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Back at the foot of the crag, we organised the rack for the next route. Phil and James, clearly phased from their ascent, excused themselves, and loped off to the cafe talking in loud voices about The Greater Ranges. At our insistence, Justin chose to lead the first pitch of Little Chamonix - VDiff***, and Alfie and I watched eagerly from below, waiting for him to fall off. To our disappointment, he didn't, and flew up the 80 ft pitch in only about three hours.
We all got to the tree belay just as a light drizzle gently bathed the crag. The second pitch took on the guise of a waterfall, and as other parties fled talking of canoes and life jackets, we decided it might be fun to have a bit of abseil practice.
A mild, quiet evening of philosophical debate was enjoyed in the Swinside Inn, and Albert was so engrossed in the spirit of the soiree that he couldn't remember the walk back to the hut - even while he was doing it. Not long ago, Albert called me Dave, and confessed that he had a bad memory for monikers. This particular evening was no exception to this trouble with names, because he was having considerable difficulty in remembering his own.
Justin's fall had a strange latent effect on him, for not only did he mysteriously manage to lose his entire rack of very new and very shiny climbing gear, but he was also reported to be prancing about in the ladies' shower waving an ice hammer and wearing a crash hat, mumbling senselessly about the location of his rope.
January 25
We returned to Shepherds Crag for an early start the next day and were ready to start climbing at about 11 a.m. We decided to finish what we'd started, and Alfie led up to the very familiar tree belay. Democratically, I sent Justin out to dispose of the second pitch. The hardest part involves surmounting a block under an overhang, and gaining a polished slab just beyond. Justin performed a prostrate pirouette on the block, which would have been an exceptional manoeuvre were it not for the fact that he emerged arse- first, and was facing in completely the wrong direction.
He eventually righted himself, laughing jovially about the incident, and was enjoying himself so much he forgot to put any more runners in.
Perched on the edge of a rib, 30 ft above his last bit of gear, he beamed down at us, and, wiping the tears from his eyes, gently enquired in a quaking voice what would happen if he came off. Alfie looked at me. I looked away. It's not so much the sight - I hate the sound of a 60 ft arcing fall on a half rope, with a pendulum smack into a wall of jagged blocks. The good news was he'd only clipped Alfie's rope -
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