The first of May dawned clear and fine, blue skies, brilliant sunshine and already we could see other club members disporting themselves in minimalistic Lycra on various routes on the South face of the West Buttress. “We” consisted of Q, our intrepid leader, just reinstated into Scotland's premier mountaineering club - no, not the Upper Doonie, but that other mixed club of rather longer standing, the mighty SMC - plus myself as number two, with both of us now in terms of age and decrepitude well into Bus Pass territory. Bearing in mind the composition of the original ascentionists, we had recruited Madame, a “young” lady with not too much rock climbing experience, but “game for anything”. We had agreed that Big boots were the order of the day but Madame took this to the extreme and elected to wear her new rigid-soled Le Sportivas which, in the event, proved to be a mistake.

The contrast between the south and West faces of the West Buttress could not have been more dramatic. On the line of our route the rocks and the considerable vegetation were dripping with the previous day's precipitation and the temperature was such that all available clothing had to be donned. Chalk bags were definitely surplus to requirements.

The first pitch, just to the left of Baird's Pinnacle, was perfectly straightforward, but the second, under the prevailing conditions of wet, slimy rock and saturated vegetation, proved more troublesome. The third pitch, up a fairly constricted chimney cum crack, was the crux of the climb and (shades of the first ascent when combined with the tactics used) I had to hold my leader's right foot on a minimal sloping hold to enable him to reach a grassy (i.e. suppurating) terrace crossing the upper part of the face. Madame had considerable difficulty on this pitch, the screech factor becoming more strident with height gained. Calls for a tight rope became more insistent when, towards the top of the pitch, it appeared that, according to the messages relayed upwards, certain parts of the female anatomy (two I think) had become jammed in the upper chimney !

Eventually all three of us were united on the upper terrace. The rocks above the terrace seemed even more foul and uninviting than those below and we were forced leftwards to the end of the terrace where a small boulder (it could be moved by hand) provided the only belay for the second while Q made an assault towards the ridge and sunlight. Q, as he has many times in the past, rose to the occasion and, after inserting a couple of friendly Friends, much to the relief of the second, reached the end of the climb to be met by a couple of Lycra-clad fellow club members who, having ascended November Groove (VS) in brilliant sunshine and on dry rock, were a little worried about our slow progress.

Madame, if truth be told, made a bit of a meal of the last pitch and arrived on the ridge “absolutely knackered” but, reverting to type, within five minutes had chatted up three vulnerable Glaswegians at the summit cairn and had managed to obtain an invitation for all three of us to join them at a party later that eveneing.

I have to confess that Madame had the last laugh when, after lunch on the summit, I became completely disorientated (not for the first time I hear you say), and was convinced that the way off lay in completely the opposite direction to the correct line. The final ignominy came when the same person had to assist me to descend the short rock step just below the summit as I refused to jump as she had done. Still, the eventual descent, along the ridge and down the newly-constructed path, was a delight and frequent comments concerning the tremendous views to be had in all directions were, from time to time, interspersed with heartfelt cries of “Some Bloody Difficult”. However, it was all in a good cause and, due to the sponsorship, a reasonable sum was raised for MCofS funds. I trust the money will be used wisely.