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my one hung free, and trailed in an elegant loop from harness to belay, so I didn't see the position as anything particularly serious.
"It'll be better if you don't fall off, because if you do you will certainly die", Alfie hinted. The problem with men from the North of Ireland is that they're always so serious. I'm sure all the troubles in the Province would be sorted out overnight if everybody lightened up a bit...
Though Justin was now in bright sunshine, it was clear that he was still feeling the cold, as both his legs were shaking rather violently. Being an expert on anxiety control, I told Justin to take a deep breath. Alfie deflated my helpful comments by suggesting if you've only got one more breath left, you may as well make it a deep one.
Justin shook off his concerns, and sobbing gently, strode confidently up the slender
arête, looking like a four-limbed sewing machine. Sitting astride the ridge, he brought Alfie up, who clambered over him, and disappeared from view. It was my job to remove the gear and lead through on the final pitch, and I was impressed by his considerate gear placements, as each one fell out and slid down the rope before I even got near to them.
I got to the sun splashed arête, and poked my head around the corner. Justin, on his a cheval belay, complained quietly about piles, and Alfie, with nowhere to stand, simply hung off the cliff with his eyes shut. I could see a good ledge directly beneath him, but unfortunately, it was 200 ft away. He was talking rapidly to himself. With his Northern Irish accent, I couldn't really make out what he was saying, but the first bit sounded like "Our Father..."
Justin draped a couple of slings around my neck, and pointed up the vertical wall above. "Up there ... Please." Unfortunately, because the two bodies in front of me occupied every available hold, I had to tread on both of them to establish myself on the wall. We all found this wonderfully entertaining, and everybody was laughing. A hearty but too-short pitch of big holds and spikes led directly to the top. Being old hands now, we avoided the desperate leafy descent to the left, and decided we'd earned the right to walk down the simple path on the right instead.
Eager to make the best of the January sunshine, we decided to do a route on Brown Slabs next. We don't know what route it was, but the large gathering of young ladies at the bottom ensured us it had at least
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two stars. Worried that the young ladies might fall into difficulty on the dangerously flat ground at the foot of the crag, I selflessly allowed Alfie to lead and Justin to belay, while I lounged in the sun chatting to Jane from Bristol (22) about some of the really hard routes I'd done.
I don't know what Alfie and Justin were up to, but I was just describing the hard bit on the Abruzzi Spur on K2, when the rope came tight. "Climb when ready" in grating Irish echoed throughout Borrowdale, and I was unceremoniously pulled towards the crag, just as I was about to check the security of the buckles on Jane's leg loops. "Climbing", I yelled back, in what I must say was a rather manly voice.
I climbed as slickly as I could up the slab, trying to find places where I could smear with one foot, lay away on one hand and glance downwards at the same time. I've been practising the outdoor-type-rugged- smile for years, but my efforts fell on blind eyes as Jane was talking to some whelp with a bad excuse for a beard. Though I did my utmost to make it look hard, the climb was an easy and pleasant V Diff, and we romped down the descent just in time to wave goodbye to Jane and her
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