Devil’s kitchen

For more than a few years, it was a rare weekend that didn’t feature a trip to North Wales. Inspired by the sombre photography of Hard Rock and tales of desperate climbing in the Snowdonia mountains, we followed in the footsteps of giants, leaving chalk, skin and the odd bit of gear in-situ when it all got a bit much and retreat was the only sensible decision. Most trips began by throwing up the tents in a wet field and heading swiftly to the Vaynol Arms. Consequently, the next day’s climbing was frequently less successful than we had convinced ourselves it might be, the night before. Padding up an easy climb on the Idwal Slabs stands out among many such memories, mocked by the goats which passed us in both directions as we dithered with clammy hands, bleary eyes and sore heads in what might just have been the greatest show of climbing ineptitude ever displayed in North Wales.

But there were other days too - perhaps the pub was closed or maybe we’d been thrown out before doing too much damage - when the climbing was superb and I marvelled at the audacity and skill of those who had established routes that remain test pieces decades later.

I sat awhile above the Devil’s Kitchen on this run, thinking back on those carefree days filled with naïve enthusiasm, grateful for all I had seen and done, and to have learned at least a little humility before any real damage was done.