May 2002

1996 climb -
Prophesy of Drowning

It was the photo that did it. It was in 1996 that I first saw the picture that would come to dominate my UK rock climbing ambitions. The new SMC Skye and the Hebrides guide book had just arrived and for once I had managed to grab the shop copy before the others and retreat to the loo for a quick (well, quick-ish!) preview. When I came out I was hooked. I knew what I had to go and do and I was tense with excitement, ambition and anticipation.

In the middle of the Mingulay and Pabbay section there are four colour photos, one of which was the most breathtaking and inspirational rock-shot I had seen for years. It was Graeme Nicoll's picture of Kevin Howett and Graham Little on a route I had never heard of on the sea cliffs of the remote Outer Hebridean island of Pabbay. The route, Prophesy of Drowning, looked utterly magnificent – desperate, elegant committing, spectacular and compellingly sensational! I hadn't seen a route of such grandeur on British rock – ever! What's more it was romantically remote like some impossible dream and overnight an obsession was born.

For many years I had been cultivating a growing interest in sailing and in particular sailing off the west coast of Scotland. However my boats up to 2001 had been small traditional day-boats good for protected inshore waters and unambitious island hopping but worryingly little for the big seas protecting the Outer Hebrides. In 2001 I took the plunge (metaphorically!) and traded up to a small 25ft gaff rigged yacht, Lora, a Norfolk Smuggler, strong and sturdy and just big enough to take four at a push but more importantly capable of handling bigger seas and rougher weather with confidence. Perhaps the time had come to realise my Tilmanesque longing to sail to your climb, do it, and sail home!

After fantastic cruises with my wife Sally around Mull, then Islay and Jura in 2001, I was ready for the Sea of the Hebrides and the Challenges of the Outer Isles. A team was assembled and the inevitable fall out began. One broke his arm skiing, domestic commitments nobbled another so I was left with 2 stalwarts of the old "Altrincham Allstars" now better known as the Tuesday night team. This is a loose group of Peak and W. Midland climbers whose patch ranges from Dovedale to Brimham via Pen Trwyn and whose passionate devotion to democracy means every week's venue is chosen by heavily contested voting in the pub the week before! John Jones and Greg Rimmer agreed to ignore the ominous title of our proposed route, Prophesy of Drowning, and commit themselves to Pabbay and the vagaries of sailing across the Sea of the Hebrides to the Outer Isles.

A time was chosen, May Day, and a week was stretched around it! The weather had been wild. Scotland had just experienced one of its windiest and wettest winters and it genuinely looked as if our chances of success were slim. Somehow the lows piling in from the west gradually ran out of strength and just in time a high pressure system expanded out of Scandanavia bringing E to NE winds and sunshine leading to charges of 'lucky sods' and 'wait till you're out there' from jealous mates. After a smooth journey north the Thursday before the Bank holiday we embarked from Lora's anchorage in Loch Etive on May 3rd. Loading up had been a heavy chore as we were faced with a whole week of self catering and bottles are very heavy.

Getting out of Loch Etive is tricky as the loch necks down at its entrance at Connel to form a wild maelstrom, which is only calm at slack water between tides. We passed through this Rubicon at slack high water on Friday and set off for Tobermory on the NE tip of Mull. After a slow sail/motor up the majestic Sound of Mull we arrived at Tobermory and repaired ashore immediately to make the obligatory visit to the famous Mishnish. This renowned hostelry is now more the preserve of divers than sailors and you're more likely to hear a Cockney accent regale you across the bar than a Scottish one! We were there to propitiate the marine spirits before we left for the long 55nm stretch to Castlebay on Barra, honest! Our efforts must have had some affect as we left at 5.30am on Saturday, a gentle E breeze set in to push us happily across the calm to slight sea. This was sailing at it's most benign, thankfully. Progress was steady in the crystal clear morning allowing us ample time to take in the awe inspiring 360 degree view of Rum, Skye, Coll, Ardnamurchan, Eigg, Muck, Mull and snow capped mountains as far north as Ladhar Bheinn and the Torridon giants.

As the day advanced the fabled isles of the west loomed hazily then snapped into sharp focus as we crossed calmly over the normally confused seas above the infamous Hawes Bank Shallows NW of Coll. By mid afternoon we were all burnt red and revelling in the solitude of early season sailing. Nothing surrounded us except gannets, porpoises, shearwaters and chains of distant mountains to the north. At 6.00pm we passed the BoVich Chuan south cardinal light buoy and started our entrance into Barra's Castlebay. By 7pm we were safely and securely attached to a welcome visitors mooring, snugly sheltered in the protected waters of Castlebay. Two other yachts made up the full complement of visitors and on going ashore past a small trim folkboat we were hailed energetically by a lone tanned figure. Was this the Ancient Mariner? Well nearly – Phil Ham, boss of North Face UK, on holiday cruising solo up the east coast of the Outer Hebrides, incredulously called us over delighted for a genuine non-commercial reason to quote his company's motto on asking us whether we 'never stopped exploring?'

Another night, another bar! After celebrating our voyage and safe arrival with Phil and his newly acquired female friends (!) we looked up our 'lift' to Pabbay, John Allan McNeil, to confirm our departure time on Sunday morning at 9.30am – sharp!

By 10.30am on Sunday I had to go and rouse him out of bed! Unknown to us we were now in the realm of 'Hebridean Time.' When told of the Spanish concept of 'manyana', a Hebridean local is reputed to have said " Oh no, we don't have anything as urgent as that!" Anyway by 11.30am we were off on the 7 mile boat trip to Pabbay. Why the need for a 'lift' when we had our own boat? Well, Pabbay's anchorage is extremely exposed and subject to huge swells in anything other than dead calm, as we were soon to experience, so I chose to leave Lora on a secure mooring and relax in the knowledge that someone else had to risk the Sound of Pabbay!

On the trip over John McNeil told us something of the history of the islands we were passing. The past seems ever present here and memories of events two centuries ago are as fresh as yesterday. Mr McNeil told us that Barra is primarily populated by 2 strands of the clan McNeil, the McNeils from Barra and his side of the clan from Islay. When asked when his family moved from Islay he said with a deadpan face "Oh, in the ninth century!" Each island was labelled as we passed – Vatersay was a 'paradise', Sandray too tough for habitation so the whole population upped and left for Nova Scotia, Lingay was a peat mine (with its resident pack horse!) for Pabbay and Mingulay whose populations had later died from drowning and plague respectively. Luckily the sun was shining and these harsh and bleak outposts of past humanity looked more like 'paradise' to us than their more austere reality.

Once landed on the rocks – the alluring white sands bay being too dangerous due to breaking swell - we were on our own. Waving goodbye to Mr McNeil was an act of trust! Would he return on time? If so, whose time? Camp was set up above the beach far from the ruined farmhouse and sheep pens where legions of hungry sheep ticks lurk in the foliage waiting for their haemoglobin top up. The sun shone hot, the sea was turquoise (and freezing!) and it was chilling time. We knew we were not alone as two sea-kayaks were pulled up above the beach and a tent was already pitched inside the ruins in prime tick territory! Not only did we have human company, a curious persistent rasping emanating from the tussocky grass told us that we were honoured by the presence of the illusive and very rare corncrake. Drinks were poured, gear sorted and food cooked. Stretched out on the grassy bank ready for tomorrow's action we absorbed the complete tranquillity of the islands. No ships passed, no engines could be heard and only the stratospheric vapour trails above hinted at another world far away.

Monday morning and action day. We rose to a curious sea fog surrounding the island. Visibility was limited as we enthusiastically set off – in the wrong direction(!) – energetically walking the long way round the island towards the Great Arch of Pabbay and the Prophesy of Drowning. This extraordinary rock feature is as spectacular as it sounds with the huge vertical wall slashed across by two enormous clean-cut arching roofs. To cap it all the 100m cliff faces NW with no land to break the Atlantic's fury until Nova Scotia! Too steep and smooth for bird colonies, the rock is perfect but the prospect for free climbing looks daunting. So far only Cubby and Lynn Hill have attempted a route and have yet to completely free it. Their efforts (8c so far!) were recorded for The Edge programme. Immediately to the north the wall transmogrifies into something more possible .A huge corner drops the full length of the crag with a flat hanging slab to its right and a beautifully sculptured overhanging wall to its left. The slab's right edge ends abruptly in a jagged tear where it meets the overhanging left wall of the Great Arch. Prophesy starts up the slab's right edge before breaking out still further right onto the wild side and heading off into unknown territory above.

I say the route starts on the slab but of course it really starts the moment you set off down the 100m abseil rope heading for the unseen sea-washed depths below. Abseiling, even after 30 years of climbing, is still the biggest wind-up. This one starts benignly from well-sited ledges positioned conveniently to set you up for the big drop. The first 40m is fine, tiptoeing down the 80 degree right wall above the huge corner of Out of the Womb (HVS 5a). Then suddenly the character changes. Until now your subconscious thoughts reassure you that climbing out is still a reasonable option. Once over the lip of the capping roof in the corner and all bets are off! Now its swinging free for 55m down to the lowest foot ledges 6m above the deceptive surge of the sea. Then firmly lashed to the rock your heart surges at the fantastic position and prospect of what's to come. Even better the rock looks great, little flakes everywhere, nut slots abound and above all its solid!

Once we're all down and perched on our own little foot ledges Greg was volunteered to lead the first pitch. The initial 11m is easy, perfect to calm the nerves, lessen the thumping in your ears. Then with good gear in Greg steps around the arκte onto the hidden overhanging right wall and disappears! This is a tense moment as a fall from here and its into space but Greg's from Lancashire and sounds of distress are only voiced when death itself looms! Its all quiet, the rope snakes out steadily, the sea surges always just a little bit higher than you expect. To the right puffins are firing from the cliffs to the right of the Arch like salvoes of Rapier missiles. Fulmars cruise stiff-winged by, one eye on you, one eye looking out for bandits at 4 o'clock. Skuas hold position against the watery sun ready to dive bomb the incoming puffins and guillemots. It's timeless hanging at this interface of elements. Then, an echoing shout, and John's away, disappearing round the edge, leaving me alone to get the full feeling of this wild place. Now its my turn! With only one skinny 8.5mm rope above me, my 16stone feels a bit vulnerable! As I had seen, the slab was easy but taking off the runners before committing myself to the step around the edge had me checking that my prussiks were on my belt and ready for action!

What followed was sublime. Swinging round the arκte put your feet suddenly far under your body. For a moment it was wild then the extraordinary sculptured holds whisked you on into the long immaculate groove stretching away to an impasse at 15m. Runner placements abounded but Greg had rationed himself to one every 4m. Was he so pressed he couldn't stop? No, it was just fantastic climbing up clean solid beautiful rock on great holds in spectacular position. The groove ended and, crabbing rightwards landed me into its even finer continuation. On and on with solid 5a/b for 19m – don't look done or out as there's nothing there! Then all too soon there's John and Greg grinning down from their perches at me, " Good, or what!"

The belay position is remarkable. Stretching away level to the right is the massive first roof of the Great Arch. Below is radically overhung and above stretches up through a steep slab, a snaking corner and a no-nonsense classic corner and roof to finish. At least we can see where we were going now! The slab is John's pitch and before I can get comfy he's up it! 20m of climbing on this friendly glowing rock takes him across a wall into a shallow groove, all at an angle that you could enjoy. Greg joins John and both put in some earnest training in plumber's costing techniques looking up at the thin corner above and shaking their heads and sucking their teeth loudly. "Well, well, looks thin, rock's smooth – I don't know – looks 5c to me, any day!" " That's my lead," I whine!

The sun breaks through just in time to make me sweat even more. I've got all the gear now - enough to aid it? Bridging up past Greg I marvel at the size of the hidden holds on this immaculate golden rock. It looks alpine here, big scale, Chamonix style granite with real features, something to get stuck into. The holds keep on coming and I keep on slamming in the gear thinking it must be 5c soon. The position here is heroic, bridged above 60m of space and level with the stupendous final roof of the Great Arch sweeping away to the right. This is what we've come for and what's more I can enjoy it! 20m up and suddenly its steeper, more urgent. To reach over the overhanging groove above I must get my feet up. A flake out right provides the key, feet up, rock back into the corner and stretch. My left hand lands on holds, normal service is resumed and its done. A few more awkward moves and a ledge arrives. That's my sort of 5c!

John and Greg concur – 'Show me the big jugs and I'll show the fancy footwork.' Greg offers his 4th pitch lead to John to make up for John's easy 2nd pitch. John jumps at the chance bounding up the big corner jamming, bridging and wedging his way up 20m of classic corner climbing until stopped by the wet traverse right under the final capping roof. For once gear is awkward to get and the damp and steepness here begin to tell. "Watch me here" and he steps out across the aching void below to swing strenuously into the final groove and the comfort of the horizontal. We scamper up behind him with only recalcitrant gear hindering our progress. Then we are all on top, laid out on the flat turf ledges gazing into the west and cheerfully babbling about superlatives. What more could you want? All our challenges of isolation, commitment, steepness and technicality had been met but this route met them with a style and kindness to give us a memory of unalloyed pleasure.

We had two more days on Pabbay and we filled our time finding and doing a new route on Optics Wall (just right of Pink Wall) and lowering the level of our cellar! On our last day rain stopped play perhaps fortuitously as John McNeil arrived early – maybe in Hebridean logic it made up for being late before! The trip back to Castlebay was educational. After taking us round the island so we could view our conquests from the sea, Mr McNeil told us of some birdwatchers whom his predecessor had taken to Mingulay and then forgotten to pick up! Only the vigilance of the Barra Head lighthouse keepers in noticing the huge signal fires and frantic waving saved the situation but not until a 2-day trip had been extended to a hungry week!

Our return to civilisation was only soured by being in time to watch Arsenal winning the Premiership from Man. United in the bar! At 5am on the Thursday we were off home. Our voyage home was as blessed as our journey out. The wind had gone into the NE pushing us gently but purposefully across the Sea of the Hebrides through Gunna Sound between Coll and Tiree, round Iona to anchor at Ardalanish on the southern arm of Mull. Then it was calm and our last day was spent being pushed home by the 'iron sail,' 8 hours of chugging to arrive at Connel at slack high water for our triumphal procession up Loch Etive to Lora's home mooring in Aird's Bay.

As everyone said when we got home "You were lucky!" Yes we were, lucky that climbing pushes you into making such commitments. Journeying to Pabbay and climbing a route of such sublime and exceptional character as Prophesy of Drowning was the completion of a dream for me and great crack for Greg and John. Perhaps the greatest luck of all was to have chosen to be a climber in the first place.