route (Tom had led it mainly last time). I tied onto the massive post at the top and brought Fred up. I was just happy to be alive as I pulled in the ropes and looked out over the sea.

Both Fred and I were elated to be at the top. We were mentally drained. Chudleigh was no longer on our minds - we headed off for a great pub lunch near Exeter.
Any plans to go back for Moonraker?
We'll be back. The fire still burns.

Martin Beale, September 1999

Terriers Tooth

We had been climbing all day on Chair Ladder using my 11 mm rope in the descend gully "Mitre", where we had fixed it for the day. As we finish Diocese in the afternoon, Martin suggests "Let's go and eat some food and enjoy the scenery", which I fully appreciated. The tide is around halfway from its maximum and we can't access the bottom of the routes anymore, so the day has ended.
As we arrive back to our "base camp" I optimistically pull the abseil rope which is still in-situ, and the bloody thing is stuck all the way down in the bottom of the gully. This bottom is now being attacked by big wooshy waves in an increasingly frequent interval. I abseil down the stuck rope and I get to the edge of the cliff and I still can't pull it loose. It is completely stuck.

I then get Martin down to me and I decide to let Martin lower me down into the chaos below. I bring my knife in case I can't release the rope from whatever is jamming it. It feels potentially quite mad and a bit dangerous when Martin starts lowering me down over the edge and directly down (60 ft) to the ledge below where the rope is stuck in a crack. When I arrive at the ledge the first big wave whooshes in and covers me completely in ice-cold Atlantic Ocean water. A loud "Yyyyyyoooorrrr" assures Martin that I am still alive.

In the short time before the next approaching wave I quickly bend down to sort out the rope problem, and luckily the rope has just jammed itself and I can quickly get it loose with a bit of fiddling. Just as I free the rope the next wave arrives and I manage to squeeze myself into the corner of the crack and hold tight. Completely soaked again I shout to Martin to pull up the 11 mm and I prepare to run around the corner and quickly start climbing up "Terrier's Tooth (VD)" which I need to find before the next wave comes in. I receive one or two big waves more before I run desperately out into the exposed rocky face where Terrier's Tooth should be situated. While running forwards and backwards Martin is following me on the rope from above. He needs to change to a prepared belay stance in between my change of position, and I am panically trying to find the VDiff shouting to Martin tighten the rope. I faff about a bit and another relatively modest wave just makes me hurry up and I find the two big holds, pull up, stand up - find the next ones, pull, get the legs with me, still wet rock all over, big incoming wave and I just make it to higher rock as a big mother f***ker hits the face and whooshes up and licks my feet. The jugs are big and I manage in record time to pull myself up on in safety on the ledge where Martin awaits with a big grin on his face.

As we look down, a really big baby hits the rocks and the whole face of Diocese, MitreGully and Terriers Tooth is completely swept in foamy ocean water. I am very glad not tobe standing in the little gully or on the exposed rocks in front of Terrier's Tooth. That could have turned the whole project into much more than a rope rescue...

Soaking wet, Martin lends me his jacket and I belay him up the rest of Terrier's Tooth which he leads quickly, understanding my increasing cold condition and I soon follow him and we top out hand in hand. As we arrive at our basecamp I give Martin a hug and we bothshed a little tear as the sun sets behind the blue and gold ocean swept granite.

Mathias 27APR98

[only one of the paragraphs is fiction - honest!]

Climbing Central Gully

Date: January 31, 1998
Climbers: Mathias & Tim Wilkinson
Climbing: English Ice
Area: Lake District, North England

We had been waiting for conditions to be right for most of January and finally the reports where looking promising. JackFrost had had his grip on The Lakes for a while and we decided to head up to Penrith that Friday afternoon. 

We arrived in Penrith just before pub closing time and we went in to the first pub with combined B&B in the center of Penrith. As we enter the fairly local looking pub the first table we pass on the way to the bar 4 women lifts their heads and shouts "Whoohoo come and talk to us". Seriously!

---

We place ourselves at a table in a quiet corner of the pub but even here we get looked at by another slightly more dodgy crowd of load speaking women 

---

I was shocked and followed Tim closely trying to act cool and ignore the wild girls at the table. We make it safely to the bar and the bar woman is pretty rough as well and eventually we manage to book a room - after having ordered our beers naturally. The atmosphere is quite okay. We place ourselves at a table in a quiet corner but even here we get looked at by another slightly more dodgy crowd of load speaking women. It only add to my first impression of The North when a hopeful young male approaches their table and on of them shouts to him "You! You can f*ck riiight off.". We look down and try to be one with the shadows. :-)

Next day we get up reasonably early despite having downed quite a few pints the night before. We head out to Scafell, Great End where we rack up on the car park and head in towards Central Gully.

It's cold but there is not a lot of snow. Central Gully looks quite impressive as we arrive at the bottom of the 200 meter gully.

A few other teams are up on the route, and we quickly get ourselves sorted as more teams are approaching in below us. Tim starts the climb and I soon follow. YEAH! Finally - the first ice climb of the season and my first ice climb in England. I hammer my ice axes in the ice and follow with kicking in my crampons. There is only a thin layer of ice but it seems to hold okay. As I arrive up a Tim's stance he gives me my first lesson in English Ice Climbing."Conservative Blows mate". I thought it was all "Big muscles no brain" but because of the sparse ice, you have to be much more gentle than on a thick glacier in Chamonix. So I lead the next pitch with Tim's words in my head and I get an enjoyable second pitch of nice and well protected climbing.

We continue for another 6 hours or so, and apart from me dislodging a quite sizable boulder we had a perfect climb.

Afterwards we head back to Penrith for what is to be my first real introduction to North English nightlife.

Having returned from the climbing we start in "our"pub which is absolutely packed at 5-6 pm. Great! We get some beers in and stay until 11pm. We then move on to get a Curry on the local Indian and it looks like this is what everybody else is doing as well, so we have a great time there. I have a brilliant dish packed with chili, forcing me to drink even more of the local nectar.

After the meal we follow the crowds to the "Bar that has open until 2" and we enjoy an hour there. The night is just starting. When this bar closes we find out that people go to "Spinners" and we find this disco just around the corner. We get in, and it turns out to be a huge nightclub packed with people from all ages. Later we find out that there is an even more full downstairs and we stay there until we desperately exhausted drag ourselves to our humble chamber in the pub where we started. Excellent concept!

Next day there is a thaw and we drive around the Lakes spotting routes and eventually we head back down south to Bristol. What a weekend!

As we drive down the M5, Tim looks over at me and says "Mathias,I really enjoyed that". I sigh and tell Tim to stop the car. He pulls in to the side of the motorway and we sit for a moment quiet reflecting over the weekends events. Finally I break the silence and say "Tim, let me give you a hug". As we embrace each other I squeeze gently, we both shed a little tear and a big lorry thunderers through the night over the gray moonlit tarmac.

Mathias JAN98

[only one of the paragraphs is fiction - honest!]

Climbing Aconcagua

exhausted and moving extremely slowly, but they are still planning on spending the night up at 4900m. Hmm, he could easily run into altitude problems.
Finally, we return to our camp in Plaza Argentina and start the stove for a cup of tea and some dinner.

Dec 19 - Resting in Base camp (4200m)
Weather: getting stronger; strange clouds
After Yesterday's carry, with headaches etc, we decide to hang out in base camp for a day of acclimatization. During the morning, both the Brits (Jim and Henry) and the Mexicans come down because of altitude problems. J&H's didn't sleep all night because