of my comfortable stance by Justin, who, for reasons best known to himself, had decided to fall off. My braking hand locked the rope instinctively, and my helmet smacked into the tree as I swung round it, the rope insisting on making a straight line between force and anchor. It was all so terribly sudden and dramatic that I nearly dropped my cigarette.

Phil raised his eyebrows - almost with alarm. His deep concern showed in the broad grin on his face.  "Has he come off?"

No sounds emanated from below. "Are you okay?", I shouted down.
"Yes. Fine thanks", came the reply. "Sorry. I ... err ... slipped".
My comfortable seat had been turned into a semi-hanging stance, and with my head stuck in the tree and my right leg trapped between the live rope and an ill-placed tree root, I was having considerable difficulty in smoking my cigarette. As Justin's 28 stone cut into my leg, I was beginning to wonder what was going on. The numbness spread from the toes up, and alarmed by the prospect of pins and needles, I thought I'd try and chivvy things along a little. "Any chance you could get back on the rock - preferably before it gets dark?".

Alfie came up on the other rope, and sort of led through. I say sort of, because he couldn't find the second pitch. He went up this way, then that, then another, mumbled something to

Jon Adams 1998 Climbing Diary

January 24,

Fell into my bunk at the Stair Hut at about 3 a.m., and got woken up  4 hours later by people quietly packing their gear. I felt rather fragile, and decided it was definitely owing to lack of sleep rather than the quantity of Bass I'd consumed at the Swinside Inn. We went to Shepherd's Crag, and geared up. I decided to put on my helmet to keep my throbbing headache on the inside. I feared that if I took it off, the pounding in my skull would cause ripples on the millpond of Derwentwater, and spoil the view for everyone else.

I groggily started up Crescendo - S **. A steep chimney crack led easily past a chockstone to a platform and a blank, gearless wall. Polished holds were frequent and sizeable enough, but the lack of protection and the finger-numbing cold rock pushed the hangover to one side. I got a wobbly Rock 2 half into a pocket. It was unlikely to hold it's own weight, let alone a fall, but I clipped it anyway, because it made me feel better. 20 ft higher, a fine crack on the right gobbled up a Friend 2.5, and the route plain-sailed to a large tree belay. 

I arranged my anchors expertly, but as the hangover returned, I settled back and sat comfortably to one side of the tree, lit a fag, and had a chat with Phil who pulled onto the same large ledge. In the midst of our civil and enjoyable conversation, I was pulled out

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