Of all the photos I have of climbing, only one graces the walls of my flat. The rest are secreted away in boxes, occasionally brought out for reasons of nostalgia, inspiration, or plotting - "I've found this great cliff near such and such ...". This photo, however, is like a badge of pride; even people who only ever tie knots in their shoelaces recognise this climb. "Yes", I say as they gasp in amazement, "that blue dot there is Guy, but the better-looking orange dot below is me". Two small dots on an immense-looking tower set again a gun metal sea: the dramtic potential of the Old Man of Hoy has not been lost on generations of television producers, and a steady stream of stars has poured forth across the Pentland Firth over the last thirty-three years to do choreographed battle on its crumbling ramparts. Thanks to all this attention it has become probably the most famous and distinctive summit in the British Isles. Even without the BBC's cameras, climbing the Old Man still remains something of a spectator sport, as we were to discover.

A friend's wedding in Kirkwall this summer presented us with the excuse we needed to make the long drive north (unkind souls may jest that nowhere is north of Aberdeen !). As we propped up the bar at the reception sampling the delights of Cog (a deceptively potent mixture of secret incredients served hot from a two-handed bucket), a number of Orcadians asked if it was true that we intended to climb the Old Man. They were enthusiastic, even a little impressed, although a number reminded us that the French lassie did it when six months pregnant without a rope - so not too impressed. Above all they demonstrated a defensive pride about this icon of their locale, and they left us with an imprecation to remove some of the unsightly ropes and slings that have been discarded there by retreating climbers.

Hoy itself has an unspoilt wildness, which unlike the Western Isles, seems to sit easily with man's presence. The landscape is a simple combination of great rolling hills, which are here and there cut short where they confront the sea with huge cliffs. Sitting on the Brobdignagian pebbles of Rackwick Bay you can understand why the composer, Peter Maxwell Davies came here: the enduring land a theme played out on the changing rhythms of the sea.

It poured the day before and it poured the day after, but Sunday the 19th July was glorious - though it didn't start that way. Our first glimpse of the Old Man was through a cold sea mist. It reared up before us like the kraaken from out the sea beyond Rora Head. As we approached it just grew and grew, until from the cliff edge we could see it in all its glory resembling a staggering 'jenga' tower in the latter stages of a game. We were shivering as we started up the first pitch: a fine drizzle gusted in from the Firth and we wondered if the route would turn to mud for us as we had heard it can. In a sense the least memorable thing about the Old Man is the climbing. That is not to denigrate it: the second pitch in particular is as fine a piece of crack-climbing as you will find enywhere in the country - the rock dusty but sound and the jams perfect. If the sun comes out you can look below at the silver torpedoes of seals and even porpoises - the chances are they'll be watching you too. Just as curious are the puffins that line the tiniest of ledges and gaze transfixed from only inches away as you claw your way towards the top of the stack. However, it is wise to avoid too close a proximity to some of the other natives, especially the fulmars which are only too willing to redesign your colour scheme for you for free.

The Old Man wears its history about it bleached, tattered and storm-blasted. This mess is quite appealing, a fitting tangle of flotsam, witness, no doubt, to countless epics and adventures: ancient blades, bolts and leepers optimistically bound togther with lengths of fading tape - the whole lot together dissolving in time. This place is no museum, however. While in the grainy monochrome of your imagination you picture Patey or Bailey hammering a long bong into a crack, incongruously, you find yourself threading this very item - rusted but real - for a belay.

Our arrival at the summit was a little surreal. Having been hidden away all morning in cracks and corners we suddenly found ourselves face to face with the gathered camcorder-wielding throng on the cliff-top opposite. A little dazed we returned their enthusiastic waves and then turned our attention first to the situation, and then inevitably to the descent. This is as full of excitement as the ascent, and it is with a mixture of relief and regret that you reach the ground: regret that you have to quit this superb, unique spot, perhaps never to return. Yet there is solace in the thought that Scotland has stacks of stacks. These tottering piles litter our coastline, each one a different combination of smells and sounds - bird shit and brine, screeching gulls and crashing waves - demanding new strategies of approach, ascent and descent. All this makes for a unique experience. Perhaps an addiction ?