“In Scotland, the grade of Very Difficult means the climbing is very difficult”.

Who had said these words? Maybe Murray himself, or McIntyre? They hung over us as a warning and a challenge as we planned our climb and looked forward to the adventure.

July 7th 2002. Water trickled down the rock as we stood at the base of a scruffy looking 'Diff' that led up to the terrace where our route started. Rain trickled down on us too as we played the familiar game of bluff and counter: none of us wanted to lead that steep awkward trickling chimney. Eventually an agreement was reached, and one of us took the sharp “end” and started the upward struggle, big boots sliding on small sloping holds, wet hands numbing on wet rock. Briefly the sun came out, and so did the midges, adding to our discomfort. I coughed and wheezed weakly, with what was to become pneumonia! We settled into the sociable pattern of a rope of three, with the waiting two chatting to each other, and shouting occasional encouragement or abuse to the climber. It began to rain again.

“Safe!” came the cry at last. The second man followed. The rain was heavier now as the third man climbed carefully, up towards the others and grinning at his discomfort.

“So this spike looks good to abb from!” he shouted as he neared the stance, placing an old sling around a convincing tombstone. Ropes were carefully rearranged, and dignified retreat followed.

Eleven weeks later saw us plodding up the hill again, this time the valley was lit by a autumn sunshine, our spirits this time much higher as views of dry rock opened up in front of us. We took our places again at the start of the approach climb, this time with boots stuffed into our heavy sacks, and our feet shod in 'rubbers', justified by the new grade of “Severe” for our main objective in the new guidebook. Even the scrappy “Diff” looked more amenable this time and the leader quickly gained the stance at 45m, smoothly followed by the second, and by the third man., who followed through easily to gain the terrace and take a belay around a large block. The party quickly reassembled on the terrace at the base of the route.

Steep rock reared up into a pale autumn sky, and we again vied for positions. The leader climbed quickly at first, then more rapidly as became accustomed to the position. He slowed again as the rock steepened as he ran the harder second pitch on from the first. A few muttered curses, downward glances, a good runner placed, a weighing of options, a few quite words from those below, a stealing of nerves and he pulled up on steep holds for a few moves. Easier ground now led to the stance and a belay in a gloomy corner chimney, almost a full rope length above the terrace. Now the first of his two companions followed, mind lightened by the presence of the rope in front, but weighed down by the rucksack, carefully followed by the crest of the ridge, pausing to remove the runners, and slowing on the harder moves. A brief shower of rain dampened the rock, but not our spirits, as the third man followed on, similarly weighed down by the rucksack, and pulled and panted over the steep moves to reach the stance.

The lead was debated and agreed, and the final pitch, 25 meters of steep rock that separated us from the top was commenced. 'Not well protected', the guide book states, and as broken ground led away and up from the stance, only two grudging runners were found as the leader approached the crux, a breach in the steep wall leading to easier ground. And so with trembling legs, sweating palms and a dry mouth, and eyeing his last runner 5 meters below, he pulled awkwardly over the top of the wall. Three men breathed again. A few meters of easier ground, one more steep final move and top was gained. The rest of the party followed up, laughing and joking in the hazy autumn sunshine. And we so forgot ourselves as to shake hands.

The Clachaig Inn beckoned. We gathered our gear, looking out at wispy clouds gathering on the tops and clinging to the Aonach Eagach ridge opposite, and across Rannoch Moor. Ropes and jangling gear back in our sacs, and our boots on our cramped feet, we scrambled up a gully to the final terrace leading to open slopes back to the valley, to Glen Coe and to our beer.
Time to plan the next adventure ……..